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[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Next Best Thing

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: child having a high fever, fluff throughout

Summary: During a snowstorm, you’re locked inside the Bunker when your daughter has a medical emergency that only Jack can heal.

Request by @waywardfillorian: i have request: reader is Dean's daughter and she gets really sick during the winter storm and gets a really high temp, then they have to put her in an ice bath.

Square Filled: bundled up in blankets for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: I know the request said that the reader was Dean's daughter, but I misread it as the reader and Dean have a daughter, so I decided to keep it that way.

PPS: An ice bath is life-threatening if you have a high fever in real life, but in this story, it won’t do damage, so it’s okay

Any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

Kansas is a beautiful state, and you love living here for most of the year. The summers, while very humid, are breezy and warm. The winters, however, are when there are issues. You get snow, of course, but it’s the storms that are brutal. Since you’re completely underground, you feel the effects of the storm more than anyone else.

Jack, Sam, and Dean are making sure the Bunker is locked down to prevent any snow from coming inside. Last year, when it rained for an entire week, water was leaking into the Bunker from pooling on the ground above. They’ll also be checking the breakers to make sure the power doesn’t go out, even though it happens every winter.

You’re making sure you have everything you need for at least a month in case you get snowed in and can’t leave. You just went grocery shopping, so you’re confident you’ll be okay.

“Hey, do we have everything?” Sam asks as he walks into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I just went grocery shopping. We should have enough food.” You grab your list and go down the line when you hear it. Your daughter is coughing. “Shit, I knew we forgot something. Darlene is sick. We don’t have enough medicine here.”

“It’s okay, I’ll grab some.”

“You think it’s safe to go out there?”

“The store is right around the corner, and it’s just starting. I should go now before it gets worse.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

He grabs the Impala’s keys and heads out. Dean and Jack did their best to lock down the Bunker, so all you have to do now is wait. Darlene coughs again, so you and Dean head over to her room. She is bundled up in her blankets, sleeping. You ghost a hand over her forehead, which is burning with a fever. Not too hot, but if she doesn’t get medicine soon, it’ll get worse.

“Poor baby,” you whisper.

“It could just be the flu,” Dean whispers.

“I hope that’s all it is.”

Darlene moans in pain before opening her eyes. Tears well when she sees both of her parents standing over her.

“Mommy, Daddy, my tummy hurts,” she whimpers.

“I’ll get something light for her to eat,” you offer.

You leave the room and fix something light in the kitchen. Some crackers and chicken noodle soup should be good for her. The hot broth will do wonders, and the crackers will ease her pain. Paired with that is a glass of ginger ale in hopes it’ll ease some of her pains. You carry the tray back to her room and see that Dean is now lying in her bed with his daughter in his arms.

“She fell back asleep,” Dean whispers as he rubs her back.

“Well, the soup might be cold when she wakes up, but she can try eating the crackers and ginger ale.”

Sam comes back quickly with the medicine in time for the storm to get worse. Since the entire bunker is underground, it doesn’t shake, but you can still hear the wind, snow, and rain slam against the metal door above. There is a structure that was built above the bunker to give off the illusion that it’s a power plant, but there is only enough power there to bring it to the bunker.

As the storm rages on, you easily find stuff to do. This place has a lot to offer when one is bored, and it certainly helps that Dean built that man cave. For a couple of hours, you, Sam, Jack, and Dean play board and card games.

One by one, the group dwindles until it’s just you and Dean left. It’s nearly midnight, so you decide to call it for the night and get some sleep.

Three hours into sleeping, you wake up with a gasp. The hair on your arms is standing straight up, and your stomach turns painfully. The bunker is quiet, even with the storm outside. Dean is snoring lightly on his stomach, and you shake his shoulders to get him to wake up.

“Dean, wake up,” you whisper.

“What?” he grumbles. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just… Something’s wrong.”

Dean lifts his head and looks at you. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Not me. I just have a feeling something is wrong.”

“It’s probably the storm outside.” He lies back down. “Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You can’t go back to sleep unless you check that everything is okay. You push the covers off you and slip out of bed. You keep the door open slightly in case you need to scream for Dean, and you make your way over to Darlene’s bedroom.

You step into her room and turn on the small lamp in the corner. She is sleeping in bed. Everything looks fine. So, why are you so on edge? You press your hand to her forehead to see how her fever is doing, and you gasp at how hot she is. You jerk your hand away before the skin can burn you.

“DEAN!!!” you scream.

Seconds later, Dean’s booming footsteps sound in the hallway before he runs inside the room. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s burning up,” you cry. Darlene is motionless in your arms. “She’s very hot. She’s not waking up! We need to do something now!”

“We can’t go anywhere. The roads are covered in snow and ice.”

“Oh, my God,” you whisper. “We need an ice bath now! Get Sam to help!”

Dean runs out of the room while you scoop Darlene into your arms. Please be okay. Please let my baby be okay. “You’re okay, Darlene. You’re gonna be just fine. Mommy and Daddy are gonna make you feel better.” She may be asleep, but you’re gonna pretend that she can hear you.

As Sam and Dean are running around to get ice into the bathroom, Jack comes out of his room in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“She’s burning up!”

Jack rushes to the bathroom with you just as Sam and Dean finish putting the last of the ice inside. You strip Darlene to just her t-shirt and put her inside the ice bath. She immediately starts shivering, and you grab a washcloth and soak it in room-temperature water. After squeezing the water out of it, you put the cloth to her forehead.

“Mommy,” she groans. “Daddy…”

“We’re right here, baby,” you say.

“You’re going to be okay, princess,” Dean promises.

Darlene moans in pain and scrunches her face up. “Dean, you have to do something. She needs medical care now.”

Dean looks at Jack in thought. He’s the only one who has powers here. He’s still so new to his powers since it’s only been about a month since he was born, but there is no other option.

“Jack, you gotta heal her.”

“What? I don’t know how.”

“No better way to learn than right now, right?”

“I don’t… Um…”

“Jack, just focus,” Sam encourages. “Just focus on making her feel better. Here, put a hand to her head.” Jack moves his hand to the top of Darlene’s head. “Close your eyes and focus on making her feel better as much as you can.”

Jack closes his eyes and tells himself to heal Darlene, to make the fever go away. Nothing happens.

“I can’t. She’s getting worse. Can’t you just give her some medicine?”

“It’s not going to help right now. It takes time for the medicine to kick in. Jack, she’s going to overheat.”

“Just clear your mind,” Sam instructs. “Don’t focus on u being here. Don’t focus on medicine or the storm. Just focus on Darlene. You don’t have to heal her completely. Just get her fever to go down.”

Jack closes his eyes again and concentrates. He scrounges up every bit of power he can find. When Jack opens his eyes, they are bright gold. Gold light shines from under his palm. He doesn’t look at anyone for fear that his concentration will break and Darlene will be hurt.

Darlene sighs in relief and opens her eyes. The redness in her face washes away with Jack’s power. You reach over and feel her forehead, which is significantly cooler. There is still a fever, but it’s not life-threatening anymore.

“Mommy, I’m cold,” Darlene shivers.

“Okay, Jack, that’s good.” Jack pulls his hand away and stands. “Thank you!”

“Come here, baby,” Dean says. Darlene reaches for her dad and clings to him when he picks her up. He rubs her back to try to warm her up, and she wraps her arms and legs around him. “Let’s go get you some medicine, okay?”

Dean walks out of the bathroom with his daughter, and you pull Jack in for a hug. “Thank you, Jack. You did so well.”

Jack wears a proud smile on his face for being able to help. You leave him and Sam alone to take care of the ice while you follow Dean to Darlene’s room. She’s already in dry clothes and in bed with Dean next to her. The medicine bottle sits on the bedside table with the little cup for the liquid already used.

You sit on the edge of her bed and smooth her hair away from her face. She is already asleep in Dean’s arms.

“You did really well with the ice bath,” Dean whispers to you.

“You did well with Jack.”

You lean over your daughter to kiss your husband, and then you settle on the other side of her so that all three of you are in bed together. Come morning time, you hope that the medicine has done its job and lowered her fever altogether.

x

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[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Black Rose Syndicate

Pairing: Undercover!Spencer Reid x Mafia Princess!Reader

Word Count: ~4.2k

Warnings: angst, small part of torture (punching and electrocution), moments of fluff throughout

Summary: Spencer is tasked to go undercover inside the Black Rose Syndicate, a mafia gang that is very powerful on the West Coast of the United States. His task is to grab as much information as he can on the leader, Nicholas Vincenzo, a ruthless man who deals in illegal drugs, weapons, and money. What Spencer never thought would happen, what he never prepared for, is Nicholas’ daughter, the one person whom he never saw coming. The one person who might jeopardize everything Spencer has been working for.

Square Filled: Electrocution for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: This will have a second part, for sure. I'm not sure how many parts there will be. I will know more when I flesh out this idea and outline it.

Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

x

You flip through the magazine with a bored expression on your face. It’s the same shit every time with the same celebrities. None of them learns their lessons, and almost all of them crave attention from the public, good or bad.

Not even a dozen steps away from you, Jackson, your father’s right-hand man, sends another punch to the man he’s got tied up on a chair. The man’s face has been beaten severely, and several of his teeth are scattered on the floor. He refuses to talk, so Jackson keeps punching his face.

