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renecdote · 8 months

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I would like any and all prompts you choose to fill please and thank you. but also this one:

look at your face!

congratulations allison you have unlocked a surprise BTHB square: bloody nose [Read on AO3]

Buck feels the impact all through his body. For a moment, he’s dazed, his brain taking an extra few seconds to catch up with what it already knows just happened. Swooping bird, uneven sidewalk, Evan Buckley’s famously shitty luck. Eddie’s distractingly attractive smile, too, which technically didn’t contribute to the face planting, but didn’t exactly help either. Buck might have been paying more attention to where he was going if it wasn’t for that smile.

“Ow,” he mutters into the concrete. It comes out thick and nasally.

“Buck?” Eddie’s worry is, somehow, also attractive. Buck wonders why he never noticed the before. “Are you okay?”

Buck starts to push himself up—nope, ouch—then he gives up and rolls onto his back instead. The bright, cloudless LA sky is mostly blocked out by Eddie’s face hovering above him when he squints his eyes open. He looks just as worried as he sounded.

“Please tell me my leg isn’t broken again,” Buck says, even though he’s pretty sure it isn’t. That’s the kind of thing he would have noticed immediately, he thinks. Or maybe not, since his whole body is kind of… throbbing. A little. Mostly his face.

Eddie’s head dips out of his field of vision for a moment, then pops back up to report, “Your legs are fine. Can you sit up?”

“Yes,” Buck says confidently, then has to take a deep breath to brace himself before he actually tries. Eddie offers him a helping hand and Buck holds onto it even though he tells himself it’s not really necessary. He just thinks holding Eddie’s hand would be nice right now. It would be nice to do it some day when one or both of them aren’t injured, too.

Something tickles his lip. Buck wipes at the irritation, expecting dirt, and pain explodes through his nose and out through the rest of his face.

“Fuck,” he gasps, automatically clutching at it. Unsurprisingly, that just makes another wave of pain crash through him. Buck blinks back the reflective tears, biting his lip hard. He might be embarrassed by the pathetic noise of pain pulled out of him if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Here, let me look,” Eddie says, gently prying Buck’s hands away from his face.

It’s not a surprise to look down and find blood on his hands, but it still makes Buck’s stomach swoop, an automatic vagal response that his stupid brain only seems to get when it’s his own blood he’s dealing with. Or Eddie’s, but. There were extenuating circumstances there.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, fingers at Buck’s jaw gently tiling his head. It’s probably just a coincidence that it takes his eye off his hands. “Look at your face. Maddie is going to be pissed.”

“‘M good,” Buck tries. “Really.”

The reassurance is immediately ruined when the blood running over his lip gets in his mouth and he has to spit it back out, bright red and bubbly with saliva on the pavement. Gross. Buck tries to grimace without wrinkling his nose, but he’s pretty sure he just looks like he some weird lip spasm thing going on.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Your nose is broken, Buck.”

Buck shakes his head in denial, but that just makes the pain in his face pulse. Eddie is quick to hold his head still.

“Stop moving,” he scolds. “You’re worse than Chris.”

Buck sticks his tongue out at him, then instantly regrets it when he has to spit out more blood. Eddie gently nudges his head forward so the blood drips down between his bent legs instead of down his throat. His hand stays on Buck’s back, warm and solid even though Buck’s shirt is probably gross and sweaty, and it’s kinda nice. Comforting.

“I don’t even know why you’re arguing with me,” Eddie says. “I’m the one who can see your nose and I don’t even need my EMT training to see that it’s definitely broken.”

“It can’t be broken,” Buck protests, more to the universe in general than Eddie. “The wedding is in a week, Eds. Maddie is going to kill me.”

“At least it wasn’t really your fault,” Eddie offers, sounding like he doesn’t think that will help Buck’s case at all.

“I’m so fucked,” Buck sighs around more blood. “Please avenge me when I’m gone.”

Eddie rolls his eyes again. “Why don’t we work on minimising the damage first, then we can plan out your revenge fantasy later?”

“Ice pack?” Buck asks hopefully.

“Uh.” Eddie looks around, like maybe one might magically appear in the middle of the park they were running through. “You might have to wait until we get to urgent care for that.”

Buck groans. Somehow, that makes fresh blood gush from his nose because the human body hates him personally. He pinches his nostrils gingerly, trying to find the sweet spot between stopping the bleeding and not making it hurt more. He doesn’t really succeed, but if there’s one thing he’s good at it, it’s being in pain, so Buck just gives up and takes it. It’s not like it’s his first broken nose. Or his second.

“Don’t even try,” Eddie says, pre-empting him before he can speak. “Your options are urgent care or the ER.”

“They’re probably just going to tell me to take painkillers and not bump it until it heals.”

Eddie has pulled out his phone, one-handed, probably to google where the closest urgent care is.

“I’m not listening to you,” he says.

“Not even if I have ice packs in my car?”

Eddie pauses, looking up from his phone. “Of course you do.” Like he’s kicking himself for not thinking of that before. “This doesn’t get you out of urgent care, though.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

He crosses his eyes trying to look at his nose, closing one eye and then the other, but he still can’t see how bad the break might be. He’s pretty sure it can’t be worse than when he took a hockey stick to the face in high school, at least. Between the broken nose and the orbital blowout, his face was swollen for weeks. That one has got to be in the top ten worst injuries he’s had, Buck thinks, and then wonders whether he should be worried that he has been injured enough times to have a top ten.

“Come on.” Eddie stands, not asking this time before he reaches out and takes Buck’s hand to pull him to his feet as well. “The sooner we go, the sooner we get out of there.”

And then they can go home. Buck doesn’t need to ask to know that they’ll be going together, probably back to Eddie’s house, and they’ll cook dinner, and exaggerate the broken nose story for Chris, and maybe, if Buck is lucky, he’ll fall asleep with his head on Eddie’s shoulder while they all watch a movie together. He’ll wake up bleary and content, probably with a blanket thrown over him, and when he makes half-hearted noises about going home, Eddie will just roll his eyes and say, “Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, you’re staying.”

So Buck will stay.

In the face of all that, even hours waiting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs at urgent care doesn’t seem so bad. Especially when Buck starts tapping his fingers on his thigh, waiting anxiously for this name to be called, and Eddie reaches out and takes his hand. He squeezes gently, a silent reassurance, and Buck lets himself daydream, for a moment, that the injury isn’t there at all.

#Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #911 Fox #fic #badthingshappenbingo #to nobody's surprise I continue to write them being stupidly in love but also just stupid with each other

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serenescribe · 8 months

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Poll: Help me pick my next TWST longfic! [FINISHED]

Hello everyone!

As most of you may know, I am quite the avid longfic writer. However, university's been slowing me down a lot, so I've been unable to write as quickly as before. So why not poll some of my fic ideas and let you all decide?

I'll include some brief, rambling summaries of the options below the cut! The poll will run for seven days, and the winner will be the longfic I focus on next! (That isn't to say I won't write other things since inspiration is fickle and some of these are semi-completed, but for the most case, my priority will be whatever wins!)

[Summaries under the cut!]

i. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Locked in a Freezer Epel-focused! I originally started working on this in April but shelved it because I was more focused on writing Diasomnia. That and I also did not look forward to writing Rook... Still, the benefit of this option is that It's already 2/3 finished, with the first two chapters done, so it would be done a lot faster. I'd feel pretty keen on finishing it sooner if there was interest expressed.

ii. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Barely Conscious Silver-focused! A bad end AU of the Fairy Gala remix event... and that's about all I can say about it. Compared to the other options, it wouldn't be as long, so I could see it being done faster. It would not have a definitive conclusion, being a bad end of an event, but if you like Silver suffering, this is the one for you!

iii. Bad Things Happen Bingo: On the Run Sebek-focused, along with the first years! I originally wanted to write this for Halloween this year, but quickly shelved that idea due to realising how much Uni sapped my energy. This is one of the two options here that would be rated Mature, along with warnings of Major Character Death. It was meant to be a Halloween fic, after all.

iv. Bad Things Happen Bingo: This Is For Your Own Good Silver and Lilia-focused. What can I say about this AU without revealing too much...? This is the other option that would be rated Mature. It gets truly fucked up and dark in the latter half, and bad things truly does happen. It would also be one of the longest fics in the BTHB series, as I'm envisioning two very long chapters. All the same, this is arguably the idea I'm most excited to write. So if that means anything to you (trust in my tastes, perhaps?) you might want to consider voting for this!

v. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Hope Is Scary Silver-focused, though Lilia comes in later. This is arguably the least developed of all the ideas here, however it was a really good idea that Olive thought up and gave me permission to write. A lot of Silver suffering in this one! And being alone. The prompt is literally about losing all hope and not wanting to hope again in case it gets dashed.

vi. Reverse Containment Breach AU: Starchild Lilia and Silver-focused. This is based on Olive's Reverse Containment Breach AU, of which I'd previously written a ficlet for here with Malleus and Sebek. Think something SCP-esque with an organisation studying strange subjects. Head Researcher Lilia Vanrouge stumbles upon a boy who fell from space one night, and that's when everything slowly goes off the rails. I actually finished about 1/3 of this? So it's partially started.

vii. PMMM AU: Lilia Longfic Lilia and Silver-focused. What it says on the tin. Mica and I's PMMM AU, which isn't 1:1 with canon but Lilia takes the role of Homura, and Silver as Madoka. Time loops and general suffering and angst. If you know how Madoka plays out, you know how this one's going to go.

#housekeeping tag #going to tag some twst stuff so this can show up in search #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfiction #twst writing #i'm scheduling this to go up while i'm probably asleep btw #reblogs are appreciated! you can idk. convince others to vote for an option? i welcome that

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finduilasclln · 1 year

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Welcome to my Buddie Fic Rec List!

Since I read so many Buddie fics, and some of them are so good, I thought I’d share them in some handy lists. I’ll be posting them in different categories, and you will be able to find all the posts HERE.

Disclaimer: Always read the tags and warnings! Also, tastes differ. These are my personal favorites, which doesn’t mean they’ll automatically be yours of course.

If you want to reblog and add some of your own favorites that fit the category, please be my guest! I always love discovering new fics. I will also add new recs of my own whenever I stumble upon them.

One last thing: Please like and comment when you’ve had a nice read. It means so much to authors to hear your thoughts! And don’t hesitate to share this post and spread the love for these fics around!

Buddie Fic Rec: "Lightning Strike / Buck's Coma".

Fics that are dealing with episodes 6.10 and 6.11 aka Buck getting hit by lightning and his subsequent coma. (Speculation as well as canon compliant)

It only falls into place when you're falling to pieces, by justhockey || 4759 words ||

“You don’t deserve him,” Eddie says. “You never have, and you never will.”

And then he hangs up the phone and lets out a ragged breath - one it sounds like he’s been holding for much longer than the length of that conversation.

It makes Buck’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch him. He’s reached through fire and over cliff sides, across blood-soaked asphalt and between a decades worth of trauma, all for Eddie. This - this is nothing.

one more tomorrow, by fallingthorns (@fallingthorns) || 4438 words ||

He presses Buck’s hand into his forehead and breathes in the scent of antiseptic that lingers on Buck’s skin. He doesn't understand how he missed so many clues, doesn't know how he's been so clueless. But he thinks that some part of him did know that he was in love with Buck, because he put him in his will and made him Christopher’s guardian. Some part of him, deep down, knew what Eddie himself didn’t even realize.

He exhales and squeezes Buck’s hand again. It’s not supposed to be like this – the will doesn’t cover this. It was never supposed to be Buck that goes first.

“Bobby,” he whispers, voice cracking as he closes his eyes against the dorsum of Buck’s hand again. “What am I going to do?” -- Or, in the hospital, Eddie waits, and thinks, and dreams.

coming back as we are, by markofalover (@markofalover) || 4178 words ||

“Hey, Buck,” Maddie cuts in, soft. “Evan. Look at me.”

Buck looks at her. His heart rate is up, he can hear it on the monitor, and the nurse is looking between them with a raised brow. He’ll have to remember to apologize later, after he gets to his—

“They’re in the waiting room.”

...or, wherever he was, Buck comes back.

the tide comes (and goes and goes), by renecdote (@renecdote) || 3402 words ||

It’s almost funny that Eddie brought him to the beach today. To the ocean. He doesn’t know—can’t know, Buck hasn’t told anyone—but Buck feels unbearably seen by it anyway. He almost wishes Bobby was here too, so he could let his captain wrap an arm around his shoulders and say, “See? It didn’t take either of us.”

(That’s not true though, is it? It took them, it just didn’t keep them.)

Buck, Eddie, the beach, and conversations about okay.

For BTHB: hyperventilating

like the peel clings to the pomegranate, by fallingthorns (@fallingthorns) || 3482 words ||

Buck startles awake to Chris prying his eye open. Chris’s concerned expression swims into his vision as both eyes adjust, squinting at the morning sun streaming in through the window.

“You’ve been sleeping for fourteen hours,” Chris deadpans. Buck is still half asleep, but he catches the slight waver in his voice, can see his eyebrows furrowed as he watches Buck carefully. “You went to bed at seven last night, and now it’s nine in the morning.”

“Nine in the morning, huh?” Buck’s own voice resembles more of a croak as he sits up, muscles aching and head still throbbing. It’s all a result of being struck by lightning and in a coma for a few days, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

But what he does like is the smell of Eddie’s sheets, the pictures of him and Eddie and Chris on Eddie’s bedroom walls. He likes the feeling of Eddie’s arms around him in the middle of the night, making sure that he’s okay and breathing.

“Christopher.” Eddie’s voice hisses through the crack in the bedroom door. “I told you not to bother him.” -- Or, Buck recovers and doesn't quite realize what he means to others.

Raise my hand before I can speak my mind, by Mellaithwen (@mellaithwen) || 1696 words ||

“My name’s Eddie, by the way. Eddie Diaz.”

“Buck,” Evan says in response, before frowning. He’s never introduced himself as Buck in his entire life. “Uh—I mean—my name is Evan but…"

“But your friends call you Buck?”

Evan wants to say no, actually, because they don't. The youngest Buckley sibling has always gone by his first name, or his full surname. Never anything in between. The closest he’s ever come to having a nickname is when kids like to call him Mr Bee! And he buzzes back in response, but….Buck? No, that’s...that's new..

Eddie meets his son's favorite teacher, although it's not technically their first meeting at all... aka a coma!dream meet-cute.

let me know you (bedhead and morning breath), by burnthatbridge (@burnthatbridge) || 6157 words ||

When Eddie wakes, it’s to Buck’s arm slung across his chest, Buck’s ankle hooked over his, and Buck’s erection pressing into his hip.

Two out of three of those aren’t unusual.

It’s six weeks since the lightning. Five weeks and two days since Buck woke up. Four weeks and three days since he was released from hospital. Four weeks exactly since he came home, came to stay at the Diaz house while he recuperates, like he should have from the start.

It’s been three weeks and four days since they started sharing the bed.

or: Buck hasn't gotten off since the lightning strike. Eddie watches him do something about it.

Fragile lines (and wasted time), by Mellaithwen (@mellaithwen) || 7457 words ||

“Hey Buck,” Christopher says a little shyly, before reaching out to grab Buck’s foot through the hospital blankets—shaking it in the same way he’s woken his father up on many a bleary-eyed morning. The familiarity of the gesture makes Eddie’s head spin.

But of course, there’s no response from the comatose man on the bed.

“I thought you said he was sleeping,” Chris mumbles, angrily swiping at his cheeks, and Eddie’s already broken heart shatters all over again for whatever hope his son had just lost when his expectations were so cruelly dashed..

While Buck sleeps, and dreams in the aftermath of the lightning strike, Eddie tries desperately to hold himself together.

***

I will be adding my own fics that fit the category, in case you want to read those too:

lights will guide you home, by Finduilas || 916 words ||

Buck and Eddie have a talk after Buck gets back from the hospital.

#Buddie #Buddie fic rec #911 #Buddie fic #Fin's fic rec list #NEW CATEGORY!#Because this one needs a new page :)

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detective-giggles · 1 year

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Friendly Fire

lol, okay so I’m using this as a double-fill. @noxsoulmate picked “bruises” from my BTHB card, and this is also filling the TWP Pride prompt of: AU where they meet playing in an lgbt sports league. This is my first time writing a meet-ugly, meet-cutes are kinda my thing. Also, I played fast and loose with the timeline.

***

TK sighs. “I don’t know, Paul. It sounds kind of awful.”

“What? Like you have other plans?”

TK scowls, tapping at his phone. He knew that in an attempt to meet people in his new hometown, Paul had found an LGBT sports league and signed up for a flag-football team. TK, on the other hand, had simply decided not to meet new people.

“Please. We just need someone to fill in for a few games until James gets back on their feet. If we don’t have enough people to play, we get disqualified. Please.”

“Yeah, okay. But you have to buy me a drink after,” TK relents.

Paul cheers, “There’s a boba place near the field! Anything you want!” He comes around the back of the sofa and leans in, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And maybe you’ll meet someone while we’re there.”

“You’re not making this sound any better!” TK calls after him.

***

“I feel like I’m going to be awful at this,” TK mutters. Paul hands him a little elastic belt with some bright yellow flags drifting down from each side. TK watches as Paul clips on his own little belt and then grabs a football off the bench.

“Come on. Let’s throw a few before the game starts.”

TK rolls his eyes; tossing the ball around now won’t do anything except guarantee his arm will be too tired to throw later, but he acquiesces and follows his friend to the middle of the field, where other players are stretching and warming up. They take turns throwing the ball back and forth, trying to get into a rhythm before the game starts.

Paul throws one a little too hard, and TK curses, jogging backward, his hand raised, in an attempt to catch it. He hears a little commotion behind him, and his body slams into something solid- as does his elbow.

The football hits the ground next to him with a sad thump. TK whirls around and sees someone on the ground, his hand covering his face.

“Oh my god,” TK exclaims. “I am so, so sorry. Are you hurt?”

Paul jogs over. “Carlos, are you okay?”

“I- maybe?” Carlos pulls his hand away from his face and grimaces when he realizes it’s covered in blood.

“Here,” TK holds out his hand. Carlos takes TK’s hand in his clean one and allows TK to pull him off the ground. He makes his way to the bench with TK following a short distance behind. Paul hands him a towel, and he immediately puts it on his nose and groans as he tips his head back.

“Go find us some ice?” TK asks Paul. Paul nods and jogs away. TK slips a hand behind Carlos’ head. “Hey, keep your head up.”

“Huh?” Carlos grumbles and gives him a look but obeys and settles upright again.

“You’re not actually supposed to tip your- never mind.” TK is pretty sure Carlos is glaring at him, but it’s kind of hard to tell, with his face mostly covered. “Can I take a look?”

“Is that really such a good idea?” Carlos asks, but he pulls the towel away and drops his hands into his lap.

Carlos hisses as TK pokes at his face but otherwise stays silent. “It’s not broken,” TK says finally. “You’ll have a pretty nasty bruise, though.” He reaches for the towel, but Carlos snatches his hand away and brings the towel back to his face.

“Well, thank you, Doctor.”

“Uh, firefighter, actually,” TK murmurs. “But I’m dual-certified as a paramedic.”

Paul returns with a small bag of ice a few moments later, and TK takes it from him, attempting to place the bag on Carlos’ face.

“I’ve got it,” Carlos snaps, taking the bag from TK and holding it to his nose. “I think you’ve done enough.”

TK’s face heats up, and he steps back slowly, turning to Paul, “I should go. I really am sorry,” he adds, turning back to Carlos before walking off the field.

***

“Strand, you have a visitor,” Marjan calls. “He’s in here.”

TK looks up from his spot on the sofa and sees Carlos, in full APD uniform, trailing shortly behind.

“You taking after your dad and punching cops?” Mateo laughs.

“I didn’t know he was a cop!” TK hisses, “And I didn’t punch him.”

He jumps up and hurries over, pausing in front of Carlos. Even with Carlos’ swollen cheek and the bruise forming underneath his eye, he’s still the most handsome man TK has ever seen.

“I’m sorry about your face,” he blurts out.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says simultaneously.

“Wait, what?” TK asks.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos repeats. “About yesterday.”

“Wait. I crashed into you, and you’re apologizing to me?”

Carlos chuckles and winces. “Yeah, I suppose I am. I was in pain, but that’s not an excuse to have snapped at you. You didn’t do it on purpose, and you were just trying to help.”

“This conversation isn’t going at all how I thought it would,” TK laughs.

“And you were right; nothing is broken. Just my ego is bruised.”

“And your face,” Paul teases.

“Right,” Carlos mutters. They stand in an awkward silence for a few moments before Carlos speaks up. “So, um, does Mr. Dual-Certified have a name?”

“TK. TK Strand,” he holds out his hand, and Carlos gives him a firm handshake.

“Well, TK Strand, maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, I’ll be…around.”

“Just maybe not on the football field?” Carlos says. “But, if you wanted to come to watch a football game… Paul could probably tell you when we’re playing next.”

TK grins bashfully and nods, “Sounds good; I’ll be there.”

“Great,” Carlos says goodbye to Paul and then turns to leave.

Paul nudges TK hard, and he stumbles forward. “Maybe afterward, I could buy you dinner or something? As an apology.”

“Yeah. Or maybe that could just be, like, a regular dinner, and we never bring this up again?” He says, gesturing to his face.

“Deal. It never happened.”

“Okay, see you there.”

Paul and TK watch, and Carlos gives a little wave as he exits the firehouse. TK turns to see Paul looking smug.

“I told you it was going to be awful,” TK says. “And it was.”

“And I told you that you were going to meet someone,” Paul points out.

“That doesn’t make it better! Wait, Paul… did you do this on purpose?”

Paul shakes his head and makes his way towards the staircase.

“Paul? Did you? Paul!” Paul just shrugs as TK follows him up the stairs.

taglist: @sanjuwrites, @chaotictarlos @noxsoulmate @meditating-honey-badger @plaidbooks

#tarlos #911 ls fic #meet-ugly #bthb: bruises #tarlosweeklyprompts #twppride2023 #sports injuries

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usermischief · 8 months

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♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: mentions of rape, mentions of murder, explicit content ♞Words: 6233 ♞BTHB - Breaking a Promise | Kinktober '23 - Cock Warming

ao3

---

this thing between us

“You’re fucking yourself up like this.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s almost five in the morning. His body aches, he hasn’t eaten in almost a day, and all he wants is to collapse into his bed. He doesn’t need a lecture from Theo Raeken of all people. Scoffing, Stiles shoves his key into the lock. “You always preferred the fucked-up version of me.” His door clicks open, and he pushes it out of the way of his escape.

“You know that’s not true.” Theo gets to his feet.

Stiles considers slamming the door in his face, but the thing about Theo is, he used to appreciate a lot of his persistence. “What are you doing here?” Although his first question should’ve probably been ‘how did you find me?’. But this is Theo, and Theo always finds a way. It was just a matter of time until they crossed paths again.

Dodging questions is another of Theo’s strange talents. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Because the tips are fantastic.” Stiles turns around, trying to fill out the doorway as much as he can. Theo doesn’t need to get the impression he’s allowed in.

The message seems to be clear because Theo’s expression darkens with annoyance. But the worst part is, Theo still looks hot as hell and so much better than anyone Stiles has ever hooked up with in the past four years. “You don’t need the money,” he accuses in a hushed tone.

“And since when do you know what I need?” Stiles knows he’s right. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of his life — he doesn’t have any friends or family either. So, what good does all of this money do? It doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from finding him in the darkness. It doesn’t prevent people from whispering about him behind his back. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years, and now you’re here, acting like— acting like you’re my savior or some shit.” He’s been alone for too long now, he doesn’t need anyone; especially not Theo.

Drawing his brows together, Theo studies him for a moment. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar conclusion.” Stiles rolls his eyes, “if only I drank alcohol.” And that’s true, although it’s not always easy as a bartender when everyone else around him is hammered.

Theo uncrosses his arms. The worry carved onto his handsome features makes Stiles want to punch him. “Did you take something?” As if he couldn’t be any more condescending. Looks like the past few years without him caused Theo to pick up some of his mother’s annoying mannerisms.

“I haven’t slept in 48 hours, I’m starving, and I just had mind-blowing sex—“ which isn’t entirely true, but Theo doesn’t need to know that “—not that that’s any of your business, by the way.” Although Stiles knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Theo or anyone, really, he cannot deny himself the petty revenge — and he knows it hit home, can see it in the way a flash of pain cuts through the worry on Theo’s face. If only it would make Stiles feel any better or could undo what happened to and between them.

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate and wrestles Stiles into the apartment. It doesn’t take him a second to overpower him, easily forcing Stiles back enough so he can kick the door closed with his foot — like he owns the place.

“Get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps, nearly elbowing Theo in the face as he wrenches himself free from his ex-boyfriend’s all too familiar grasp. It’s a shame he missed.

The light flickers on. Theo neither moves nor reacts when he’s faced with a flight of stairs. He shoots Stiles a look before climbing them, making it abundantly clear he’s not going to leave any time soon. Because why would he? He’s Theo Raeken after all. Beloved and cheered on by his adoring fans. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants to be with him — even the person he hurt the most by breaking his fucking promise.

Stiles hates how much he still yearns for his touch.

Too tired to fight him or deal with the cops, Stiles shoves past Theo and hurries up the stairs. He hates them with a passion, especially after long nights, but they’re a pretty good advantage if someone decides to break in.

“So, what. You let random strangers fuck you for a few extra bucks every night?” There it is. Of course, Theo couldn’t just let it go. Five years, and the jealousy is still as strong as it used to be.