“Still not talking?” Jackson huffs out.

“How can he when you’ve knocked out nearly all of his teeth?” you mutter without taking your eyes off the magazine.

Jackson ignores the blood on his hands as he rolls up his sleeves, and he walks over to the coffee table with tools on it. He grabs the taser rod and turns to the man. Through swollen eyes, he can see the stick light up. He jerks away as if he can go somewhere, but he’s locked to the chair.

Jackson walks over to the man and bends slightly. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll put this away.”

“Go to hell,” the man mutters.

“Have it your way.”

Jackson stands up, and he sticks the end of the rod against the man's chest. The smell of burning flesh reaches your nose, and you recoil in disgust.

“Do you really have to do this in here?”

“Well, if someone didn’t crash into my workshop, I wouldn’t have to.”

You paste on an innocent look and shrug. “I apologized.”

Jack shakes his head and returns his attention to the burnt man. You slam the magazine down on the couch and leave the living room in search of your father. Jackson only listens to one man and one man only—your father.

Your father is in his office with several of his men, going over important business that he has with the shipyard. Apparently, one of the sea containers that is coming in is loaded with guns, weapons, and drugs. Your father paid a pretty penny for that shipment, and nothing can go wrong. Last time, someone ambushed the trade and scared off the seller.

“Everything must go according to plan. I need that container. Riley, have your men stationed at the shipyard. I need you to be on top of things if shit goes south. Romeo, you’ll be on the boats. I need to know if there is going to be an issue before there is an issue.”

“Yes, sir,” Romeo nods.

Your father is about to say something else when he notices you standing by the door. “We’ll talk more later. Dismissed.” All of the men inside the room stand and slowly leave one by one. When it’s just you and your father, he gestures for you to come closer. “What’s going on?”

“Daddy, I’m bored. Watching a man get tortured isn’t nearly as fun as they make it seem in the movies.”

He chuckles and taps his pen on the table. He reaches into his jacket pocket and removes his wallet. He slides out the sleek black card and holds it out between his pointer and middle fingers.

“It’s best if you get out of the house for a while. Go shopping. Take Miles and Cyrus with you.”

“I’m not a child, Daddy. I can take care of myself.” Still, you take the card from his hand. “I can kick anyone’s ass.”

“I know you can, but you’re my baby girl, and we’re in the middle of something big. I just need to know you’ll be safe.”

You huff out in annoyance and turn to leave. “Fine, but I’m spending at least a hundred grand, and they’re carrying all of my bags.”

Your father’s laugh follows you out of the house, and you can’t help but grin. Being the daughter of a mafia boss has its perks, but you do wish for something more out of life. It sucks that you have to have at least two guards with you at all times, even if you understand why it has to be this way.

You can have anything you want and never have to work a day in your life. That doesn’t mean you don’t know how to do shit for yourself. You do volunteer work in soup kitchens, homeless shelters, senior centers, animal shelters, and hospitals. You take karate and kickboxing lessons. You watch YouTube videos on almost anything you wish to know about. You’re self-taught in a lot of things.

You’re not going to sit back and become a spoiled princess who has to rely on the men in her life to take care of things.

It’d certainly be nice for you to go out and not have to worry about someone kidnapping you. It’d be nice to be seen for once instead of as Daddy’s Little Princess.

A couple of days pass by without issue when your father asks you to come into his study. You were busy swimming laps in the pool when Jackson came over to let you know. Now you’re standing in your father’s office with a sundress over your wet bathing suit, your father sitting behind his desk, and a man you’ve never seen before sitting to your right.

The man is lean and tall with curly brown hair. Glasses are perched on his nose, but they don’t hide how bright his brown eyes are. He has no muscles from what you can see, so you’re not sure what he’s here for. The men your father employs look nothing like this.

This man looks like a nerd. A very cute nerd.

“You called?”

Your father explains who this man is. His name is Spencer Reid, and he met him at a recent meetup for guns. Everyone on Spencer’s team was killed, but they saved him because of his skills. If your father is anything, it’s efficient. Why waste someone’s life when they can be beneficial?

“He’s a computer expert and a hacker. I figured his skills would be put to good use here.”

“You already have one. What about Oliver?”

“Unfortunate accident, really. Spencer is supposed to replace him, given that he passes the small trial basis.”

“And if he fails?”

Your father looks at Spencer and smirks. “He won’t. Right, Spencer?”

“Yes, sir. I’m very good at what I do. Considering my last boss is now dead, I’m in need of new work.”

“Okay… Well, welcome aboard, Spencer.”

You’re still suspicious about Spencr. It’s not just about him; it’s every new person who comes to work for your father. As much as you want to leave this life and be your own person, your father is the only family you have left. You will do whatever you can to protect him. What he does is illegal, yes, but he is a good man.

Spencer watches you walk off, admiring the way the dress sways around your hips. As if you can feel his eyes on you, you turn and lock eyes with him. He immediately turns back, and you smirk at how flustered he looks at catching him in the act.

He may be cute, but you’re not going to make this easy on him.

Over the next couple of weeks, Spencer has been glued to your father’s side, showing him what he can do with a computer. If Spencer is a hacker, then he can manipulate the financial world, hack into servers to scope out places, hack into people’s lives, and even work on your father’s books. He has an accountant, but Spencer is a genius, so your father is putting his brain to good use.

Long story short, you haven’t seen Spencer much, so you haven’t been able to talk to him about anything. He might be good at manipulating your father, but you won’t fold so easily. The only one who hasn’t been on the receiving end of your protectiveness is Jackson, only because he’s been with your father since before you were born. You grew up around him.

One day, you find yourself in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for a snack. After grabbing a handful of things, you set them on the kitchen island and start preparing a snack. Spencer walks into the kitchen and freezes when he sees you standing there in very short shorts and a thin tank.

“You just gonna stand there and stare at me?” you ask without looking up.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He walks over to the kitchen stool, sits, and steals a piece of fruit. “Y/N, right?”

“Yeah. How are things going?”

“Good, I think. I’m learning a lot.”

“I bet you are.” You take a bite of an apple slice. “So, what were you doing before all of this?”

“I already told your father all of this.”

“Am I my father?” Spencer shakes his head. “So answer my question.”

“I worked with the Blackwood Family for a decade. Before that, odd jobs here and there.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Are you really a genius?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get into all of this?”

“I was browsing the dark web out of curiosity and caught the attention of a man selling hard-core drugs. The money was too good to pass up.”

“Where did you go to college?”

“MIT.”

You keep grilling Spencer about who he is and what he's been doing all his life, and he has an answer for everything. Too perfect. Even though none of his answers are suspicious, you’re still suspicious of him.

You plate your fruit and clean the area of everything else. “I don’t like you, Spencer.”

“What?”

“I don’t like you because you’re new, and you have something to hide.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Everyone does.”

Spencer looks into your eyes when he asks, “Do you?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you take your plate of fruit and leave the kitchen.

Spencer waits until that very night to slip out of the house undetected. He learned everything about hacking through Penelope, so it’s easy to loop the footage just slightly to prevent the cameras from picking up on him leaving.

His car is stashed a mile away in a motel parking lot, and he drives another ten miles away from the house before parking in another motel. He gets out and knocks on Room 313. The door opens, and Hotch ushers him inside after making sure no one is following Spencer.

“Any news?”

“I think Nicholas trusts me enough because he’s shown me his books. All of his dealings. I memorized it all.”

The FBI has been trying to nail your father, Nicholas Vincenzo, after catching him with illegal weapons and drugs at a shipyard. He and most of his men got away, but there were a few who were arrested. They won’t talk, even now, so they have to rely on an inside man to get the job done.

Spencer tells them everything he’s learned over the past couple of weeks. The Black Rose Syndicate is a very intricate organization that has a lot of layers and people involved. Nicholas doesn’t trust him enough to reveal all of his secrets, but he’ll work hard to gain his trust. Then, he tells them about you.

“She doesn’t trust me. She’s suspicious of me.”

“You have to get her to trust you,” Derek says. “Do whatever it takes.”

“Yeah, I know. The glasses still work?”

“Yeah, Penelope can see whatever you can see, and the audio is still working. Don’t worry, Reid, she’ll help you with whatever hacking they have you doing.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about what they’ll do to me if they find out about me.”

“Reid, even if they do, the second the connection is cut, we’ll be there. We know your location. You’ll be okay,” Hotch promises.

“Thanks… I should get going before they realize I’m gone.”

Spencer finishes with the team before leaving the motel. He drives back to the property and checks the cameras to make sure his presence is unknown. He slips in the same way he left and returns to his room without making a noise.

The next couple of days go by in a blur, but Spencer thinks Nicholas is starting to let his guard down around him. The same can’t be said for you. When Spencer has a break, he walks around the mansion in search of you. He has to bond with you, or else this won’t work. He needs everyone to trust him.

He walks past a closed-door room and pauses when he hears music come from inside. He opens the door slightly and peeks inside to see you sitting on the floor with a canvas in front of you. Paint samples are all around you. Your back is turned to him, so he can see the painting clearly.

You’re in the middle of working on a mermaid piece. You’re working on the tail, more specifically, the shimmering scales.

“Are you gonna come in or just stand there?” you call out without stopping.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He walks inside and closes the door behind him. “That’s really good. Do you like painting?”