Stiles spins around at the top of the stairs. The moment Theo popped up at his bar, he should’ve had him kicked out. But that probably would have caused even more issues. “Are you pissed about me having sex, or are you pissed it wasn’t you who bent me over the bar and fucked me?”

Theo’s face darkens, which is already answer enough. As well as he may be able to hide his feelings, anger has never been an emotion he could control. “I’m not here to argue,” Theo tells him coolly as he steps onto the main floor. His gaze scans the room, slowly traveling from the immaculate and pretty much unused kitchenette, to the dining table with a bowl of fruit, the clean couch and empty coffee table, and the little office in front of the French windows.

Stiles can see the things Theo is seeing, the black exposed brick walls, the half empty shelves, the way his loft apartment doesn’t seem to be lived in if it weren’t for the clothes thrown over the steps of the ladder leading to the bedroom, and the mouth wash by the sink. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that needs to be packed in case of a hurried departure.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, kicking his sneakers under the coffee table. “Make sure to be gone when I wake up.”

“You need help.”

Stiles whips around, and Theo can only consider himself lucky, he doesn’t own anything he could potentially throw at him right now. “No,” he snaps. “I needed you. Needed. You hear that? Past tense. So, you can fuck off.”

Theo’s anger visibly deflates. “Stiles—“

“You know what I needed? You, keeping your promise five years ago.” Stiles advances on Theo, and he’s never realized how much he wanted to get everything off his chest. “I needed you by my side, but instead you’re in your private clinic while I’m being stitched up and sent home. I was fucking alone, and you didn’t bother returning a single call or text. Instead of getting through everything together like you promised, I got a money-hungry guardian who sold the rights to my life to a journalist who gets off on other people’s trauma. I had to get a lawyer who couldn’t do anything to stop the publication of the book, but hey, at least I got a bunch of money while my worst nightmare is being read and discussed by people I’ve never seen. So, I was eighteen, and I was alone because my friends and family have been slaughtered by a fucking psychopath. I fired the person who got paid to make sure I stay alive, and the person who I thought loved me hadn’t bothered to talk to me in over a year.” Sties shoves Theo, and Theo doesn’t do anything. He merely stumbles back a couple of steps, catching himself on the railing. “I moved to LA only for your cunt of a sister to release the snuff film her psycho fiancé filmed. Just that he didn’t get to kill me like he wanted to. No, instead the world gets to see how I stab him twenty-five times. I packed my shit up again and moved to New York, and after I went through all of this by myself, you have the fucking nerve to come here, take one look at my life and decide I need help?” Stiles grabs Theo by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and slams him against the kitchen counter. “Your fucking family ruined everything for me. I’m 21. I should have a college degree. I should be on the way to the FBI, but do you think they’d hire the guy who stabbed someone over twenty times? No, they don’t. Not when the world doubts it happened in self-defense because Tara only released what she wanted the public to see.” Taking a shaky breath, Stiles yanks Theo closer. “So, get the fuck out of my life.”

Tears start burning in his eyes, but the last thing he wants is allowing Theo to see how he really feels. Stiles shoves him once more for good measure and turns around. Part of him hoped he would feel better after finally getting to tell Theo most of the shit he wanted to throw in his face for years. But he isn’t. Not even a little bit.

Stiles is about to climb the ladder to his bedroom when Theo finds his voice again. “I never knew.” His voice is soft, almost inaudible.

It makes Stiles stop in his tracks regardless. “I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening around the ladder. Just move. Still, his body refuses to cooperate. Something keeps him drawn to Theo, like a part of him refuses to let him go. Stiles lets out a breath. “Knew what?” But he knows the answer, deep down, he knows exactly what Theo is going to tell him.

“That you tried to contact me.”

Stiles lets go of the ladder and decides to collapse onto the couch instead, face in his hands. He’s tired and exhausted and not even close to ready to have this conversation. His life got turned upside-down five years ago, but his wounds are still bleeding as if it happened mere hours ago.

Theo crouches in front of him, one hand gently placed on Stiles’ knee — a touch just as familiar as the pain. “You were the first person I asked for when I woke up. My parents said you didn’t want to see me, and when I finally got my phone—“

“I had changed my number.” Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs. “I didn’t want to believe your parents when they told me you thought it would be better to go separate ways, but the silence from you… it got to my head.” Perhaps he should’ve tried harder. Perhaps he was the one who broke their promise.

Theo is shaking his head lightly, gaze fixed on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I never saw any calls or texts… I don’t…” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles again. “I don’t understand why they would delete them.” When it comes to trusting Stiles or his parents, Theo doubts his family.

It should make Stiles feel good, instead he feels hollow, like someone carved out every single emotion. Theo never particularly liked his parents because they had his life planned out for him, yet he never distrusted them, always believed that they wanted what’s best for him. Becoming a famous football player deviates from that what they wanted. So, his parents either changed their tune after almost losing him, or Theo stood up to them.

Stiles smiles, and he knows it looks as empty as he feels. The Raekens didn’t want their son to pursue a career in football, and they had very specific expectations for his partner — expectations Stiles didn’t even come close to. “Theo,” he says in a soft voice, cupping the other man’s cheeks, “your parents despised me.” While they never cared for Theo dating a guy, they very much disliked that said boy was not from the same social bracket and struggled with ADHD and anxiety, which was decided not up to their standards.

“They never said anything.”

“To your face.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and puts his hands in his lap, tugging at a loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. Swallowing heavily, Stiles looks down at his fingers. “Do you know why… he did what he did?” All those years, he can’t bring himself to say the name. It’s easier to think about him in describing factors.

Tara’s fiancé.

He.

The monster.

Theo grabs his hands, squeezing his fingers gently. The touch alone makes Stiles’ heart beat in a way it hasn’t in a long time — almost like it just now remembers how to be alive. “He had a criminal record.” Which really begs the question why he was welcomed into the Raeken family with open arms, after all, his criminal record was impressive. Then again, he came from a family with old money, and boys that age simply make mistakes. Nothing to worry about. Theo squeezes his hands softly. “People think he wanted to get back at your father… but it doesn’t make any sense because…” Theo trails off, unable to look Stiles in the eye any longer.

It’s something people tend to do mid-conversation when they suddenly realize who their bartender really is. Theo doing it hurts more than he’s ready to admit. He swallows the pain, something he’s accustomed to do. “Because why keep me for last?” Stiles finishes the question in a hoarse whisper. The tears threaten to return, and he pulls away from Theo, curling into the corner of his couch he’s always hiding in when thing become bad. His throat aches with unspilled tears, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not when he can finally say all the things he’s buried for too long. “Your mother knows the truth.” Stiles wraps his arms around his shins, pulling his legs to his chest. “You can ask her.”

“My mother?” Theo repeats slowly, drawing his brows together in confusion.

Stiles nods, staring at a single drop of coffee in the white fabric he’s never noticed before.

“Why would my mother know?” Theo stands up and sits down next to him, the dip in the cushion almost causing Stiles to fall into him.

He curls his fingers into his jeans, barely resisting the urge to get up and leave. Where would he go? Where could he go knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a matter of minutes? The dam broke open. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. The memories will return whether Stiles says it out loud or not. “Do you remember Tara’s 21st birthday?” Every word feels as if it is ripped out of his throat.

Theo nods slowly. “You left that night. I still don’t know why.”

Taking another shaky breath, Stiles keeps his gaze fixed on the coffee stain. He can’t look at Theo, not now. “I excused myself to the bathroom because I needed a break from everyone.” Social gatherings still get to him. His job as a bartender doesn’t make it easy to deal with but the bar separating him from everyone else helps. “He followed me upstairs.”

Next to him, Theo stiffens — either because he remembers that night, or because he can tell where this story is going.

“I went into your room. I didn’t lock the door.” Why would he? Why? At that point, Stiles didn’t need to be afraid. He licks his lips, curls his fingers tighter into his jeans. “He found me there. At first, he was sweet and understanding. He tried to coax me back down… but then—“ The words get stuck in his throat, choking him; one of the dirty secrets nobody is allowed to hear.

“Miecio.” There’s a crack in Theo’s voice, cutting the nickname in half Stiles hasn’t heard in more than five years. Fingers dance ghostlike over Stiles’ back, waiting for a reaction, for permission. Theo understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Your mother came upstairs. That’s when he stopped.” His knuckles turn white, his joints aching from the pressure. The coffee stain is the only thing he sees. “I tried telling her what happened. She told me to leave before I ruined her daughter’s party. So, I left, and I didn’t tell anyone, and eight days later, Melissa found her son’s body on the front porch.” Stiles wishes he could point a finger at Theo’s mother, blaming her for his secret, for the silence that killed everyone he loved.

Almost everyone.

Theo cups his cheeks again, gently tilting his head and forcing Stiles to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.” He knows him too well, knows the inner working of his mind — sometimes better than Stiles does himself. “You couldn’t have known.” But Theo doesn’t know the whole story, and he certainly doesn’t know the ending.

The memory hits hard, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It does, what it always does when his mind can’t stop wandering; wrecking him.

Stiles tears away from Theo and rushes to the sink, throwing up bile and guilt, but the memory claws itself into every fiber of Stiles’ being, refusing to leave, ready to make him suffer for the rest of his life. It burns his body with shame, and it’s something he can never purge, no matter how many strangers he’s going to fuck in the back of his bar.

In an instant, Theo is by his side, trying to calm and comfort him. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing to stop the memories from coming back, from reality crashing in on him like an avalanche.

When the worst is over, Stiles runs the water and rinses his mouth with the mouthwash until he can’t taste the bile burning on his tongue any longer. Then he collapses in the corner of his kitchen, the one space in his apartment that lets him see everything and pulls his legs to his chest again. He really hoped the high of an orgasm would help him through the night. It barely lasted long enough to get home.

Theo kneels next him, brushing sweaty strand from Stiles’ forehead. “Something else happened that night,” he says, and his voice is even, almost as hollow as Stiles felt mere moments earlier. “And my sister knows.”

For a long time, Stiles wanted to tell Theo exactly how fucked up his family is. Theo’s always been aware they’re far from perfect, but Stiles doubts he knew how far they’d really go to protect their reputation. Now, that he knows the truth, Stiles doesn’t feel any better — not with the flashbacks, and most likely not without them.

Stiles leans against Theo, pressing his face against his chest. Then he’s in Theo’s arms, shuddering, curling his fingers into his soft shirt. A strong contrast to the rough hands tearing off his pants and boxer briefs, rolling him round and pressing his face against the dirty floor, an arm’s length away from Theo bleeding out. He told him Stiles could save his life as long as he behaved. So, he whispered, “okay,” and didn’t make another sound, didn’t dare to move as the monster claimed his body, tainting him for the rest of his life. But that was okay as long as he got to keep Theo. Because that’s what he promised; Stiles’ body for Theo’s life. It seemed like a simple trade at that time.

Theo rocks him softly, protecting him from ghosts.

“We’re going to get through this,” he had promised, bleeding from his wounds. None of them lethal. They were supposed to kill him only if Stiles didn’t behave.

“You promised,” Stiles whispers.

Because he behaved. Stiles behaved. He said so too only to decide that Theo needed to die anyway. It would be better that way, he’d said.

To this day, Stiles doesn’t know why the knife was left on the ground next to him. Maybe he thought Stiles to be too broken to do anything. But he forced himself to move, and he got dressed, grabbed the knife, and hid it behind his back.

You promised.

The words ring in Stiles’ ears, making it impossible to understand anything Theo is saying to soothe him.

Because he’s stuck in the past, stuck with Tara’s fiancé crouching in front of him, smiling as if he’s won their little game. Stiles didn’t smile back. He rammed the knife into his throat instead. He still remembers the feeling of the warm blood on his face just as much as the rage that took a hold of him as he stabbed him twenty-four more times before he collapsed, unable to move for what feels like an eternity.

Just like he is now.

Theo kisses the top of his head. “I’m here,” he whispers reassuringly. “I’m not going to leave, okay?” It’s a promise he’s heard before, a promise that was broken by outside force — it’s a broken promise, nonetheless. But Theo’s arms feel safe, and Stiles wants to believe him, wants to trust that this time nothing is going to come between them again. “How about you go to bed, and I find something to eat for you?”

“Sure,” Stiles whispers, although he’s neither hungry nor tired, however, he’s aware when people need a minute to breathe. Theo’s life has been crumbling too when Stiles was having his mental breakdown. His life will be falling apart for a little longer while the truth carves its place.

Stiles gets to his feet, Theo’s hand secure at the small of his back, and then he crosses the room, alone and feeling just as empty as every single day of his life.

Upstairs, Stiles tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips into his sweatpants. He doesn’t go to bed though, instead he crouches by the opening, listening to Theo looking through his kitchen. For a few moments, that’s all he hears.

Then Theo’s icy voice cuts through the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about how early it is, Tara.”

Stiles swallows and backs away. He should’ve known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles curls into bed, trying his very best to block out Theo’s voice. It should be easy. Theo doesn’t yell when he’s angry after all. But his cold tone crawls into his consciousness, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

“You know exactly what video I’m talking about.” A drawer slams shut, the only outbreak Theo will allow himself to have. A Raeken does not lose his temper. They are composed and always in control of the situation. That’s why Theo is made of repressed rage. “Tell me what he did, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

Biting back a sob, Stiles curls into a ball and pulls the blanket over his head. That’s how the monsters stay away. He covers his ears with his hands. That’s how Theo’s words won’t reach him.

That’s how he stays until the mattress dips.

Stiles lowers his arms, moving the blanket enough that he spots the sandwich Theo placed on his nightstand. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Stiles. Both waiting for what will happen next. Theo told him he wouldn’t leave, but that was something he said before he knew the full extent of what happened.

The mattress dips again. This time, Theo is crawling into bed with him, slipping under the blanket and back into his life as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ middle. His warmth and body are familiar, safe, a remnant from a time that was easier, happier, hopeful.

Sleep refuses to come regardless. Theo doesn’t fall asleep either, Stiles can tell by the way his body never fully relaxes, and how he tries to breathe softly enough as if not to startle him. With the truth out in the open, Theo considers him fragile. Stiles wonders what the world would think about him if they knew the whole story.

When the first rays of sunshine find their way into his bedroom, Stiles turns around only to find Theo already looking back at him. “Hey,” he whispers.

Theo’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Hi.”

Stiles watches as the soft morning light draws patterns on Theo’s cheek. He traces one, unable to stop himself, and smiles as blue eyes flutter shut. He looks peaceful like this, as if nothing bad ever happened in his life. But his body speaks a different language. Stiles trails his fingers down Theo’s chest, eyes never straying from his face when he finds his scars; scars he got because of Stiles, because he’s stubborn and needed to learn which battles to pick.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles kisses Theo. Everything from the shape of his lips to the way they fit against his makes his whole body ache — and Theo kisses him back, arm tightening around his waist. The familiarity is breathtaking. Suddenly, no time has passed. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake his dad.

But when Stiles slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of Theo’s boxer briefs, he grabs his wrist and stops him inches away from his dick. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “What are you doing?” he asks, lips moving against Stiles’.

Drown out the memories. Reclaim his past, his body. Trying to be whole. “What do you think?” Stiles replies instead, casual, like this is something that happens every other day. It doesn’t. Not like this. People don’t usually stop him when he tries to hook up with them. Usually, they can’t fuck him fast enough. Theo used to be like that. He couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and usually, he enjoyed his afterglow still buried deep inside of him.

This is new.

Stiles doesn’t like new.

Theo pulls away, not far, just enough to study his face. “Stiles…”

“I’m not broken.” Stiles dragged himself out of the gutter too many times to be broken. He won’t deny that he’s damaged, but he is fine. After all, he has survived so far – and most of it, he did on his own. Stiles doesn’t need to be coddled, especially not by Theo; not years after everything has already blown up in their faces.

Smiling, Theo brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. A soothing gesture. The exact opposite of what he needs. “I know.”

“Do you?” Stiles yanks his hand free and sits up, anger and shame and desperation swirling inside of him. This is why he fucks strangers. Commitment causes issues. Commitment means people look at him and see him for how fucked up he really is. Commitment means allowing someone in the way he let Theo in, and Stiles can’t go through that again. “Maybe you should leave.” Stiles closes his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

Theo rolls over and leans over him. “I don’t think so,” he whispers before bending down again and crashes their mouths together. It’s too hard, a bit to clumsy, not the way Theo would usually kiss him. But there’s something desperate in the way clings to him; almost like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Stiles will force him out.

Perhaps he would.

But Stiles is just as desperate for this than Theo. “Good,” he mutters into the kiss, pushing a hand between them again. This time, Theo doesn’t stop him when he reaches for his dick. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

Theo shudders above him, either because of his words or because Stiles is dragging his thumb over the tip of his dick. He still remembers what Theo enjoys, what gets him hard the fastest, how to wrap him around his little finger and make him cum so hard he forgets his own name. Today, however, isn’t about Theo.

And Theo is aware of that.

He pulls away and grabs Stiles’ waist, easily turning him onto his stomach. “Lube,” he commands in a low voice as he pulls him onto his knees. There’s nothing particularly gentle about it, not his touch, not the way he opens Stiles’ pants and yanks them over his ass, or the way presses a finger against his rim.

This time, Stiles shudders and closes his eyes. It’s easy to forget how well Theo knows his body too. He needs a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to grab lube. Although Stiles doesn’t take anyone home with him, he keeps a bottle of lube in the box next to the bed. He pushes the lid open just enough to push his hand in, fingers brushing over pill bottles before he manages to fish out the lube, which he tosses unceremoniously at Theo.

The hands vanish from his ass, and Stiles uses the time to get rid of his clothes. In his hopeless dreams, his reunion with Theo always ended up being a bit softer, full of longing and love. There’s love still, somewhere deep inside of him, but as of right now, there’s lust and despair, the desire to drown with hard sex what he’d usually use pills for.

Theo’s hand returns, grip tight on his hip and stilling Stiles, as two wet fingers push against his rim without any hesitation. He pushes into him until his second knuckle, making a sound that’s somewhere between annoyance and want. It’s not too hard to figure out that Theo’s thoughts are wandering to what he saw earlier tonight.

‘Your fault,’ Stiles wants to say, but he merely groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Warn a guy,” he utters against the fabric, sounding way too breathless already. They’ve barely started.

Theo huffs and pulls his fingers back. There is even less softness now that Theo is clearly pissed off at Stiles sleeping around – as if he has any right to be angry or hurt. Nobody forced him to watch. He’s free to leave. But he doesn’t. He stays and buries himself in Stiles with a quiet grunt. When they’re pressed together so close nothing could fit between them, Theo stills, and Stiles reminds himself to breathe because he forgot how good it felt to have Theo inside him.

There used to be a time when Stiles could relax like this after a stressful day. Sometimes, he even managed to fall asleep with Theo balls deep inside of him – for a while, at least. Usually, he woke up to his boyfriend’s resolve breaking.

Ex-boyfriend.

Stiles licks his lips and looks over his shoulder, watching Theo staring down at him. “Do you need any help?” he asks and quirks a brow. “Or are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”

For a few heavy heartbeats, Theo simply looks at him, eyes almost searching for something. His lips curl into a disapproving line as he isn’t successful – and then he pulls back, only to snap his hips forward in a way that’s so familiar, so achingly hard, so right. Theo fucks him confidently and without further hesitation. His mouth explores every inch of Stiles’ body he cans reach – as if he doesn’t know him inside out. His fingers leave marks, reclaiming ownership of something he thought has left him.

But it’s worse.

Someone stole it.

The desperation and anger are clear in every thrust, in the way his fingers press into his skin, short nails digging in enough to leave little half-moons.

It’s hurts just right. The edge of pain making him harder than he’s been in the past few years – since he’s lost Theo. There could probably something be said about him, said about the way this type of sex feels so much better than all the other random hook-ups with strangers in the back of his bar. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s simply Theo; his body remembering everything.

His name rolls over Theo’s tongue, and this hurts in a different way. It cuts deeper, memories cursing him, a future that could never be trying to drag him under.

Stiles bites into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to match Theo’s thrust as best as he can. Although he doesn’t have to do much. The hands holding his waist in an iron grip are doing the work for him. They’re having sex, yes, but in a way, they both are chasing their very own needs that simply seem to line up in some way.

Theo keeps fucking him in the same all but violent pace. Hips snapping forward, slapping against his own with an almost obscene sound, and nailing his prostate with almost every thrust.

Stiles spits the pillow out, propping himself up enough that he can see. A gasp escapes him, every sound punched out of him by Theo's dick. He grabs his own, fingers cool against the hot skin. Opening his mouth, Stiles watches the muscles in Theo’s thighs work, how his fingers dig deeper into his skin – as if he’s scared, he might vanish. Theo is chasing something, something he lost years ago, something Stiles gave away to protect him.

Part of him hopes he’ll find it again.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles moves his hands up and down his dick, fingers tightening near the tip. He’s chasing his release, the moments of freedom it gives him from his thoughts.

His muscles tighten when Theo’s thrust turn shallow, more irregular, and he’s so fucking close to cum. But Theo beats him to it. He moans his name, a sound somewhere between a curse and a moan.

Stiles cusses under his breath, struggling to keep up on his legs and arm with Theo’s weight splayed on top of him. He’s jerking himself off, desperate for his orgasm. His brain all but short-circuits when it finally hits him. For a few blissful moments, Stiles is in heaven – no thoughts, no memories, just his body, unchained.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s chasing this so much.

But the return to earth is never fun.

This time, however, Stiles feels Theo’s hands brushing over his sides, his mouth placing soft kisses over his back, on his shoulders, the very bottom of the nape of his neck. He’s also still buried deep inside of him.

Stiles lets out a breath. For the first time, he prefers that his hook up hasn’t moved an inch. He embraces the weight of his body on top of his, although he’s gained some muscles in the past few years while Stiles isn’t much more than skin and bones. “Theo,” he says anyway, trying to get the word ‘move’ out of his mouth but it refuses to pass his lips. Things can’t be like they were before. Theo can promise him to stay all he wants, too much has happened, too much has changed. Stiles is too much.

But he can’t bring himself to end it.

Very carefully, Theo eases them both on their sides without pulling out. “What happens now?”

Stiles closes his eyes. So much for his afterglow. “You go back to being a football star, I go back to fucking myself up further. Everyone’s happy.” The lie burns on his tongue, but it’s easier to pretend than to open himself up emotionally only to lose Theo again. He’s not going to survive that. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this night.

“What if I don’t want that?” Theo runs his left hand up his chest, resting it above his heart. “I didn’t come here to walk away from you again.” His breath is hot on the back of his neck, the arm around him pulling him closer.

Despite himself, Stiles grabs Theo’s hand and intertwines their fingers. It comes so easy, so natural. “You don’t want that.” He would like to pretend it’s more instinct than his fear of losing Theo as well. Everything with Theo feels so natural, like nothing ever happened, like they’ve never been apart for even a fucking second. “My life’s a shitshow, and the world’s going to drag you into it.” I’m going to drag you into it a nightmare.

Theo kisses his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t—“ There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, to get out of bed, but Stiles doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Theo against his back or his dick inside of him – despite a bit of cum sticking to his thigh, cooling against his skin.

“I promised we’d get through this together,” Theo whispers, running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sternum.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Even though it still feels like it. Five years of believing Theo simply dropped him aren’t going to vanish overnight. Stiles places his hand on top of Theo’s again, squeezing his fingers tightly.

Theo kisses his shoulder, lips curling into a smile against his skin. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“It’s not worth it.” Stiles can see the headlines, can already tell what the world is going to think if their golden boy is seen with him. The stories they spin. They’re going to dig deep. They’re going to find out Theo’s been there too; keeping his name out of the media is the one thing Stiles and the Raekens could agree on.

But Theo pulls him closer, body so warm and safe and comforting. “You’re worth it. You’re worth everything and more.”

Stiles hums and closes his eyes, allowing himself to believe Theo.

At least for one day.

---

#steo #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #teen wolf #stiles x theo #theo x stiles #*tv:teen wolf #*w:kinktober2023 #*w:bthb #*w:complete #*s:steo

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harpywritesfic · 5 months

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wip tag game!

yay i love these! i love talking about my wips (this is the only way some of them will see the light of day) so thanks @space-mermaid-writing for the tag! this is also a good push to go in and organize my megadoc a bit.

RULES: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs. (i don't even know that many people so no :))

Most of my longer wips are in their own documents, but the smaller ones live in what i call the megadoc. basically it's all of them in one big house until they're grown enough to move into their own place. I usually separate them out once they break a page and start getting unwieldy. trouble is, the whole thing is unwieldy now that it's so large. seventy-five pages of wips. i'm not counting the really small ones bc all they are are snippets.

under a readmore because there's 40

Independent fics:

Occupational hazards (snail mail exchange fic)

Three for the price of one (nsfw, aka the tentacle fic)

Hacked your phone

Masters of communication

You need to eat

NOT dating

metal and bone (whumptober 2022)

thread and blood (sequel to metal and bone)

Megadoc fics: (newest to oldest. newer is better)

ANOTHER self-indulgent fic

Battle of the proposal dates

Harpy has a headache

Wow! An abandoned wip!

Stop breathing i don’t like it

Dirt nap averted

He’s just like me fr fr

Drpepperony tag team

Car rides are for the uninitiated

concussion roomate

Uh. praise kink (nsfw)

owie

Dum-e is now an ESA

Cat Curse

Dead rats

The old sex pollen thing (nsfw)

Now you care?