“I do. It helps calm me.” You set the paintbrush down and look at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a break.”

“Take the break somewhere else.”

Spencer doesn’t let your hostility scare him off. He sits next to you on the ground. “Why don’t you like me?” You pick up the paintbrush and resume working on the mermaid’s tail. “It can’t be because I’m new. I just saw your dad recruit someone new, and you were laughing with him yesterday.”

“This isn’t storytime, Spencer,” you sigh.

“I get it.” He might be playing with fire, but he takes the leap. “I’d be jealous too if my dad was spending all his time with someone else.”

You bark out a laugh and shake your head with a grin. “Oh, you got it all wrong, Pretty Boy.” He is taken aback by the nickname, especially since it’s Morgan’s nickname for him. “Everyone here knows I’m Daddy’s Little Princess.”

“Okay, then why don’t you like me?”

The smile fades from your face as you paint. “You’re not the first hacker my dad has hired. There were others before you, and they hurt my dad. They wanted insider information to give to his enemies. They nearly succeeded, so sue me if I’m a little weary about someone new getting so close to such sensitive information.” You drop your voice to a whisper when you add, “He’s the only family I have left. I can’t lose him.”

Spencer feels guilty for why he’s really here, but he can’t fuck this mission up now. He swallows down his guilt as best as he can and asks, “What about your mom?”

“Shot and killed by a man who is six feet under. I thought killing him would make me feel better, but all it’s done is remind me that she’s no longer here.”

You shouldn’t even be talking to Spencer, but no one here ever talks to you. They don’t ask you how you’re doing. They don’t want to get to know you. It gets pretty lonely in this big house with ghosts around.

“I get it,” Spencer says, shocking you.

He’s shocked himself. He really shouldn’t be telling you this, but he also doesn’t really have anyone to tell this to. Yes, he has his entire team, and he has told them about his feelings, but they don’t truly understand.

“Oh? You shot and killed the man who killed your mom?”

“No, but my mom has schizophrenia. When I visit her, and she doesn’t recognize me, it just reminds me that my mother is gone, too.”

You lower your paintbrush and look at Spencer with a soft look. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

“It is… She’s alive, but sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it.”

Spencer spends the rest of the day with you, watching you paint. The conversation isn’t as deep as the one before, but he does get to know you a bit better. He doesn’t understand why someone like you has to be involved in any of this. You’re a good person, he can see that much. It just makes what he has to do all that much harder.

You’re still suspicious of Spencer, but you’re warming up to him. He’s not that bad once you look past the illegal shit he’s doing.

Then, one day, shit hits the fan when you walk downstairs to see all of your father’s men running about like they’ve got their heads chopped off. They jog past you with weapons in their hands, not sparing you a moment.

Your father walks out of his office dressed in a three-piece suit, one of his more expensive ones. He only wears those kinds of suits when he has business to attend to outside of this house. Spencer and Jackson are right behind him.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Cyrus was killed at Omertà Lounge.” That’s one of the clubs your father owns. “Apparently, the Black Order was there looking to stir up trouble.”

The Black Order has been one of your father’s biggest enemies for a long time. They tried doing business at the beginning of their relationship, but that fell through just as quickly as it started.

“You’re going there?”

“They can’t get away with that. Some got away, but a few were caught, so I’m just gonna go have a chat.”

“Let me come with you,” you blurt.

Spencer’s head snaps over to you, but you don’t pay him any attention.

“No. You need to stay here.”

“Daddy, I’m more than capable of handling myself. I’ve been training for a decade. If you see me taking over after you die, then I need to go with you.”

“No means no, Y/N. I’m not arguing with you. You’re staying here until I get back. If I so much as find out you left to take the trash out, you’re not gonna like me.”

Your father leaves with most of his men and Jackson, leaving only a few behind to look after you. Why does he insist on keeping you in this gilded cage? You’re fucking pissed, but it’s not like you can go against your father’s orders. If you do leave, then he’s going to kill the guards for not doing their job. They’re not going to get hurt because of you, so you have no choice but to stay here.

You march into the kitchen and grab something to eat even though you’re not hungry. Someone walks into the kitchen, and you look up with a scoff.

“What, you’re trapped here, too?”

“What’s going on?” Spencer asks.

“The Black Order has been rivals with my father for decades. They once went into business together, but something went wrong, and now they’ll never see eye to eye. The Black Order has been trying to take my father down without success, and they know better than to step onto our territory. The fact that they went to his club and shot one of his men? He won’t let that go. An eye for an eye.”

“It sounds dangerous. You wanted to go with him?”

“Of course, I did. I’m his only daughter. I’m supposed to take over this entire empire when he dies. How am I supposed to know how to handle shit if he doesn’t let me go?”

“Maybe he’s worried about you. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“That’s bullshit, Spencer. I have been training in kickboxing and karate for a decade. I know how to take care of myself. I don’t get why he doesn’t see me as more than a fragile little thing. God, I wish I could leave…”

This surprises Spencer. He didn’t think you’d say that, and he might be able to work with that. “What do you mean?”

“I love my father, I really do, but I find myself wishing I wasn’t in this family. I just… It’s always violence. My father will get his hands dirty if needed, but he tries his best to stay out of the violence. That doesn’t mean he doesn't know how to punish someone. I just wish that I could be normal. You know, go to school without having bodyguards or go to the movies with friends… I don’t have a lot. The ones I do are barely hanging on by a thread.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to this. He hates seeing you this sad and frustrated. He loves it when you smile and laugh, so he decides to do something to distract you, even if only for a moment.

Spencer reaches over and grabs a couple of grapes from your plate. “You like magic?”

“What?”

“Magic. Do you like it?”

“Uh, I guess. Why?”

“Check this out.” Spencer uses the grapes and performs one of his well-known magic tricks by making the grape disappear from his hand and reappear behind your ear. The smile on your face tells him he did his job right. He tosses the grape into the air and catches it with his mouth. “How’d you like that?”

“How’d you do that?”

“A magician never tells,” he winks.

Spencer does a good job of distracting you while your father is gone. You know he’s doing it, but that doesn’t mean you hate it. You two take all the grapes from the fridge and sit on opposite ends of the table. For an hour, you two toss grapes at each other and try to catch them in your mouths. You’re not very good at this, so there are a lot of grapes on the floor around you.

“How are you so bad at this?” Spencer laughs.

“Don’t laugh at me, Pretty Boy. I don’t spend my time catching grapes with my mouth.”

“Okay, I’ll go easy this time.” Spencer moves closer by a couple of chairs before tossing you a grape. It misses, and you laugh when it bounces off your chin. “Okay, maybe this isn’t for everyone.”

Your laugh is interrupted by your father returning. You jump up from your seat, the grapes already forgotten. The only blood on your father is a spot on his collar. His knuckles are bruised, though.

“How did it go? What happened?” you ask in a rush.

“I took care of it.”

That’s all he says to you before heading into his office with Jackson and a few other men. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to give you? You can’t believe him. The mood a second go is soured, and Spencer watches you stomp to your room.

Despite having a lot of information from your dad, the BAU can’t move in. Spencer still needs to know who Nicholas’ suppliers are, the businesses he works with, and now the Black Order. If the BAU takes down the Black Rose Syndicate, then the Black Order might retaliate.

So, over the next couple of months, Spencer works with your father on almost everything he does, learning whatever he can. He hates helping him hack into places to take down others, but it’s a necessary evil.

Alongside your dad, Spencer has been spending more time with you. He’s doing a very good job at lowering your guard. It’s not easy for someone like you, so he does feel guilty, but he has to try to remember the endgame.

What he has to do will hurt you, but your father is a bad man, whether you see it or not. He should be put behind bars for the rest of his life. He knows you’ve killed at least one person, but he doesn’t think you should go down for the crimes of your father.

From what you told him, you don’t want this life, and he can’t fault you for being born into a family like this.

One night, a storm rages outside the mansion. Lightning lights up the whole house, and thunder booms so loud that the house shakes. He is lying on his bed, just staring at the ceiling, when his bedroom door opens. He sees someone walk in and close the door, but he doesn’t move from his spot.

He recognizes you, even in the dark.

You climb into Spencer’s bed and tuck yourself under the covers. You turn to him and stare into his honey-brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer whispers.

“I don’t like the thunder and lightning.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you, and you cling to his side with your head on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful sleep despite the booming thunder outside. Spencer feels safe. You like being in his arms.

Spencer runs a hand down your back softly, unable to sleep. His guilt is so heavy on his chest. How is he supposed to go through with this plan and not hurt you in the process? How can he take down your father and keep you at the same time? He knows he should stay away from you, but he can’t. He really likes you.

It would be his luck that he finally finds a girl he’s crazy about, and he can’t even have her. You’re gonna kill him when you figure out why he’s really here, and he’s not prepared for that.

x

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[keldae]

BINGO!! @badthingshappenbingo

Slot: Carved Mark Fandom: Baldur's Gate Three Characters: Astarion Warnings: referenced torture, starvation

---

All that Astarion could feel was pain.

Pain by itself was nothing new to him, of course – after having spent so much of his unlife in Cazador Szarr’s clutches, he was almost used to torture. He was accustomed to being bitten or beaten by his master, used to having his legs forced apart against his will as someone else took him on a given night, quite used to the gnawing pain of hunger that the rats could never satiate. But this…

He shakily sat up on his narrow cot in the slave pen, feeling his back burning incessantly. He knew, from Cazador’s gloating, that his wounds had been caused by a silver knife. That, he knew, meant they would never heal properly. With trembling fingers, he reached over his shoulder, and hissed at the raised ridges of once-flawless porcelain skin on his back. They should have been dripping with blood, but after a tenday of displeasing his master, and almost as long being an undead canvas, Astarion didn’t have enough blood in him to bleed from his wounds.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he gingerly reached around himself to feel the bumps and ridges of scar tissue in his back. It hurt – gods, it hurt so badly. He could almost feel the silver knife cutting into his skin still, carving up his back to whatever Cazador wanted to see as he’d desperately held back his pained screams. Was there even a pattern or a meaning to his wounds? He couldn’t tell. For all he knew, Cazador had carved the portrait of a gnome or a god’s symbol or a mind flayer into his back.

For a second, he entertained the thought of asking one of the other spawn to draw his scars for him to see. But no – he didn’t dare show any weakness to his siblings. Cazador had done far too good a job in fostering a sense of distrust between his spawn slaves. No, Astarion would have to suffer in silence… as he usually did.

He looked up as the door to his cell opened, and a dead rat was carelessly thrown in. His stomach churned, half from hunger and half from repulsion of the festering rodent. But, after so many years, he knew that this rat was all he would be given – if he was lucky, he would be given another tomorrow, instead of being left to starve again. With a hiss of pain, he got off his cot and made his way to the rat corpse, wrinkling his nose against the stench of rotting flesh. His fangs bit into the rat’s stomach, and he drank down the vile blood, without throwing it up. He had made that critical error once, and Cazador had punished him for a month for it.

Once Astarion had drained the rodent of every drop of rancid blood, he sighed, then wriggled into his worn white shirt, hissing as the fabric brushed against the wounds on his back. If he was being fed, then he was expected to go out into the city and bring back a victim for his master’s enjoyment tonight. And it certainly wouldn’t do for him to go out without a shirt on – what if some too-nosey soul got a look at his back? He pulled his blue doublet on over the shirt, doing up the front closures, and ran his fingers through his white hair. Hopefully his appearance would come across as “stylishly disheveled” and not “starving vampire slave”. Please the master, and perhaps he won’t hurt you again, he thought to himself as he stepped out of the cell, hiding his winces as every movement hurt his carved-up back worse.

[bippity-boppity-whump]

For @badthingshappenbingo

Home Invasion

And the morning doesn't reach us, Well, not until we want it to (2373 words) by MeYaGurl Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Mandalorian (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu | Baby Yoda, Original Human Character(s), Original Characters, Original Twi'lek Characters Additional Tags: Home Invasion, Hurt Din Djarin, Protective Din Djarin, Protective Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin Has a Bad Time, Choking, not in the kinky way, in the whump way, Hurt/Comfort, Din Djarin is Grogu | Baby Yoda's Parent, Din Djarin is Not Okay, How Do I Tag, Not Beta Read, Timeline What Timeline, I am new to writing star wars fics so be gentle with me please Series: Part 17 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

Din just wanted somewhere peaceful that he and kid could rest, and he could fix the Razor Crest, but naturally trouble always manages to find them.

[mtap-comics]

Welcome back to my Bad Things Happen Bingo! We have two other Bingos done with his one!

Fandom: My time at Portia

Pairing: Arlo x Female Builder

Summary: Elenya knew dating the Civil Corps Captain meant he might not always come back to her in one piece, but that it would happen three days before her wedding was not something she had anticipated.

Word count: 7,327

Prompt: Bedside Vigil

Author's note: This one has been a lot harder to write than I thought. I've been think about this for so long, but getting it on paper was very hard. I wanted it to keep up to my own expectations and to the two people that were waiting for this one for so long! (Not sure you two are still around, but if so, I hope you will like it!)

Hurting Arlo was a whole new experience, but I couldn’t help myself and threw in a little bit of hurt Elenya in there too...

Big thank you to the two Tumblr users who were willing to read through this beforehand and give some feedback (@a-writing-wren and @shanellet9)!

Warnings: mentions of blood, crying, nightmares

Read on AO3: Link

Silent Vigil

Elenya paced excitedly up and down her living room. Her thoughts kept circling back to the new piece of clothing in her wardrobe.

She’d picked it up from Carol’s this morning and hadn’t been able to think of anything else since.

Hanging there was a cream-coloured dress, with delicate green tendrils winding their way across the skirt and the long sleeves. Carol had done a truly wonderful job. She could hardly believe it when she tried it on this morning. It fit her like a glove and made her eyes sparkle.

And in three days she would wear it to marry Arlo!

She could barely wait anymore. Even here, alone in her home, a small giddy giggle left her at the thought. They had been together for more than two years now and she couldn't imagine a life without him anymore.

He made everything so much better.

Waking up next to him every day, having breakfast with him, and simply knowing that he would always be there felt like a dream. A dream that would soon come true.

A knock at the door snapped her out of her daydreams. Wondering who could possibly want to see her so late, she opened the door. Cold winter air hit her face and her eyes fell on Sam, who was looking at her with a serious expression.

Elenya’s heart sank.

Sam hated being serious. Her friend always preferred to see everything light-hearted. As long as nothing really bad had happened, she was always relaxed.

"Sam! What… what are you doing here?" No sooner had Elenya asked the question than she wished she could take it back. Even though she knew Sam wouldn’t hold it against her, she felt terribly rude.

"Hey Elenya…"

A heavy weight settled in her stomach. Sam never called her by her name.

"Sorry to disturb you this late, but…" Sam hesitated. Something that was also very unlike her. She never had any qualms about saying exactly what she thought.

Elenya’s unease grew.

"I'm not sure how to tell you." Sam's voice broke. "Arlo, he… Remington brought him back. He got hurt. Badly."

The words left her reeling. Stunned, she stared into her friend's pale green eyes, which held a mixture of anger and fear.

Arlo was…?

Her brain couldn't process the words. She knew that Arlo had set off for Ingall's Mine with Remi that morning. The last time she had been there, she had found a new opening that hadn't been visible until then. The two of them wanted to explore this new area to decide whether it was safe enough for adventurers and could be opened up.

And now he was…?

Everything inside her froze. Her knees threatened to give way beneath her. She clung desperately to the doorframe with one hand, while everything inside her resisted the truth.

Arlo couldn’t be hurt. He was Arlo, captain of the Civil Corps. The strongest fighter in Portia.

Just this morning, before he left, he had kissed her. Had promised to take her out for breakfast tomorrow. They were going to get married in three days.

The winter air seeped through her thin clothes, but she didn't notice. The cold matched the numbness spreading through her.

A hand settled on her shoulder and gently steered her back into the house. Shortly after, Sam pressed her boots and winter coat into her hands. Mechanically, Elenya put them on.

No sooner had Elenya zipped up her jacket than Sam grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the house. The door clicked shut behind them, and the soft thud finally snapped Elenya out of her stupor.

Dazed, she stumbled after Sam, who led her purposefully towards the clinic. All the while, one desperate question after another raced through her mind.

How bad was Arlo hurt? Did he have a head injury? Would he recover?

There was just one question she was desperately trying to keep out of her mind.

Was he even still alive?

Every time, she immediately pushed the thought away. Otherwise, despair would have overwhelmed her.

They met Remington in front of the clinic. He was pacing back and forth anxiously, his green hair tousled and his jacket covered in dried blood.

Elenya felt sick at the sight.

Was that Arlo's blood?

"Remi! What happened? Why are you out here?", Sam asked as soon as they reached him.

Startled, Remi turned towards them, his brown eyes wide open. His gaze darted from Sam to her, lingering on her.

A mix of emotions swirled behind his eyes, but Elenya couldn’t make sense of them. She was far too caught up in her own feelings.

Remington swallowed hard. "Dr. Xu sent me out." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't talked in a while — or as if he had cried. "He… he needs space to work."

"What happened?", Sam repeated, her voice low.

Remi opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze drifted briefly towards Elenya, almost as if he wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell her.

“He pushed me out of the way.” The words came slowly, with difficulty. “I was… momentarily distracted when the robot lunged at me. Arlo reacted before I even knew what was happening.”

Elenya somehow wasn't surprised. Saving someone's life without even thinking about it was Arlo's second nature.

What surprised her, however, was that Remi was distracted in the middle of the fight. That didn't sound like him at all. In desperate need of a distraction, her thoughts turned entirely to this fact.

Her eyes finally took in his entire appearance. Whilst she made a conscious effort to ignore the bloodstains on his clothes, she noticed his posture. Not only was he clearly leaning more heavily on his good knee, but he was also holding his right arm pressed unnaturally stiffly against his stomach.

But before she could voice her concern, Sam spoke up again.

"Remi, what's with your arm?" Her eyes were fixed intently on his arm.

"Oh, that…" A single glance from Sam was enough, and Remi seemed to reconsider his answer.

“The robot hit my elbow… I don’t think anything’s broken, but moving it hurts a bit.”

Sam lifted one eyebrow. "Did that happen by any chance just before Arlo shoved you out of the way?"

A slight nod, followed by a quiet "He saved my life," was his reply.