Pre dawn breakdown

truth or dare without the dare

Prompt #1257

My own prompt :)

prompt 1229

BTHB: chronic pain

donut ship has dry ice

road rash and bruising

BTHB- twisted ankle

silly string

what is love? baby don't hurt me

ily, goodnight

hazy

alien flu

stephen got kidnapped again

long day

blood magic

good boyfriend

teatime

hacked ur phone

i don't know

have a seat

feel free to ask for more than one!

i'm tagging @darkkitty1208 and@hithertoundreamtof23! no pressure ofc :)

#harpy's wips #tag game #ask game

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foxywrites · 1 year

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F0XY'S BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO MASTERLIST

I had been so excited to get and start on my Bad Things Happen Bingo and finally I have started writing for it!

ORIGINAL LINKS FOR 'BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO'

Where you can Ask for a Bad Things Happen Bingo Card! Bad Things Happen Bingo Tumblr Account Bad Things Happen Rules Bad Things Happen AO3 Collection

F0XY'S BTHB LINKS

BTHB Series

THE PROMPTS (and the fandom's that I will be writing using it for + who the event's will be surrounding

?? & ?? || Tears of Fear ?? & ?? || Put Down Your Gun and Step Away ?? & ?? || Stalking Andrew Minyard / Neil Josten || Tampering with Food/Drink [devil's come out when the sun goes down] Andrew Minyard & Neil Josten || Held at Gunpoint [to hunt a rabbit] Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya || Internal Bleeding [at least the war is over] ?? & ?? || Collared and Chained ?? & ?? || Stumbling and Staggering ?? & ?? || Therapy Session ?? & ?? || Captivity ?? & ?? || Witholding Medical Treatment Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya || Hurts to Breathe [to burn for your love] Dazai Osamu || Branding [blooming of an alyssum] Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya || Attempted Rape [all my agony fades away when you hold me in your embrace] ?? & ?? || Locked in a Freezer ?? & ?? || Can't Go Home ?? & ?? || Being Watched ?? & ?? || Villainous Rescue ?? & ?? || "I'm Fine" ?? & ?? || Lost Their Voice From Screaming ?? & ?? || Shackled Feet ?? & ?? || First-Aid Kit ?? & ?? || This is for Your Own Good ?? & ?? || Sensory Deprivation ?? & ?? || Worked Themselves to Exhaustion

(I am taking requests for this bingo, while also writing things that I want to write- feel free to leave in requests along with fandom and the character that you would like to see go through the prompt!)

I will be updating this as time goes by and will be adding in the fics that i write when they are posted online. If I am working on it I will only be putting in the other information!

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wolfeyedwitch · 2 years

Note

as a follow up to the bthb …. stitches :))) since they are already talking about the rather questionable medical treatment Bailey received

Pariah Prisoner, Part 5

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Sorry for everyone whose ask came before this one. I promise I will answer them all; it just won't necessarily be in any kind of sensical order.

CW for: major character injury, injury reveal, blood, medical treatment, implied past torture, stitches, minor shock/dissociation (Zera is not having a good time). Let me know if I missed any tags, or if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Masterlist

---

Zera honestly couldn’t tell you how the group had made it back to their base. They’d had a head start, given that none of the villains were willing to follow them through their rather extreme means of egress, but still.

Their memories from their landing all the way to the medbay were an adrenaline-soaked mess. Random details stuck out perfectly (Poppet—Bailey?—pulling the knife from their side; the feel of blood soaking through the hasty, sloppy bandages; the ache in their legs from running and the cold prickle of fear along their spine), while anything coherent remained out of their grasp. They only tuned back into their life when Bailey(?) was taken from their arms.

Zera grasped them tighter for a second, unwilling to let anyone hurt their rescuer. They would- would—

“Zera, stand down,” Elijah said gently. “We’re back in Hero HQ. We’re in the medbay. Maeve needs Poppet laying down so she can examine them.”

Zera nodded unsteadily, feeling like a poorly carved wooden doll: all splinters and stiff joints. With Elijah’s help, they got Poppet-Bailey settled on one of the beds.

“Is-” Zera started, looking around. “Are you okay? How’s Luke? Where’s Luke? Did-”

“Breathe,” Elijah said, tone somehow even more gentle. He led them to a chair that they more or less collapsed into. “Luke’s fine, nothing more than scratches that a band-aid can handle. He didn’t want to be here.”

Zera made a face at that.

“I’m fine too,” Elijah continued, a small smile on his face. “Again, just minor things. The only one who got physically hurt was Poppet.”

Zera blinked. Then blinked again. If their brain would start working again, that would be great. “Physically hurt?”

Elijah’s smile turned sad. “I mean you, Zera. You were a million miles away just now; you had me worried.”

Zera looked away from him, over to where Maeve examined Poppet-Bailey with glowing hands and a practiced eye.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor snapped Zera’s attention back to Elijah. He’d brought one close enough that he could sit while continuing to talk with them.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I know you, Zera. You’ve got something running through your head. Is it about Poppet?”

“Bailey,” Zera said.

“What?”

Zera shook their head, trying to kick-start their brain’s higher functions. “They said their name is Bailey,” Zera continued.

“They told you their name?” Elijah asked, sounding as incredulous as Zera felt. In their line of work, names and identities were either well known, like with heroes or villains that didn’t care to keep a secret civilian identity, or a carefully guarded secret. None of Slipknot’s associates fell into the former category— Poppet included.

Zera nodded woodenly. Their tone was thick when they continued. “And it isn’t just that they told me. It’s how they said it. It was like… God, it was like it was a relief to say it out loud.”

Both heroes turned to look at the unconscious villain then.

“I think they were telling the truth,” Zera said. “I don’t know what happened to them, but I don’t think they were there by choice. Not really.”

“Not an informed choice, anyway,” Elijah said thoughtfully.

Zera thought of how Bailey had talked about themself, the loathing in their voice when they called themself Slipknot’s toy.

“They got hurt because of us,” they said, voice low and hoarse. “They were rescuing us. And their own teammates stabbed them for it.”

Warmth spread over their knee. They looked down to see Elijah’s hand covering it.

“We can’t change what’s happened, Zera,” he said. It was a phrase he’d told them on many occasions.

“We can only move forward and learn from it,” Zera said, completing the phrase.

“Over here, you two,” Maeve called tiredly.

Zera and Elijah joined her at Bailey’s bedside.

“I fixed the internal damage,” she said, pointing to a still-open wound in Bailey’s side. “The knife nicked some blood vessels and punctured their lung. I healed the pneumothorax and the internal bleeding, but that’s all I can do for now.” She sounded apologetic, as though it were her fault she was still recovering from using her powers to patch the group up after their last disaster.

“Will they pull through?” Elijah asked.

Maeve nodded. “They should. I’m going to start an IV to help replace the blood they lost, and stitch up the last of that wound. That’s not why I called you over, though.”

She gently rolled Bailey onto their uninjured side, exposing their bare back.

Zera’s breath caught at the sight.

Bailey’s back was a patchwork of cuts and bruises layered over a lattice of scar tissue. If Zera didn’t know better, they’d say it looked like…

“Fuck,” they said quietly. “They said. They said the guests ‘got a little rough’, at Slipknot’s last party.”

It looked like Bailey had been whipped.

“These are at least two days old,” Maeve said. “They had time to scab over, then re-open. They were cleaned and bandaged, but nothing more than that for treatment. Some of these could have used butterfly closures at minimum, and preferably stitches. I would say that Poppet treated these themself.”

Elijah and Zera shared a look, his grim, theirs horrified. If they’d needed more proof that Bailey wasn’t an entirely willing participant in Slipknot’s schemes? Well. Here it was.

“I’m too tired to figure out what you’re not saying at the moment,” Maeve said. “Right now, I need steady hands— and someone who’s not coming off an adrenaline high, don’t even think about it Zera— to help me document all this.”

Elijah sighed and nodded, probably thinking about all the paperwork this was going to cause. “Right. I’ll send Iris.”

“I’m staying,” Zera said.

Both senior heroes stared at them. They did their best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“I won’t get in the way!” they said, probably losing the battle not to sound defensive. “And I won’t offer to do anything, not that you’d even accept. I just… I wanna make sure they’re okay.”

They sounded more pathetic than they’d really like to admit at that admission. That was probably what made the senior heroes let them stay.

Zera did as promised. They didn’t try to help with the procedures or the documentation. They did go ahead and fetch the materials Maeve would need— saline solution, gauze, bandages, suture kit— but then they were a good little hero and sat down, out of the way.

Iris and Maeve managed to photograph what must have been every cut and bruise on Bailey’s body before Maeve started on the stitches. She took out hemostats and a curved needle, maneuvering them with precision in her gloved hands. Zera couldn’t remember the medical name for the stitch at the moment, but they knew the sewing name for it: whip stitch.

Whip stitch. For some reason, it was almost unbearably funny. Whip stitch, for someone who’d been- been—

And then it wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest. The laughter they’d been holding back transmuted into sobs.

Just what kind of hell had their nemesis been put through?

---

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly @neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump @heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one @elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme @towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps

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much-obliged-timothy · 2 years

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Hit a writing slump so I challenged myself to get at least one of my BTHB prompts done today! I am making zero progress towards a quick bingo, but at least I’m writing!

For @iamtheshriekingguineapig who requested this :D

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Prompt: Can only move the eyes

Vergil caught his breath and stretched. His brother leaned against the wall, chest heaving as the last of the demons fell lifeless to the ground.

Perhaps they were getting a bit old for this. The idea was not appealing. Their father could keep at it for thousands of years, but they were breathless after a simple enough fight in their forties.

“Hope the kid did better,” Dante said, swiping an arm across his forehead. “Jeez, I’m making these jobs his problem in the future. I’m too old for rooms full of demons.”

Vergil hated when they thought along the same lines like this. “We should catch up to him. I want to know what was leading these demons.”

“Sure, sure.” Dante pushed himself off the wall.

Breaths back, both brothers moved swiftly now. Nero had gone ahead to take down the main demon behind this swarm. Vergil didn’t quite like the idea of that reckless fool rushing off on his own, but he knew Nero was capable enough.

“You know Kyrie invited us for dinner tonight, right?” Dante said.

“Focus on the job, Dante,” Vergil said.

Dante grinned a little. “So you did know! You should come. That woman is going to force you to spend time with your kid one way or another. One way or another that doesn’t involve us all at risk of being killed horribly by demons, I mean.”

“Focus,” Vergil repeated.

“I’m totally gonna tell her if you ditch,” Dante said.

Childish idiot. Vergil would stab him again if they weren’t busy.

He strode forward but slowed at the sharp, strong scent of blood hit his nose. He rounded the corner, hand on the hilt of the Yamato. Their own fight had been loud and chaotic, so he hadn’t heard anything from Nero’s end of the battle.

He eyed the area, taking in the numerous spots of drying blood. His gaze swept the room so fast that he passed the lifeless body on the ground at first, eyes snapping back to it a moment later as his brain processed what it was seeing.

He and Dante ran forward, Dante drawing his guns as he moved about the room for any sign of lingering threat. Vergil dropped beside Nero, gripping his wrist to check his pulse.

As he did so, Nero’s eyes weakly opened. Vergil ignored his relief in favor of checking Nero over for where his injuries were, considering the significant amount of blood he was laying in.

All the blood in the room couldn’t be from him, at least. Some of it was too dark to be Nero’s, meaning at least the boy had put up a good fight.

His pulse was alarmingly slow. Vergil released Nero’s wrist, which thumped lifelessly to the ground.

“Nero,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

Nero looked up at him, his gaze slightly unfocused. He seemed unable to move, not reacting as Vergil tested his limbs. Vergil inspected Nero more thoroughly, catching the likely culprit for his state this time.

A puncture wound in Nero’s neck, with a clear, thick liquid oozing out of it. Whatever it was, it was in Nero’s system, and it was likely paralyzing him. Vergil just hoped it wasn’t strong enough to stop Nero’s heart.

“Look at me,” he commanded. Nero obliged. “Look to the left if it’s difficult to breathe.”

To his relief, Nero’s gaze sluggishly rolled to the right. Still, Vergil got a hand under his head and elevated it slightly to make it a little easier for him to breathe.

“It’s clear in here,” Dante said. “How is he?”

“Paralyzed,” Vergil said. “He was injected with something. Go find the demon so we can identify it and know how to cure this.”

If it could be cured. Vergil couldn’t look down at Nero, so lively when he ran off, so vulnerable now.

Dante gave a stiff nod, once again sharing his brother’s thoughts. He forced a grin for Nero’s sake.

“Don’t you go anywhere, kid,” he said, winking before running off.

Vergil shifted Nero to get a better look at the wound. Nero looked up at him, and Vergil could see that little spark of determination in his eyes.

“Look to the left if you are in pain,” Vergil said.

Nero’s gaze started that way, then paused and snapped to the right. Stubborn as his father and uncle.