"Oh Remi…" Elenya whispered, and she crossed the few steps that separated her from her friend. Her concern for him momentarily overshadowed her fear for Arlo, and she was grateful to have something to do.

Searching his gaze, she added, "You’ve done everything you could. Please promise me you’ll get Dr. Xu to have a look at your elbow as soon as Arlo has been treated."

A brief hesitation, then a weary nod. “I promise.”

Silence followed his words.

Sam silently leaned against the clinic wall, her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on the floor. Beside her, Remi slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, resting his injured arm carefully on his knee.

Elenya thought about joining them, but her inner restlessness forced her to move. She started to pace; it was the only way she could keep herself from breaking down.

There was nothing they could do but wait.

~~~~~~

Elenya couldn't tell how long they waited in front of the clinic. But when the door finally opened, the sun had fully set and the moon was rising on the horizon.

Snapped out of their thoughts, they all turned towards the clinic, where an exhausted Dr. Xu was standing in the doorway. With a deep sigh, he beckoned them into the warm interior of the clinic, and without hesitation they followed him.

Elenya didn't know what to think. While they waited, she had been able to suppress her feelings, but now they came flooding back all at once.

The worry. The fear. The uncertainty.

What would be waiting for her?

Clearing his throat, Dr. Xu began to speak. "First things first: He is stable for now."

A collective sigh of relief echoed through the room.

“He has a laceration on his head and a deep wound on his left side. We’ve treated both and the bleeding has stopped.” Dr Xu paused briefly, as if weighing up his next words. “The next few hours will be crucial. He needs rest and to be monitored – but things are looking good at the moment.”

Elenya's knees threatened to give out on her.

Arlo was alive and he would recover.

Relieved, tears filled her eyes and she had to swallow before she could ask her question. "Can I… can we see him?"

"Of course. Phyllis should be done with cleaning up." With a welcoming gesture, Dr. Xu pointed towards the room divider that screened off the hospital bed at the back.

Carefully, Elenya took a step towards the room divider, suddenly unsure if she would be able to handle the sight of Arlo. What will he look like?

A soft push to her back made her take another step. Confused, she turned around to Sam, who smiled at her encouragingly. "Go on. We'll be right with you."

Gathering all her courage, Elenya took the last few remaining steps that separated her from Arlo. With a deep breath, she stepped around the room divider, where Phyllis was just tucking Arlo in.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her brain had trouble connecting the Arlo she saw before her with the one she knew. Arlo had always been the very picture of strength – upright, alert, unshakeable. Seeing him so still and vulnerable felt… wrong.

His face was completely pale, almost as white as the pillow he rested on. Deep shadows lay beneath his eyes, whilst a white bandage wrapped around his head stood in stark contrast to his red hair.

His arms were draped over the blanket, allowing her to see the IV in the crook of his arm. A clear fluid was running through it. Finally, her gaze fell on the cables running from his chest to a monitoring device at his side. A faint beeping sound was coming from it.

Dr. Xu hadn’t had the device for long, but she knew what it was showing. Arlo’s heart was beating. He was alive.

Approaching hesitantly, she sank into the chair by his bed. Phyllis gave her an encouraging smile before stepping back, but Elenya barely noticed.

Gently, as if she might break him, she took his hand in hers — and froze. Instead of the usual warmth, she was met with coldness, and her heart clenched painfully. For the first time, the reality of what had happened truly hit her.

Arlo was hurt. He won't be there kissing her good night. Wouldn't greet her tomorrow morning with a soft smile. He didn't even know she was here.

A single tear ran over her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. She didn't want to cry now. Not when everyone could see her.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there like that — warming his cold hand between hers, whilst she watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest. But at some point, a small hand settled on her shoulder and, taken by surprise, she looked up into Sam’s green eyes.

"Looks like our stubborn captain won't be taken down any time soon." Sam gave her an encouraging wink before saying goodbye. She wanted to find Gale and tell him what had happened.

Shortly after Sam had left, Remi joined her. He was wearing nothing but a T-shirt, his right arm resting in a sling. A thick bandage was wrapped around his elbow, and Elenya realised with a pang of guilt that she had momentarily forgotten about his injury.

But she was glad that he had kept his promise.

"Hey, how's your elbow?"

"Oh, thankfully nothing’s broken. According to Dr. Xu, it’s just a minor hairline fracture, which will hopefully heal quickly. How are you holding up?" Remi pulled up a second chair while she thought about his question.

How could she describe the emotional chaos she was feeling?

"I… I don't know." For a moment she stared at Arlo's hand before she turned her gaze back to Remi. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Well, actually, we didn’t come across anything out of the ordinary at first. Just tunnel worms and the odd mutant. The tunnel you found is quite long, but there aren’t any other branches. We’d been going for a while before we came across a larger cave…"

Remi fixed Arlo with a heavy gaze; once again, there was that mixture of emotions in his eyes that Elenya couldn’t quite make sense of.

"There was a Rock-On robot in the cave. Like the one we fought when the tunnel collapsed. You remember, don’t you?"

Elenya nodded. She didn’t even have to think about it. Even two years later, she could still remember the panic. When no one knew whether Arlo and the others were buried under all those stones.

Back then it had taken four of them to bring down the robot. And now only the two of them had been there to fight it?

"Actually, we wanted to fall back. Get reinforcements. We now know how to defeat the AI, but we didn’t want to take any risks. Unfortunately, it spotted us before we could…"

Remi’s expression told her that he was back there again. In the cave, with the robot.

"I don’t know how, but we were getting the better of it. We’d already exposed its energy core when it happened. A well-aimed blow to my elbow made me drop my hammer, and then suddenly he was there. Arlo…"

Devastated, Remi buried his face in his left hand, his next words reaching her in a muffled whisper. “I’m so sorry, Elenya. I should have been more careful. The robot’s claw hit him right in the side and I…”

A different kind of sadness washed over Elenya.

"Oh, Remi…" She took one hand away from Arlo and placed it comfortingly on Remi’s shoulder. "It’s not your fault. What were you supposed to do? You were injured. And you know what Arlo’s like."

Slowly, Remi lifted his head, his reddened eyes falling on her. Her heart sank. She had never seen the gentle man so distraught.

“I’m not angry with you. On the contrary. You brought Arlo back. He’s safe and will be back on his feet.” She spoke these words to comfort Remi, but also to herself.

Her heart wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet, but it seemed to help Remi. Some of the tension eased from his face and he looked back at Arlo thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Elenya. Your big heart never ceases to surprise me.”

Instead of replying, Elenya gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before gently taking Arlo’s hand in hers once more.

They sat there quietly side by side for a while, until Remi said goodbye with a wide yawn. It was already late, and he too needed all the rest he could get. Elenya remained alone at Arlo’s side, while Dr. Xu quietly tidied up the clinic in the background.

Shortly before midnight, he came back to the bedside to check on Arlo one last time. Satisfied with the results, he too retired to the small adjoining room that the two doctors could use to rest.

To her relief, he didn’t ask her to go home.

With a soft click, the door closed behind Dr. Xu and suddenly Elenya was all alone with Arlo. The clinic lay silent around her, only the monotonous beeping of the heart monitor filling the room. She had stopped consciously noticing it, but now, in the silence of the night, it was all she could hear.

It was proof that Arlo was still alive, yet at the same time the sound weighed heavily on her. He shouldn’t have to be hooked up to a machine like that.

The whole situation was closing in on her. Without a distraction, she could no longer hold back her tears, and with a quiet sob, she gave in to her despair.

She buried her face in her arms beside his hand and let her tears flow freely.

Time slipped by until she suddenly felt something tickling her left cheek. It took a moment for her to notice it, but the pressure grew stronger and stronger, and the tickling turned into a gentle caress.

Then a voice she hadn’t expected suddenly spoke up. “Hey, why are you crying?”

It was quiet and rough, but she would have recognised that voice anywhere. Her head shot up, a sharp throb of pain following the movement, and her gaze darted up to Arlo’s face.

Half-open, warm blue eyes met hers, and it took her brain a moment to process what she was seeing. Arlo had spoken. And he was looking at her. His eyes looked glassy, yet his gaze was gentle, and a small smile played on his lips.

"Arlo…" Her voice broke on that single word and, overcome by a fresh wave of emotion, she threw herself as gently as she could against his chest, while new sobs shook her shoulders.

Arlo’s right arm wrapped weakly around her back, holding her close as his gentle voice reached her ear. "Shh, it’s all right. I’m here."

But instead of calming her down, those words only made her cry even more. For what felt like an eternity, she had thought she might never hear that voice again.

Another broken "Arlo…" escaped her lips. Her tears soaked through his light hospital gown, while his thumb traced gentle circles on her back.

"I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

It took her a long time to get her emotions under control. But when her tears had finally dried up, she pulled away from his chest. The arm that had been resting gently on her back fell limply back onto the bed. Quickly, Elenya took Arlo’s hand in hers again and squeezed it gently.

Arlo returned the squeeze and smiled at her tiredly. With lips still trembling, she returned his smile.

"How are you feeling? Are you in pain?" Seeking more contact, she placed her right hand on his cheek and stroked gently beneath his eye. Closing his eyes, Arlo leaned into the touch while he thought about her question.

"Quite well, actually. I suppose Dr Xu gave me the good stuff." He tried to give her a crooked smile, but she could see how much energy it was costing him. Worried, she leaned over him and gave him a gentle kiss on his bandaged forehead.

"You should try to get some more sleep. You need to rest."

She could see the protest rising in his half-open eyes, so she added, "Please. For me."

As expected, the words had the desired effect. He sighed and his expression softened.

"I’ll try. But only if you go home and get some rest too. I’ll still be here tomorrow."

Blushing, she looked down at their clasped hands. She had actually intended to stay awake all night by his side, but as always, he knew her too well.

"I’ll give it a try." This time, a crooked smile played on her lips, and her reply was met with a faint chuckle. The familiar sound settled something inside her.

With a heavy heart, she said goodbye to Arlo and pulled her winter clothes back on. Just as she was about to leave, Arlo’s voice rang out once more.

“Remi… is he okay?” His eyes didn’t open, but the worry was etched on his face. Reassuringly, she stroked his hair and pressed a long kiss against his temple.

"Don’t worry. He’s fine. Sleep well, my love." With one last glance back, which told her that Arlo had already fallen asleep again, she left the clinic.

~~~~~~

Once outside, she took a deep breath. The crisp, cold winter air helped ease the headache brought on by her tears and calm her racing thoughts. Even so, she found it hard to walk away from the clinic — from Arlo.

Her gaze fell on the Civil Corps headquarters next to her. Suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion, an idea crept into her mind.

Maybe she could lie down in Arlo’s bed for the night? He certainly wouldn’t mind.

The longer she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Having made up her mind, she walked purposefully towards the large orange door and opened it quietly. She didn’t want to wake Remi.

She tiptoed just as quietly to Arlo’s room. With a soft click, the door closed behind her and for a moment she leaned against it. In the dim moonlight, she could make out the room in front of her, along with the usual chaos that filled it.

Arlo was very tidy when it came to his work, but in the privacy of his room he wasn’t so strict. His clothes, in particular, had a tendency to end up strewn everywhere. With a gentle smile, she noticed the single sock hanging over the end of his bed and his trainers lying carelessly in one of the corners.

Then her gaze fell on the chair standing by the small table. Hanging over the backrest was a sweater that looked very familiar to her. Even in the dim light, she could make out its grey colour, and without realising it, she moved closer to the chair. Almost automatically, she reached for the garment and buried her fingers in the soft fabric.

It was indeed her favourite sweater, the one she liked to steal from him from time to time.

Without giving it much thought, she took it over to the bed. She shed all her uncomfortable clothes and slipped the sweater on. Instantly, she was enveloped in its warmth and Arlo’s soothing scent filled her senses. With a deep sigh, she buried her nose in the collar. The scent brought her comfort, yet at the same time filled her with heaviness.

More than anything, she wished Arlo were here with her.

Even so, she hoped that the familiarity would help her fall asleep. With a big yawn, she snuggled into Arlo’s bed, where she was enveloped even more by his scent. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep; she was simply too exhausted.

Unfortunately, sleep offered little comfort.

Images of Arlo filled her dreams. Arlo being knocked down. Hordes of robots overwhelming him. Arlo lying on the ground, covered in blood. All she could do was watch helplessly. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t help him.

When his heart stopped beating, she woke with a scream.

Breathing heavily, she sat up in bed, while outside the first rays of sunlight were just beginning to appear. Tears ran down her cheeks and, with a sob, she buried her face in her hands.

It was only a dream. Just a dream. Arlo was fine.

But she found it hard to calm down. She had to see him.

As quickly as she could, she pulled on her trousers and slipped into her winter jacket and boots. She kept Arlo’s sweater on. She couldn’t bear to part with it.

She left headquarters at a brisk pace and walked over to the clinic. Her heart was still racing, and her hands wouldn't stop trembling.

But when she entered the clinic, the relief she'd hoped for never came. Instead of finding Arlo sleeping peacefully, she was met with chaos.

Dr. Xu and Phyllis stood at his bedside, speaking in low, worried voices while Dr. Xu examined the wound in Arlo's side.

What had happened?

~~~~~~

Almost an hour passed before Elenya was finally able to sit down by Arlo’s side. Despite being carefully cleaned, his wound had become infected overnight and a high fever had taken hold of his body. Dr. Xu had struggled to bring Arlo’s temperature down, but at least he was no longer in a critical condition.

The next few days blurred into a single, long moment of uncertainty.

She spent every waking minute by his side. She cooled his hot forehead with a cold cloth, held his feverish hand and told him stories from her childhood. Sometimes his eyes opened, but the familiar blue of his eyes was clouded, and he never seemed to recognise what was happening around him. The fever held him captive.

These moments were the worst for Elenya. She had never seen Arlo like this before, and his glazed stare frightened her. What if he couldn’t overcome the fever?

The worry and stress weighed on her stomach like a stone. Sam and Remi regularly tried to get her to eat something, but she could barely keep anything down. Even water made her feel sick.

She knew her friends were worried about her. Every evening they forced her to leave Arlo’s side and get at least a few hours’ sleep.

But sleep... sleep was almost worse than being awake.

Every night she would lie down in Arlo’s room, grateful that Ack had offered to look after the workshop and the animals for the next few days. But even with Arlo’s comforting scent, the nightmares returned every night.

She could barely sleep more than a few hours a night before waking up screaming again. Only the feel of Arlo's hand in hers could chase the images away.

Three days had now passed since the fever had taken hold of Arlo. According to Dr. Xu, the infection had finally subsided and he was confident that the fever would soon break as well. Elenya hoped he was right.

She could feel the last few days catching up with her. Her eyes were burning, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and she no longer knew where the nausea was coming from.

It was midday when Remi arrived at the clinic and came to stand by her side. She knew why he was there. Over the last few days, he had been even more persistent than Sam about getting her to eat and rest. But try as she might, she just couldn’t manage it.

A large hand rested on her shoulder and wearily she looked up.

“Hey, how’s he doing today?” Remi’s gaze rested on Arlo with concern and, with a sigh, Elenya followed his gaze.

“Better. According to Dr. Xu, the infection has finally subsided. He suspects the fever should break soon too.”

“That’s good to hear.” A brief, heavy silence fell. “Can I perhaps persuade you to have lunch with me, then?” She felt his hopeful gaze upon her.

A struggle raged within her. The desire not to leave Arlo fought against every aching part of her that was begging for food and sleep.

For a moment, she let her gaze wander over Arlo. His face, which had been so pale over the last few days, had regained a little colour. His features were relaxed, and she had the impression that his breathing had deepened too.

He was getting better. Surely she could leave him alone for a moment?

She also couldn't help thinking about how disappointed he would be if he woke up and found out she hadn't been taking care of herself. She didn’t want to do that to him.

Having finally made up her mind, she said aloud: “Okay. I… I’ll come with you.”

The relief on Remi’s face was immediate. With one last gentle squeeze, Elenya released her hand from Arlo’s and rose from the chair. Remi made way for her so she could walk ahead of him.

But she didn’t get very far. After just two steps, the room began to spin. Her knees buckled before she even realised what was happening. A loud roaring filled her ears and dark spots crept into her vision.

She only vaguely felt an arm trying to catch her and someone calling her name in horror. Even before her head touched the floor, everything went black.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A faint beeping reached Arlo’s ears.

The rhythm sounded familiar to him.

Slowly, as if his brain had to relearn how to function, consciousness returned. With it came a dull throbbing in his side and a heavy ache in his limbs.

The clinic. He was in the clinic.

A memory surfaced in his mind. Elenya, sitting beside him, her head buried in the mattress, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. His heart clenched painfully at the image.

Something told him that this had been more than just a few hours ago.

With difficulty, he managed to open his heavy eyelids. He got blinded by bright light, but he resisted the urge to close his eyes again. He had to know what had happened.

As soon as he could finally make out anything, he was surprised to see Remi first, pacing restlessly at the foot of his bed. His green hair was completely tousled, and Arlo noticed with concern that his right arm was resting in a sling.

Another memory surfaced in Arlo’s mind. Remi dropping his hammer with a cry of pain after the robot struck his elbow. And himself, pushing Remi out of the way just as the robot swung in for a fatal blow.

What happened after that, he couldn’t say. The next memory was of Elenya. How much time had passed?

He was just about to try to say Remi’s name when the latter’s gaze wandered absently over him. For a brief moment, he kept walking, until he suddenly stopped and his head snapped back towards him.

With his eyes wide open, Remi stared at him for a moment, until a disbelieving "Arlo!" escaped his lips.

He quickly crossed the few steps to the bed, his eyes full of relief.

"You’re awake! How are you?"

Instead of an answer, only a hoarse croak escaped Arlo's lips. It quickly turned into a coughing fit, sending a sharp pain shooting through his left side.

With a groan, he instinctively tried to roll onto his side, but a hand on his shoulder held him back.

“Wait! Don’t move. Here, have a sip of water.” The hand slipped from his shoulder and, moments later, held a glass to his lips instead.

Gratefully, Arlo drank the wonderfully cold water and the coughing soon subsided. Breathing heavily, he lay still for a moment until the pain receded back into a dull throbbing. Gratefully, he turned to Remi, who was just placing the glass back on the side table.

"Thanks. What… what happened?" His voice was still completely hoarse and raspy, but at least he didn’t have to cough anymore.

“What do you remember?”

“We… we were in Ingall’s Mine?” Remi nodded at his questioning look. “There was one of those robots. It had spotted us before we could retreat. You were hit and I… I…” Arlo wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say.

He just reacted?

“You saved my life, Arlo, and put your own at risk in the process.” Remi’s gaze rested heavily and guiltily on Arlo’s left side.

Unconsciously, Arlo followed his gaze. Of course, he couldn’t see anything through the blanket, and the pain didn’t tell him how badly he’d actually been hit. Had it really been that close?

"What exactly happened? And how… how long was I out?" Unsure whether he even wanted to know the answer, he looked back up at Remi.

"The robot caught you in the side. Fortunately, no vital organs were damaged, but you lost a lot of blood. But… that very night your wound became infected and you developed a high fever. It’s now been almost four days."

It took Arlo’s sluggish mind a moment before he realised the full implications of Remi’s words.

Four days! He’d lost a whole four days!

Oh God, what was with Elenya? How worried must she have been? Where was she?

And then it hit him like a blow.

Their wedding! He’d missed their wedding!

A rush of adrenaline shot through his body and, startled, he sat up. “Elenya! Where is she? Our wedding! She…”

Breathing heavily, he looked around the clinic, but Remi was standing right in front of him, trying to gently but firmly push him back into bed. Arlo tried to resist, but even with the adrenaline, he didn’t have the strength to do so.

“Arlo, calm down. Please lie down. You’ll rip your stitches open!”

Desperately, Arlo looked up at Remi after he had fallen back onto the pillows, exhausted. “Remi, where’s Elenya? Is she all right?”

But instead of an answer, Remi’s gaze filled with a mixture of worry and guilt. “I’m so sorry, Arlo. I… I should have looked after her better. I tried, but she…”

Panic welled up inside Arlo. What had happened to Elenya? Was she hurt?

He tried to sit up again to look for her, but his body wouldn’t obey him. His trembling arms buckled under his weight, and this time a dull pain shot through his head.

“Remi, what's wrong with Elenya?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

Remi didn’t answer. His expression darkened as he slowly folded up the room divider.

And then Arlo could finally see the rest of the clinic.

Dr. Xu stood by the second hospital bed, his gaze focused as he inserted an IV into the crook of a patient’s arm. With the bed positioned so that the headboard faced him, he couldn’t make out much, but he would recognize that black hair sticking out over the edge of the bed anywhere.

Elenya…

“I’m so sorry, Arlo. I really did try to get her to eat and drink. But she couldn’t keep anything down because she was so worried about you. She’s been sleeping in your room, and I could hear her waking up screaming every night…”

Remi ran a hand through his already messy hair in frustration. “Earlier, just before you woke up, she’d finally agreed to have lunch with me, but before we’d even reached the door, she suddenly collapsed right in front of me…”

For a long moment, Arlo said nothing at all. His gaze was fixed on Elenya as Remi’s words slowly sank in.

She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t slept. She’d been so worried about him that at some point her own body simply couldn’t take it any more.

Because of him.

A familiar feeling welled up inside him – guilt, heavy and oppressive. He swallowed hard.

“How is she?” His voice came out quieter than he’d intended.

Instead of Remi’s voice, it was suddenly Dr. Xu who spoke, his focus shifting from Elenya to Arlo. “Her body is completely exhausted and dehydrated. But with plenty of rest and the fluids I’m administering intravenously, she should be back on her feet soon.”

With that, he finally turned away from Elenya and walked over to Arlo’s bedside.

“I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” Dr. Xu’s dark eyes scanned Arlo with concern, but his thoughts were still fixed on Elenya.

His heart ached at the thought of what she must have been through over the last few days. She had been suffering, and he hadn’t been there — he had been the reason for it.

"Arlo?" Dr. Xu stepped into his line of sight, blocking his view of Elenya. That finally snapped him out of his thoughts, and tired, he looked up at the doctor.

It took him a moment before the questions returned. “No, I…” His voice failed him. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him, the excitement finally catching up to his weakened body.

Arlo tried to fight it, but his eyes closed on their own. His limbs felt heavy as lead, and moments later the world slipped back into darkness.