Vergil rested Nero’s head against his leg and managed to get Nero’s jacket off him. He began to tear it into strips, ignoring the angry glare Nero aimed at him. Perhaps demons should paralyze him so he couldn’t speak more often.

He tended to Nero’s wounds the best he could with the strips of the jacket. Nero tried to hold his glare, but the relief at Vergil stopping some of his worst bleeding slipped through.

His eyes were so full of expression. Vergil thought it was amazing that someone could show their thoughts and feelings with just their eyes. He couldn’t help but brush some of Nero’s hair away to clear his vision.

“Stop looking at me like that. You will be okay,” Vergil said firmly.

Nero looked up at him, gaze starting to go unfocused again. Vergil put a hand on Nero’s cheek.

“Nero,” he said. “Keep your eyes open. Dante will be back soon. I will cover you until then. You will be fine.” He hesitated briefly, then added, “Look to the left if you believe me.”

And without hesitation, Nero looked to the left.

#bad things happen bingo #devil may cry #Vergil Sparda #Nero Sparda #Dante Sparda #dmc vergil #dmc nero #dmc dante #bthb #jtdoesbthb

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spurious · 8 months

Text

WIP Wednesday

We have (dramatic musical sting) A Houseguest so I really haven’t gotten that much writing done but, here we are again so!

State of the WIPs Live Oak 5: 19,670 BTHB - “I’m Fine”: 4,435 Secrecy: 3,152 Twenty (more) Questions: 1,184 Mark on You: 5,778

This week’s ✨WIP Wednesday Theme✨ is…

Asked & Answered!

Aka a series of askbox emoji prompts to talk or share about your WIPs!

🕰 What's the timeline of the story? (ie. pre-canon, post-canon, how long a period of time it stretches for, however you choose to interpret the question) #️⃣ What's the most oddly specific AO3 tag you could use for this story? ❓Share some dialogue with a question in it. 🎶 Share a song you associate with this fic 🤝 Share a snippet that describes a physical sensation 💡 What gave you the idea for this one? 😄 What part are you most excited to write? 🎭 What do you hope readers of this fic are going to feel? 🃏 Wildcard: Answer the question you wish someone would ask you, or share a background detail, or a snippet or line!

No-pressure tagging: @audioletter @nimuetheseawitch @luredin @texasdreamer01 @hero-in-waiting @gingerpolyglot @sparrowsarus @sga-owns-my-soul @hearteyesmcgarrett @colonelshepparrrrd

A reminder that tags are an encouragement to post about your WIPs, in any and all format you desire, whether that be using the askbox prompts or not, sharing word count progress or not, or literally any form of WIP-posting that makes you feel good! Nothing but legends supporting legends here ok

#wip Wednesday prompt post #wip wednesday #me walking to work this morning and suddenly going 'oh fuck its wednesday'

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renecdote · 1 year

Text

stay, I said

A soft prompt fill for @thekristen999 who requested ‘bombarding them with blankets, tea, heating pads, and anything else they’d need when injured/under the weather’.

Also for BTHB: black eye

[Read on AO3]

“Here.”

Buck’s voice is barely a warning before a blanket drops onto Eddie’s stomach. He startles, more reflex than reaction, and opens his one good eye to squint up at his best friend.

“Huh?”

Buck rolls his eyes, halfway to you don’t have to pretend with me, remember?

“You were shivering,” he says, and there are three perfectly comfortable armchairs he could sit in (plus one that looks exactly like the others but for some reason isn’t comfortable at all), but he lifts Eddie’s feet and slips under them at the end of the couch instead. “You’re not going to make me tuck it around you too, are you?”

Eddie grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. He keeps the ice pack in place over his eye with one hand and messily arranges the blanket with the other. It’s warm enough that he thinks it must have just come out of the dryer, and the sudden heat makes him shiver harder for a moment, until his body adjusts and he relaxes into it with a sigh. A numbing chill is still seeping down through his cheek, his neck, stiffening his shoulders, but with the blanket to huddle under and Buck’s hand resting warm on his ankle, it’s sinking into something more relief than cold.

Relief leaves room for everything else to filter back in as well: Hen and Chimney laughing as they restock the ambulance, someone boxing in the gym, Bobby muttering to himself as he fills out paperwork at the kitchen table. The alarm could go off at any moment, thrusting them into the middle of the next emergency, but for now it’s quiet. Calm. Eddie could almost let it coax him towards a nap, if not for Buck sitting at the other end of the couch, tight lines around his eyes like he’s the one with the headache instead of Eddie.

“I’m fine, Buck,” he says, softer than he thinks he means it to be. “Chimney checked me out, remember? It’s just a bruise.”

Buck’s smile is a sideways, glancing kind of look. “I know.”

But he still worries at his cheek when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. Still flicks through apps on his phone in a way that means he isn’t absorbing any of it.

Eddie gets it—he and guilt have their own messy, long-standing relationship—but this isn’t something that Buck should feel guilty about. It was an accident. A random, could-have-happened-to-anyone hazard of the job. Like being struck by lightning. Like being shot in the middle of an LA street in broad daylight. Like being trapped at the bottom of a well. There’s nothing either of them could have done to stop those things from happening either. It’s not a comfort, not really, but it is a fact. Sometimes, Frank keeps telling him, you just have to accept facts even if you don’t like them.

Eddie pokes at Buck with his toes, insistent, until Buck huffs and turns to look at him, and then he says, “It wasn’t your fault either.”

This tight little frown, like Buck knows that, but. But.

“I had the other end of your line, Eddie.”

And it’s not I should have been better or I should have done something differently but it is I feel responsible, even if I shouldn’t. Eddie knows what that’s like too. Sometimes when they touch—elbows knocking, a hand on one shoulder, fingers brushing around a cup of coffee—he swears he can feel a static shock, like the lightning that connected them for half a second is still clinging to them, that bright line tying them together for the rest of their lives.

It’s a stupid thing to think. Their lives have been tied together since long before the lightning strike.

“You got me down,” Eddie reminds Buck. He doesn’t say you saved me because it feels too dramatic for a black eye, even if it did feel a little dramatic when the earthquake hit, brick shaking and crumbling under his foot, his line going taut when he dropped, the jutting facade of the building catching him just underneath his helmet. Thank god for goggles, even if they didn’t stop the blood vessels bursting with the impact.

If he closes his eyes, he can still hear his team yelling, Buck’s voice rising above them all: Eddie Eddie Eddie.

“Eddie…”

“Buck.”

A natural disaster happened, Buck. Back through time, a hand on Buck’s shoulder, chasing his gaze until he finally met Eddie’s eyes: there’s no one in the world I trust with my son more than you. The addendum it carries now—has always carried, even if Eddie never knew quite how to put it into words: there’s no one in the world I trust with myself more than you.

A minute, two, stretching out between them. Then Buck sighs and gives in. “Fine.”

He puts his phone on the armrest and sinks back against the couch, legs stretched out, staring up at the criss-cross of beams on the ceiling. His hand on Eddie’s ankle is warm and steady. If not for the ache around Eddie’s eye, it could be any day between calls, any good moment as easily as any bad one.

“Do you remember your first earthquake?” Eddie finds himself asking, curious. It’s the kind of question he should have asked before, he thinks, when his first earthquake cleaved a building in half and Buck spent the whole day trying to reassure him that his son was safe. But there was too much going on then, too many other things crowding his mind, and after that it just—never came up.

“On the job?” Buck sounds just as surprised by the question. “Um. There was one while I was at the academy—I remember that. Training was cancelled for the rest of the day and we helped with first aid and cleanup in the streets. There were a few small ones during my probationary year, too. Just tremors, you know? The biggest was a 5.6 I think. That was—” The slightest stumble, like his brain just caught up with where the words were going. “It was a week after Abby left LA and I remember being glad that she wasn’t there because it meant she didn’t have to deal with the crazy number of calls we got.”

It was only a small quake today. If Eddie hadn’t been hanging off the side of a building at the time, it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all.

It still isn’t a big deal.

That first earthquake—7.1, not even two weeks on the job—he came home with bruises that he doesn’t remember getting. There were harsh lines where his harness bit into his skin, splotches of blue-black over his knees, a particularly tender spot on his right elbow. He caught glimpses of them on Buck at the start of their next shift as well, the bruising from his harness even darker than Eddie’s, obvious enough that Chimney had whistled when he came into the locker room. Buck laughed it off, but Eddie remembers seeing the way he pressed his hands against the bruises later and knowing that he was thinking about the people they couldn’t save.

This isn’t like that. Everyone made it out alive today. The damage is less, even if it’s a little more visible. A little more personal. Gingerly, knowing it’s going to hurt, Eddie sets aside the ice pack and prods at his eye.

“How is it?” Buck asks, head turned on the back of the couch to watch him

The heat is gone, but Eddie can still feel the swelling and the sharp throb of bruising coming up under his fingertips. It’s going to be an ugly black and blue for a few days before it starts to yellow and fade.

“Better,” he says anyway. Ice and painkillers have dulled the pain, his headache like a tight band around his temple instead of the pickaxe it felt like earlier.

“That’s good.” Buck’s thumb is moving on his ankle now, an absent kind of caress. The shiver of electricity it sends up his leg is probably all in Eddie’s head. “Are you going to be okay driving home?”

They’ve still got a couple hours before they have to worry about that. Eddie would be lying if he said he was looking forward to LA traffic, or the shine of sun through the windshield, but his eye isn’t swollen shut and he hasn’t had any problems with his vision.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures Buck. And he will be—he is—but. “Why don’t you come over? We can have breakfast, you can help me do housework…”

“Oh I see, you want me to do all your chores for you,” Buck says, but he’s smiling, like he can’t think of any better way to spend a Tuesday morning than helping Eddie fold his laundry.

“I’ll make you eggs benedict,” Eddie offers. “I think I’ve almost got the hang of the hollandaise sauce.”

Buck makes a considering sound. “Counter offer: you’re hurt, which means you get to sit at the table and judge me while I try to recreate Bobby’s baked eggs.”

“I heard that,” Bobby’s voice floats over to them. “I’m not giving you my recipe just because Eddie has a black eye, Buck.”

Eddie snickers at the caught-in-the-cookie-jar look on Buck’s face.

“Come on, Cap,” he wheedles, twisted around to give Bobby his best pleading look. “You told me the secret chilli ingredient!”

Bobby just shrugs, shuffling his paperwork like it might hide his amused smile. “The mystery is what makes it taste so good.”

Eddie is pretty sure they’ll be going home with the baked egg recipe tucked into Buck’s bag anyway. Just like he knows that Buck will make him breakfast and help with all the housework he’s been neglecting and, yeah, part of it will be the guilt he can’t shake, but most of it will be because he—

Because they’re family.

Because they care about each other.

They take care of each other.

“It’s okay,” he says to Buck, loud enough for Bobby to overhear. “I’m sure we can find a better recipe on the internet anyway.”

“Better?” Buck squawks incredulously, in almost the same tone that Bobby echoes, “the internet?”

It hurts to laugh, his cheek aching, the creases around his eye tugging at the bruising, but Eddie can’t help laughing anyway.

“Now you’re definitely not getting the recipe,” Bobby threatens, but Eddie isn’t worried.

And he’s right:

When they’re back at his house, bags lying in a heap together beside the couch, his eyes closed at the kitchen table with a fresh ice pack held against his eye, Buck pulls out eggs and an assortment of spices and Bobby’s recipe, neatly handwritten, on a piece of notepaper that was folded and tucked into his bag. Eddie isn’t watching, but he hears the way Buck moves around his kitchen, easy and comfortable, never having to ask to find everything he needs.

“I was never worried,” he says, and he hears the stillness when Buck pauses. He was scared, maybe, for half a second, his adrenaline spiking as the world shook around him, but. “You had the other end of my line, how could I be worried?”

It feels like a confession. More than the one it is. Eddie wants to look at Buck, but he can’t make himself open his eyes.

“You knew I’d get you down,” Buck says.

It’s not a question.

Eddie opens his eyes.

“I knew you’d make me breakfast too.”

Buck ducks his head when he smiles. It’s a mannerism that Eddie has seen a hundred times, in a hundred different conversations, and it shouldn’t mean anything now, but it feels like it does.

“So what am I going to do next?” Buck asks, his gaze steady now, halfway to a dare. It’s the kind that screams prove me right instead of prove me wrong.

Eddie smiles. “You’re going to wash the dishes, and make me take another dose of Advil, and then—then you’ll stay. Probably agree to take a nap on the couch, then fold all my laundry while I’m sleeping.”

Buck is still smiling, unembarrassed. “You seem pretty sure about that.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and his voice is as steady as his gaze. “I am.”

And he’s right: Buck stays.

Eddie wakes up forty-five minutes later to find all his laundry neatly folded on the dining table and Buck stretched out on the couch, snoring against a throw pillow. A blanket is falling off at his hips, pooling on the ground, and Eddie carefully picks it up and tucks it back in.