~~~~~~

The next time Arlo woke up, the soft beeping had stopped. Instead, the clinic lay in complete silence. He could only hear the faint rustling of paper, but it was muffled, as if coming from behind a door.

He opened his eyes with difficulty and was greeted by the dim light of the clinic. A glance outside told him that it was already dark.

He must have been asleep for a few more hours.

His gaze darted around the room and he was surprised to find that the second hospital bed had been moved so that Elenya was now lying next to him, not far away. At last he could see her fully.

She was lying on her back, a thick blanket spread over her. The IV in her left arm was gone; only a plaster still hinted that a needle had been there.

Her black hair was tied back in a loose plait, giving him a clear view of her face. And what he saw stabbed at his heart once more.

Deep shadows lay beneath her eyes; her cheeks were pale and looked sunken. Even her lips had lost their rosy hue. She looked terribly fragile, and he simply wanted to take her in his arms, protect her from everything bad.

But he couldn’t. A dull ache in his side warned him not to even try to sit up. It was going to be a frustrating few weeks.

He watched Elenya silently, calming his thoughts with the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. He didn’t know how much time had passed when suddenly a soft murmur came from her direction.

Holding his breath, Arlo watched as first her fingers twitched slightly, before her eyelids began to flutter. He could see the confusion on her face as she looked up at the clinic ceiling, but he didn’t want to startle her by speaking.

Slowly, she freed herself from the grip of her exhausted sleep and her eyes scanned the room. Twice her eyes passed over him, not seeing that he was looking back.

It wasn’t until the third time that she suddenly paused, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Arlo!” she cried hoarsely, staring at him with her mouth agape.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Arlo smiled gently at her, his voice no less hoarse than hers.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she hurriedly tried to get out of bed. But her body was still exhausted. Before she was even fully upright, she sank back onto the mattress with a groan, and Arlo needed all his willpower not to get up and help her.

“Slowly, sweetheart. I’m here. Take your time.” He watched with concern as her eyes squeezed shut, her hands tightening in the blanket. She was probably dizzy.

To his relief, she listened to him, and on the second attempt she got up much more slowly. Taking cautious steps, she crossed the few steps between them and threw herself carefully into his arms.

Instantly, he wrapped his arms around her back as quiet sobs shook her shoulders.

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’m here. It’s going to be okay.” He gently stroked her head, tears welling up in his own eyes. It broke his heart to hear his beloved Elenya sobbing so desperately.

“Arlo… I… I was so scared.” Her voice broke with almost every word.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But everything will be alright.” As best he could, he tightened his grip around her, even though his muscles wouldn’t obey him. He never wanted to let her go again.

Elenya cried for a long time before she was finally able to calm down. Arlo didn’t let go of her for a moment, murmuring soothing words to her. When the last tear had finally dried, she slowly pulled away from him and sank down, exhausted, onto the chair beside the bed.

Trembling, she placed her hand in his, and Arlo was only too happy to take it. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, grateful that they still had the chance to do so.

She was the first to break the silence. “How are you? How long have you been awake? Are you in any pain?” She looked at him with concern, the soft green of her eyes highlighted by her reddened eyelids.

Arlo squeezed her hand reassuringly and smiled gently at her. “I’m all right. I can’t feel much. But how are you? I was awake earlier, and a very shaken Remi told me what happened.”

Elenya’s gaze fell on their clasped hands and a faint blush rose to her pale cheeks. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Hey.” He waited patiently until she looked at him. His gaze was gentle, but serious. “You don’t need to apologise. But you gave me — and especially Remi — quite a fright. I’m sorry you had to suffer so much because of me.”

The silence between them hung heavy as his feelings of guilt resurfaced. How on earth could he make up for everything? He’d missed their wedding!

“Oh, Arlo.” She gently squeezed his hand. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I know what you’re like, and I love you just the same. You saved Remi’s life. Of course I was worried — but I would never blame you for this.”

“I’m still so sorry.” He swallowed hard. “I… I even missed our wedding.”

She looked at him in confusion, which confused him too.

Had she forgotten about the wedding?

Suddenly, her eyes flew wide and she brought a hand to her mouth. "Oh God… the wedding… I didn’t even think about it…"

Instead of reassuring him, her words only deepened Arlo’s guilt. Was she so worried about him that she had even forgotten their wedding? It had been all she had thought about for weeks. He, too, had found it almost impossible to contain his anticipation over the last few weeks.

He didn’t know what his face showed; he was too exhausted to control his expression. But whatever Elenya saw made her stand up and lean over him.

Gently, she placed her small hand on his cheek and he instantly nestled into the warm touch. She looked down at him with love, and he was captivated by her gaze.

“Arlo. My love. I love you, okay? No missed wedding will change that. We can have it anytime. The only thing that matters is that we’re both here. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Her lips pressed warmly against his, and he was only too happy to return the gentle kiss. It took all his strength, but he managed to bury his right hand in her hair. Holding her close.

Their kiss deepened, full of all the emotions of the past hours and days. The fear, worry, despair and relief discharged themselves in that moment, until only love remained.

When they were out of breath, Elenya pulled back slightly, but didn’t move away. Instead, she gently rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed with exhaustion. He, too, could feel his body crying out for sleep.