Then he leaves as quietly as he came, heading into the kitchen in search of a fresh ice pack for his eye.

#Eddie Diaz #Evan Buckley #911 Fox #fic #badthingshappenbingo #hi kristen I did not forget your prompt I hope you enjoy <3

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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 1 year

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BTHB: “I Know You’re In There Somewhere“

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

FINALLY going back and filling in the last part of Altair’s possession arc. This has been on my to-do list for so long. I mean there’s always a chance I could write more in this period but this is the last of the stuff that I had planned.

Elze’ith struggles to bring back his partner.

Contains: Aftermath of kidnapping, religious (cult) whump, demons, possession, lots of angst, minor character death (including at the hands of a main character), minor head injury, minor fire, minor painful magical healing

~~~

Altair should have been back by now.

Elze’ith had been to and from the river three times collecting water. He had even gone foraging to try and shore up his supply of herbs. But Altair was still not back with the firewood, despite how the morning sun now shone high over the valley. It shouldn’t have taken this long.

Something was wrong.

Trying not to let his panic spiral, Elze’ith followed the trail Altair left out of their little cabin and into the woods. For a while he saw what he expected— clear and steady tracks that occasionally veered to the side, presumably to gather the necessary wood. After about fifteen minutes of walking, though, he came upon a scene that made his stomach drop. Altair’s footprints were joined by several other sets, there was snow kicked up unnaturally, and there were distinct drag marks in the snow leading away from the cabin.

There had been a fight, and Altair had lost and been taken away. Luckily, there wasn’t any blood. That probably meant whoever attacked him wanted him alive and in relatively good condition. While that didn’t bode well for Altair, it meant Elze’ith still had a chance to get him back. And the trail was still fresh; all of this had occurred within the last hour, by Elze’ith’s estimate. Grateful that Altair’s attackers hadn’t bothered to cover their tracks, Elze’ith hurried off after them, hoping beyond hope that Altair would still be okay when he found him.

He was out of breath by the time he came upon an old manor. Perhaps it was once grand, but time had chipped the paint and worn away at the path that led to the nearest town. The curtains were all drawn, leaving no evidence of whether the house was occupied. Still, the footprints and the dragmarks in the snow led here, so Elze’ith hurried up to the door. It didn’t open when he tried the knob, so he channeled his magic to give himself a burst of strength and kicked out at the lock. It buckled loudly under his heel, and he pushed the half-broken door aside and rushed in.

Under other circumstances, he might have tried to remain undetected. Right now, all he was concerned about was finding Altair.

The interior was dimly lit by candlelight, revealing a modest entryway. A voice from another room cried out in alarm as he burst through the front door. Elze’ith drew the dagger he kept on his belt and was ready for when the individual came running around the corner brandishing their own blade. They lunged for him, but he blocked their strike with a magic shield and kicked out at their knee. They stumbled, and he threw his weight forward to push them to the ground.

The individual made to get up, but he settled on top of them and held his dagger to their throat. “Where is Altair?”

“You’re the sorcerer’s partner, then,” they snarled at him. This close, Elze’ith could get a better look at them; they were paler than other folks in the valley, as though they hadn’t gotten as much sun. Their eyes were full of fervor and spite. A chain around their neck had fallen to the side when they had fallen, letting Elze’ith recognize the pendant that carried an infernal rune. His blood ran cold. “We were wondering if you would show up. Almost considered offering you as well, but didn’t think it’d be worth the effort. Your partner was a much more valuable prize.”

Cultists. Demonic cultists, from the look of that pendant. And they had wanted Altair specifically. Altair had spoken a bit about how he had grown up, what he had been raised to do, what he feared people would want to use him for. Courageous Altair had been so afraid. Now it was actually happening, and Elze’ith wasn’t stopping it.

Fear and anger made Elze’ith see red. Pressing the tip of his knife into the cultist’s throat just enough to draw blood, he laid two fingers from his other hand on their forehead. He channeled a burst of magic into their mind, compelling them to speak the truth. “Tell me where Altair is.”

“He’s downstairs!” The words sounded like they were being wrenched forcefully from the cultist. “But you’re too late. By now, our patron—”

Elze’ith drew his dagger across their throat. The light left their eyes. He had heard enough.

He quickly stood up and began searching for a way downstairs. The sound of muffled voices from below guided him to a nondescript cellar door. This door was unlocked, and he shoved it open and ran down the ominous stairs below, calling for his partner.

“Altair!”

The smell of blood and smoke was the first thing he registered. The room was dark, so he created a small light in his hands. He took note of the figures in the room, but paid them little mind. His attention was entirely on Altair, kneeling on the ground, eyes half-lidded and mouth prised open as a figure of smoke and sludge and ichor engulfed and subsumed him.

“Altair!”

He threw the ball of light forward, and it exploded outward, radiating holy energy. The demon— for that was what the figure that had Altair in its grips was— shrieked and recoiled, but did not relinquish Altair. One of the cultists shouted in alarm. The others turned to look at him, and the two closest to him quickly lunged with their ritual knives extended. Stumbling back, Elze’ith instinctively created a magical shield, though his eyes were still glued to Altair and the demon.

Because of his unerring attention, he saw how, in the next moment, the mass of shadow and sludge fully entered Altair’s body and took possession of him.

There was a powerful pulse of dark energy that knocked back everything in the room. Elze’ith was thrown into the stone wall, the impact making him see stars. Magic swirled, creating a howling wind in the small space. The cultists cried out, only to have their voices sharply cut off. Though Elze’ith was still dizzy from his collision with the wall, he refortified his shield and braced himself behind it.

Then, as suddenly as it all began, everything went still.

Maintaining his shield, Elze’ith cautiously created more light in his other hand to take in the scene. The room was in disarray with books and other paraphernalia scattered across the floor. The cultists were gone; from what Elze’ith knew about summoning rituals, he could surmise that the demon had consumed them, with Elze’ith only being spared due to his blood not having been used in the ritual. And there, kneeling in the middle of a ritual circle covered in ash and blood and ichor, was Altair.

Elze’ith didn’t think. He just ran to Altair, falling to his knees in front of him and cradling his face. Though he knew what he had seen, he still sent a wave of healing energy and strength into Altair’s body. Maybe, just maybe, he was wrong, and the worst hadn’t come to pass.

“Altair?”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Altair’s eyes snapped open. They held none of the light, none of the warmth, that they normally did; there was only cold, merciless glee. Elze’ith’s blood went cold with pure dread.

“Ah,” Altair’s voice said, though it was unmistakably someone else speaking through him, “finally.”

“No,” Elze’ith said, nearly choking on his desperation and disbelief. “No, Altair—”

There was a burst of heat and the sound of tearing metal. Elze’ith instinctively recoiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Altair’s fiery hands tearing apart the shackles that held him down, but his gaze was fixed on Altair’s face, and the terrible grin that the demon spread across it.

“Sorry, love. Altair isn’t available anymore.”

Something snapped loudly, though Elze’ith barely had time to register the sound before something collided harshly with his side. The impact knocked the breath out of him and sent him sprawling, and though he luckily hadn’t felt his ribs crack under the impact he knew they were likely bruised from the deep ache that lingered. He groaned and staggered to his feet, dismayed to see the demon already up, hands alight and broken chains dangling from Altair’s wrists.

“You’re lying,” he gasped. “Altair’s still in there. I know he is.” He had to be.

“Oh, sure,” the demon said. It flexed Altair’s hand experimentally, seeming almost entranced by the way the flames licked the digits. Then it flung Altair’s hand outward, and Elze’ith raised a magical shield in defense. It scoffed. “He’s in here somewhere. I’m looking forward to truly making him mine. But you don’t get to see him again. Not anymore.”

Elze’ith pushed back with his shield, sending the fire to the side. With his other hand he sent out a burst of holy light, the strongest he could manage. “Altair! You’re strong. I know you are. And the last thing you want is someone controlling you. If anyone can fight this, it’s you. Please. Come back to me.”

It had to work. He didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t.

But when his light faded, he saw the demon uncurling from where it had hunched over, slightly weakened but still in full control. It surged forward, and though Elze’ith tried to raise a shield he couldn’t quite react in time. With strength that wasn’t fully Altair’s the demon grabbed him and hurled him aside; for the second time that day Elze’ith collided with the stone wall and crumpled to the ground.

“Paltry divine magic and loving platitudes won’t work. But nice try.”

Elze’ith pushed himself onto his hands and knees shakily. He was winded, and the impact had worsened his headache from the last time he had hit the wall like this; now the room was tilting dangerously. Still, he forced himself to look up at the demon, who was stalking closer. “Altair! Altair, it’s me. It’s Elze’ith. I know you don’t want to hurt me—”

Altair’s boot slammed into his stomach, and Elze’ith choked on his words.

“You’re starting to irritate me,” the demon drawled. “I should just kill you now. Though it could be fun to keep you. Feed on this one’s despair as he watches me flay you alive over and over again.”

The demon’s voice rang in Elze’ith’s ears. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed to get out. Otherwise, there would be no one to save Altair.

He didn’t really think. One hand summoned a barrier and rammed it into Altair’s leg, causing the demon to cry out and crumple. Elze’ith pushed himself upright with his other hand and took off for the stairs out of the basement. If not for the burst of adrenaline, he might not have made it. As it was, an orb of flame caught him in the back of the leg while he was at the top of the stairs and caused him to stumble. But he kept going, and as soon as he was out of the basement he slammed the door behind him and pressed his hands against it. Magic surged through him, and he focused on the familiar, encircling protections of an encompassing ward.

Keep the demon in. Keep everyone else out. Keep everyone safe.

The magic settled in. A moment later the demon slammed against the door. Just as the impact rattled the door, Elze’ith felt the impact in his soul with how it pressed against the ward he had just created. But it held. The demon was contained.

“Altair…” All of the adrenaline left him at once, and Elze’ith collapsed to his knees. Tears slipped from his eyes. He had been too late. He had failed. And now Altair was in the clutches of an otherworldly evil. He hadn’t been able to protect Altair from what he had feared most.

He sat there for a long moment, letting himself cry. Then he took a hand off of the door and pressed it to his chest and let his healing magic course through him. He winced as his ribs and head and leg flared with pain before it all finally subsided. Once again he could think a bit more clearly, and that meant he could figure out what to do.

He needed to free Altair. He couldn’t do that alone. Until the snow melted, he was stuck in the valley, and thus couldn’t leave to find help.

That left one option.

Steeling himself, Elze’ith pushed himself to his feet. He lingered for a moment, pressing his head against the basement door. “Wait for me, Altair. I’ll be back for you soon.”

And then he turned away and began heading towards Castle Tergoria.

#flicker in the dark #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #altair buchannan oc #magic #kidnapping #demons #possession #religion #bad things happen bingo #bthb

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i-can-even-burn-salad · 1 year

Text

Chapter 28

Glass Shards

Warnings: Phantom pain, illusionary gore (it’s not real, but it sure looks real), mention of family loss

This one is a fill for my shiny new BTHB.

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Merridy awoke before the first ray of sunlight, the morning song of birds louder than Dragon’s Reach had ever been. Tucked up to her nose in her sleeping bag, she turned her head to find Damien’s spot empty. She discovered him a few steps further, sitting against a tree with his shoulders hunched over, both arms in front of him.

“Good morning,” she said.

Her smile faltered when Damien raised his head and met her gaze. His face was twisted in pain, his eyes red. Merridy struggled to free herself from the fabric, ignoring the morning’s chill, and hurried over to his side.

“What’s wrong? Does your hand hurt again?”

Damien didn’t reply. His breaths were labored and choppy. Merridy couldn’t remember the last time it had looked this bad. While she tried to figure out if there was anything she could do, Damien moved the fingers of his illusionary hand, in the same rhythm as the ones of his real hand.

“What are you doing?” Merridy couldn’t help but ask.

“I had hoped it would… I don’t know. Help me relax.” He laughed a desperate laugh. “It doesn’t.”

Merridy wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder. She slipped her fingers under his shirt, feeling how tense he was. His shoulder didn’t move at all as he let the illusion sink. Merridy had asked him before what it was he felt. He hadn’t been too precise, but she remembered him describing the pain, his hand torn apart and clenched into a fist, making his arm cramp.

“Perhaps because it doesn’t look right,” she mused quietly, trying to remember all he had told her about his illusion magic.

“What?”

“Your hand.” She wasn’t sure it was a good idea to bring it up like this. “Could it be that it doesn’t work because it doesn’t look like it feels? You once told me it feels torn, burned. But it looks normal. Perhaps if you change the illusion, then go from there…”

Or perhaps this was a horrible idea and would only make everything worse. She fell quiet, pressing herself against him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I just wish I could help.”

Damien was quiet for a while. “Please… don’t look,” he then said, voice trembling.

“Okay.”

Merridy turned her head away, staring at the ground, her forehead now leaning against his shoulder. She wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t mind, even if she wasn’t so sure if it was true. The pattern of his breaths changed, deeper at first, then quickening. She managed to keep sitting still and her gaze averted as he started to shake, but when a quiet sob escaped him, she raised her head. If this wouldn’t work, it was her fault. She had to do something.

His hand looked every bit as horrible as she had feared. Charred, torn flesh, clinging to fingers balled into a fist. It made her feel sick.

“That’s good,” she said, even if it was anything but that. “Can you relax it now?”

“I… I can’t.” He stared at his hand, shoulders shaking. “I can’t.”

“Hey. Look at me.” She turned his head towards her, keeping her hand on his cheek to stop him from looking back at his hand. He seemed so hopeless and forlorn. “It’s okay. It was just an idea,” she said, her thoughts racing. If his own illusion resisted him, what could she do? Could she perhaps trick his mind? “Do you mind if I try something?” she asked.

Damien looked at her, if not hopeful, then at least full of trust. She held out her left hand, palm up.

“Give me your right hand.”

When he did as she asked, she swallowed. She couldn’t feel it resting on her palm, but it looked so real. So horribly real. Slowly she raised her right hand, hovering over it for a moment before reaching for his smallest finger. Merridy held her breath as she pretended to grab it, to pull it back. A part of her expected her own finger to go through his, but somehow it worked. Somehow Damien managed to make the illusion follow her movement, to allow her to place his finger flat on her hand. The rest of him flinched under her touch, but the illusion stayed steady.

Casting a quick glance at his face, she found his expression as unbelieving as she felt. She quickly continued, reaching for the next finger, and the next. With each one, she got a bit more confident, until at last his hand lay flat on hers and she covered it with her right.

“Thank you.”

Damien’s voice made her look up. Tears were running down his face, but his expression was more that of relief than of pain. He was still sitting with his shoulders hunched, so she pulled his hand back, until his arm was stretched out in front of him. Damien held it for a moment, then the illusion of his arm vanished as he sank back with a sigh.

“Are you okay?” Merridy asked.

“Yes.” He wiped his tears away before reaching out to her, wrapping his arm around her as soon as she came closer. “Yes. Thank you.”

Merridy sighed her own sigh of relief, leaning against him once more. She didn’t dare to hope that his pain was fully gone, too vivid the image of the horrible injuries. Next to his nightmares and scars, it was another puzzle piece that told her what had happened to him. She hated it.

“Damien?” When he made a quiet, questioning noise, she continued, “Please tell me if it happens again. I want to help you.”

He didn’t reply, but he held her a bit tighter.

After a while Merridy got up, to rekindle the fire and heat some water over it. She cooked porridge, garnishing the bowls with freshly plucked berries from a bush near the stream. Damien seemed to be relaxing slowly, thanking her as she handed him his portion. They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable one. Together they cleaned their dishes and rolled up their sleeping bags, and soon they were back on the road.

The landscape had long since changed completely. The sandy soil had given way to the brown of earth and gently undulating meadows stretched to the horizon. Single farms adorned the landscape and where streams flowed they were bordered by bushes and tall, straight trees. Merridy saw the outlines of the fields; some still brown and bare, on others the first plants already stretched their still tender shoots towards the sky. Bees and bumblebees were busy flying from blossom to blossom and every now and then she could spot a small lizard sitting on a stone, basking in the sun.

Merridy remembered the lizards, and the trees, and the flowers. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to enjoy their sweet smell. Then her gaze wandered northward, and although she could see nothing but endless fields, tears came to her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Damien had stopped and looked at her with concern.

Merridy stopped as well, tearing herself away from the sight of the distant horizon. She shook her head while wiping her eyes.

“It’s nothing. Just… this is where I grew up. Not here exactly of course, but in this area. I haven’t been here in so long. It’s silly, but I miss it.”

He raised his hand to wipe another tear from her cheek and smiled at her. “It’s not silly. Do you want to tell me about it?”

Merridy nodded, ran her hand over her eyes once more, and then lifted her chin. “Tonight by the fire. Provided you can keep your eyes open this time,” she teased, nudging his shoulder. They had a long way to go, she couldn’t let every little sentimental memory get to her like that.

“Hey, hey. You were asleep before I was!” Damien protested. He tried to return the prodding, but she had already run ahead. With their packs, neither of them could really run, but they chased each other down the street for a bit until they both had to stop, out of breath.

For the rest of the day, Merridy pondered what exactly she was going to tell him. Eventually, she decided to just start at the beginning and see where her story would take her. The thought made her a little nervous. No one, not even Cedric, knew her whole story.

When the sun had set and they were sitting by the fire, eating the rest of the bread and holding a mug of tea, Merridy leaned against the fallen log that bordered their camp to one side. She looked up at the starry sky. Then she began to speak.

“My parents had a farm a few days’ travel north from here. There, the landscape is not quite as flat and there are more forests. People often raise animals or grow crops instead of flowers. There were four of us — my mother, my father, my sister Felicia and me.

We raised sheep. From spring to fall, the pastures around the farm were always dotted with small, white balls of plush. Everything revolved around the wool. Not an evening went by without Mother sitting at the spinning wheel or the loom. Often she would tell us stories and we would sit on the floor, sorting and combing the wool and listening to her. Sometimes she dyed the wool, but the most beautiful thing was when one of our sheep was born dark. Then she wove beautiful patterns from the white and black strands.”

Lost in thoughts, she drew patterns on the plain fabric of her pants. Each time she had watched in amazement as her mother’s nimble hands had pushed the shuttle back and forth.

“I… I have forgotten so many things. When I try to remember my parents, I only see them vaguely in front of me. I know that Mama had a very sweet voice and that I begged her every night to sing me to sleep. Papa was louder, when he laughed the whole house shook and his voice could be heard across the whole yard.

I remember my sister the most. She was only two years younger than me, and she always wanted to be like me. We were inseparable and did everything together. We ran through the woods, climbed the haylofts, and caught frogs in the creek. By the Seven, she admired me so much and I loved her so much. She was so young the last time I saw her. If she’s still alive, she’s a woman now.”

But what were the chances of that? Shouldn’t Merridy have found a trace of them at some point? Or had she just been too slow, looking in the wrong places? The world was big and so full of people who had lost everything.

“What happened?” Damien’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. With his question he stopped her from sinking into endless, senseless musings and made her continue the story.

“Our farm was only an hour or two from the nearest village. At least if you didn’t walk particularly fast or had such short legs as I did. Most of the time we shopped on market days, but every now and then we still needed something. Almost always I was then sent to buy it. Just like on this day.

“Mama had given me the basket and the note and the money, and I walked proudly like a queen down the path. It was autumn, the trees had just begun to lose their leaves, and I ran across the path, kicking them up, until I arrived in the nearby village. Everyone there knew me, and while I was in the store and the merchant was picking things out from my list, she would always slip me a piece of candy.”

At the memory, Merridy smiled, but then sadness crossed her face and she stared at her hands clutching the long empty cup.

“On that day, a… a storm came up. It rained so hard that the water ran in streams over the paths and formed huge puddles. The merchant said that I should not go home in weather like that, but wait with her until the worst would be over. Such storms rarely last long here. She gave me more candy and a book so I wouldn’t get bored. I was not at all unhappy about having to wait, on the contrary. It seemed exciting to me, my very own adventure.

An hour or two later, when the rain had subsided, I made my way home. I couldn’t wait to tell Felicia all about it, I even had saved a piece of candy for her, but when I arrived…”

Merridy stared straight ahead without seeing anything, grateful that Damien was also silent and gave her the time she needed.

“The yard was… I don’t know. The ground was churned up and there were broken things everywhere. I don’t know what happened. Bandits? Marauders? Whoever it was, they had set the buildings on fire and the barns were completely burned down, but the storm must have saved the main house. The roof was partially burned and the walls blackened, but I could still enter the house. I called out, searched every room, ran into the fields, but I found no one. Even the sheep were gone, every single one. I was so scared. I hid in my room, under the bed, and waited there. I thought my family would come back and get me.”

A tear rolled down Merridy’s cheek, and this time she was not ashamed of it. Damien crossed the distance between them, leaning against the tree trunk next to her until his shoulder brushed hers.

“A few days passed until I realized that they would not come back. I took my little backpack and put my most important belongings in it, and all the food I could find. Then I started walking. Papa always told me about Caldeia when he was upset about the bandits. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘one day we will leave the farm and move to Caldeia. It’s safe there. No bandit rabble.’ So I figured they must have made their way to Caldeia. Maybe they just couldn’t wait, or maybe they had left me a message that the rain had washed away. I was already almost grown up, I told myself, I would make it on my own.”

She wiped her eyes and tried to smile, but it came out very crooked.

“For days I walked south until I found the Dragon Road. I still remember how amazed I was. Such a long, paved road, so wide that two carts could comfortably pass each other. My enthusiasm quickly faded. I followed the road east, on and on, day after day. Everything was cold and wet, and I was so terribly lonely. Occasionally other travelers passed by. Mostly they were traders, sitting on packed wagons, their hoods pulled deep into their faces and staring doggedly at the road. I never dared to speak to them and they always ignored me.

“I could not afford the inns from the few coppers I had taken with me. I thought that I would surely arrive soon and that I would then see my family again, so I walked on, day after day. I really had no concept of the sheer distance from here to Caldeia. My food had long run out, and I was so hungry. I felt weaker every day and at some point I just couldn’t go on. I laid down on the side of the road where I had collapsed, thinking that I was going to die now.”

Damien had begun to stroke her hair and now she turned to him, nestled her head against his chest and closed her eyes. So many years had passed, but still she remembered that day. She never wanted to be alone like that, ever again.

“I hadn’t heard the carts coming. All of a sudden there were people, they were saying something, but I was too tired to listen to them. They couldn’t very well chase me off the road, and I wasn’t in the way, so I didn’t care. But they didn’t want to chase me away at all. One woman wrapped me in a blanket and took me into her cart. I had never seen anything like that before. There were no goods or animals in it, but furniture like in a room. A bed, a table with two chairs nailed to the floor and even two windows with colorful curtains and cupboards on the wall were there.”

She yawned furtively, as if the mere memory of the cozy home reminded her how tired she was. Then she put the cup down on the grass and buried her hands in Damien’s jacket to warm them up. She could feel his heartbeat and noticed how the sadness of her memories slowly faded.

“The woman gave me some warm soup and put me into her bed. I think I fell asleep before she had fully pulled a blanket over me. When I woke up the woman explained everything to me. Her name was Yvanessa and she was part of a traveling circus. They were on their way to Dragon's Reach to spend the winter there. When I found out that it was exactly in the opposite direction, I started crying bitterly.

“I wanted to leave right away, but she convinced me that I wouldn’t stand a chance. I would not reach Caldeia alone. So Yvanessa offered me to stay with the circus, to spend the winter in Dragon's Reach, and travel with them to Amalhar next spring. Six months seemed like an impossibly long time, but it was my best chance to arrive in Caldeia in one piece. I agreed and stayed.”

Merridy yawned again and blinked tiredly. The fire had almost burned down, the moon had moved quite a bit further, and she was about to fall asleep.

“Let’s go to sleep. You can tell me the rest tomorrow,” Damien said. Carefully, he detached himself from her and leaned her back against the tree trunk before going to the fire to add some logs. Then he took the sleeping bags from his pack and spread them out on the ground.

Merridy watched him quietly, still lost in thought. When he was done she shuffled the few steps to her sleeping bag, wrapping herself into it. While Damien settled down behind her, she stared into the fire. She couldn’t help but think of all the people she had parted ways with. People she’d most likely never see again. The thought that one day Damien might become one of them made new tears well up in her eyes and she buried her hands in the fabric, feeling cold all of a sudden.

“Merry?”

She froze, trying in vain to control her shaky breaths.

“Hey…”

When he put his hand on her shoulder, something inside her broke. Unable to hold back a sob, she curled up, hiding her face in her arms. Damien followed her, slowly wrapping his arm around her. A light, hesitating touch at first, giving her every opportunity to draw back. When she didn’t, he pulled her towards him, until he held her so close she could feel his warmth, even through the two layers of fabric.

He didn’t say anything, and she was thankful for it. What was there to say? The past was long gone, and he couldn’t know her worries about the future. But right now, so tired she could barely keep her eyes open and with him holding her, those worries faded into the background. She found herself relaxing completely, feeling so safe in his embrace, she was asleep within minutes.

[ID: The top image is a banner covered in colorful glass shards. Across it is written the title of the story, glass shards, in a white to bright cyan gradient with a black outline. The font looks like written with a broad paintbrush. All other images in this post are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

Tagging: @dont-touch-my-soup @kixngiggles @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @badthingshappenbingo

#Glass Shards #whump #fantasy whump #prompt: phantom pain #fandom: original work #badthingshappenbingo #gore tw #uh kinda... or not... I mean if you know him you know what happened (:#my writing

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