Trembling, he moved his right hand from her hair to her cheek and gently stroked the deep circles under her eyes. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine. I… I just need a moment.” Her words brushed softly and warmly against his lips as her body leaned more and more against him. She was definitely not fine.

“Come on, lie down with me. I think we both need a bit of sleep.”

As best he could, he slid over to one side, ignoring the pain in his left side. Without much protest, Elenya climbed onto the bed beside him. Her head found its usual place on his shoulder and her leg entwined with his.

With his last ounce of strength, he wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her as close to him as he could. Something inside him found peace. His little builder was safe in his arms, and tonight he would finally be able to protect her from her nightmares.

“Sleep well, sweetheart. I love you.”

There was no reply; exhaustion had already carried her off to the land of dreams. Gently, he pressed a final kiss to her head and, burying his nose in her hair, he followed her into the restful darkness.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

i understand.

prompt: fake kill scare

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hiiii sorry for my long ass absence, i was busy but now i have a couple months of straight nothing interesting ahead of me and so! back to writing at last! this one is for @thecolourblood sorry it took so long but i hope it's ok!!

He doesn’t want to do this. 

Fuck, he doesn’t want to do this. 

But they’re as good as dead otherwise. 

Illya might be as good as dead anyway. 

He’s not supposed to be here. Napoleon is. He’s George Edwards, safecracker extraordinaire, currently working for a pair of nasty Spanish millionaires with their eyes on yet more millions and connections to all sorts of other unpleasant characters across the Spanish-speaking underworld. Napoleon’s supposed to get in with them, collect enough dirt to put them beneath it, pass the info off to UNCLE, and sit back while they’re convinced that their best option is to talk. 

To this extent, he is, right now, supposed to be cracking a safe. And Illya–after it’s all over and the place is empty, Illya’s supposed to come in from outside with a bag of counterfeit cash to replace the real thing, which belongs to, despite the safe’s mediocre security, a high-ranking diplomat in the Mexican foreign service. 

Except there’s evidently been a complication, because Illya’s in here now, back pressed to the wall and weapons missing, and there’s a burly guy Napoleon’s never seen before holding him at gunpoint. He’d been told he was going to have a guard. He assumes this is the man in question.

Napoleon knows how this’ll go. He knows the way the men he’s ‘working’ for operate. Illya will die. 

Unless he does what he’s about to do. 

“Let me handle this,” he says to the burly guy, in Spanish. “I don’t appreciate others interfering in my business.”

To Illya, in English, he says, “Forgive me, pal. Looks like we both had the same idea. But only one of us is walking out of here with the cash. Got that?”

He stares Illya down as he says it, praying his partner is thinking along the same lines as he is. 

Illya shakes his head. “No English,” he says, accent thick. 

The burly guy sighs impatiently. “Just a moment,” Napoleon tells him. 

“What language?” he asks Illya, slowly and exaggeratedly. 

“Russkii.”

“May I?” Napoleon asks sarcastically. The burly guy shrugs, still not lowering the gun. 

“He’ll kill you no matter what. Play along. I’ll hurt you, but I’ll try not to kill you. Understand?”

Illya nods. 

“What do you want to do with him?” asks the burly guy. 

“I’ll deal with him just the same as you would. Or, not exactly the same. I do have my own style, after all.”

And he unsheathes his knife from the rather ostentatious holder on his belt. 

The burly guy raises his eyebrows, then uses the gun to make a ‘go ahead’ gesture. Napoleon hopes for him to put it away, to open himself to attack, but no such luck.

He takes a steadying breath, his mind working a mile a minute to figure out how the next few seconds will go. 

He steps in closer to Illya, the knife in his hand feeling heavier than it should. He presses its tip to Illya’s chest, moves it slowly downwards like he’s savoring the process of killing. 

He feels sick. 

“It’s okay,” Illya whispers, so quietly Napoleon barely even hears him. “If you kill me. I understand.”

“We don’t have all day,” the burly guy complains. Napoleon hears him move his gun and feels his heart stutter.

Illya’s fingers brush Napoleon’s wrist lightly, gently, guiding his hand, and Napoleon stops thinking anything at all. 

The knife is in Illya’s stomach and Illya’s blood is on Napoleon’s hands and sure, it’s been on Napoleon’s hands loads of times before but never like this, never because of him, and Illya collapses to the floor with a good deal more force than he would if this were wholly real, but it’s real enough and Napoleon’s heart is going to tear its way out of his chest but all he says is,

“Let’s get the cash and get out of here.”

There’s his safecracking kit and a bag and Illya is utterly silent on the floor beside him. Napoleon does not, cannot look at him. 

The small electric drill is a familiar weight in his hand. He doesn’t need it to crack this safe, but he’s the only one in this room who knows that. 

He takes another steadying breath, feeling the presence, the distance, the now lowered gun of the burly guy. He only has one chance to get this right. 

He spins, shoves, forces the spinning drill bit between ribs. It’s messy but fairly quiet. There’s blood all over his face. Blood in his mouth. 

Two bodies on the floor. 

Illya’s already pushing himself up. Napoleon’s knife is still sticking out from his torso and there’s blood but not an incredibly worrying amount. Napoleon gets lightheaded with relief, but there isn’t time for that. 

There isn’t time to do anything but run. 

Later, he doesn’t remember how they got to the car. All he knows is that they’d been in the safe room, and then he’d been behind the wheel and his hands had been shaking so badly he’d hardly been able to turn the key in the ignition.

“How are you holding up?” he asks Illya, when they’re about fifteen kilometers outside Madrid. 

“Fine,” Illya replies. He’s pressing Napoleon’s coat to his stomach–Napoleon has no memory of having given it to him–and he’s a little pale but alert enough. 

God, but they’re lucky. 

The rest of the ride is silent. Napoleon’s acting on the fly now. He can’t very well go back to his own apartment, now that the mission has been so utterly fucked. Nor can he go to wherever it is Illya’s staying, because he doesn’t know where it is and anyway, he isn’t sure if it’s safe. 

He doesn’t stop driving until they’re somewhere near Toledo. There’s a guesthouse. It’s very clearly closed and has seen better days, but it’s walls and a roof and somewhere to rest, stitch, wait for help. 

He parks the car behind the main building, in a spot not visible from the road. 

“Okay,” he says to Illya, who is leaning against the window, illuminated by the glow of an entirely too beautiful sunrise. 

Illya turns slowly to look at him. His expression is distant and his face is pale and slick with sweat. 

In other words, quite a bit worse than he’d been before. 

Shit. 

“You said you were fine!” Napoleon whispers harshly, unbuckling Illya’s seatbelt, which is damp with blood where it’d rested over his torso. 

“Did not want…you to worry.”

An angry laugh tears its way out of Napoleon’s throat unbidden. “And how’s that working out?”

“I am not dead.”

“Yet.”

I understand, Illya’s voice whispers. It’s okay. If you kill me. I understand. 

Napoleon shakes his head, dislodges the voice. Illya is not going to die. 

Napoleon is not going to kill him. 

He more or less hauls Illya out of the car and into the nearest room. It’s damp and dim, but there’s a moth-eaten bed and some chairs, an overturned table, mildewy towels. 

Illya gets the bed. Napoleon helps him lie down, presses his gun–the one he’s been keeping in the car, not the one he’d forgone for the mission–into Illya’s hands, and runs out to the car again. 

The first-aid kit is meagrely stocked, but it’s there. It’s got needles and thread and bandages and antiseptic wipes and it’s a damn sight better than nothing. 

Illya doesn’t even point the gun at him when he reenters. Napoleon wishes he could say it’s because Illya had known it was him, but it’s plain to see that it’s simply because Illya’s too weak to hold the damn thing up. 

Goddamn it, why hadn’t he said anything? They could’ve stopped earlier, in a riskier but closer location. Illya could already be recovering, or at least not actively bleeding. 

It’s his own fault, really, Napoleon thinks, already tending to the wound with such practised ease that he might as well be doing it in his sleep. He should’ve known Illya’d never tell him such a thing. It stings, knowing that Illya isn’t capable of telling him when he’s suffering, but Napoleon understands where it comes from. 

The same place his acceptance earlier had come from. It’s okay. If you kill me. I understand. 

The wound is stitched up and bandaged, is cleaned as best as Napoleon can manage. There’s blood everywhere, the air is thick with it, it coats Napoleon’s hands, has made its way beneath his nails and mats the hair on his arms. 

He makes his way outside, pretending that he is going to wash his hands in a trough of water he’d spotted earlier, but the second he’s out of eyeshot from the window, he vomits instead. 

He’d almost killed Illya. And not because of a mistake, which would’ve been bad enough, but through deliberate action. He’d slid that knife into Illya’s skin and now Illya’s blood is everywhere, coats his skin so thoroughly that Napoleon’s sure he’s never going to be free of it again. 

And Illya had just taken it. Had guided that knife, had whispered those words. And he’s alive now, sure, but he so easily might not have been. 

He so easily could have been killed–could have let himself be killed–by Napoleon. 

And Napoleon doesn’t know what to do with any of that. 

He allows himself a moment’s rest. Spits on the ground, wipes his red hands on his black pants.

And then he makes his way back to the car, fetches the tiny transmitter hidden in the back left wheel well, and sends out the emergency signal. 

Not ten seconds later, the receiver hidden in the lining of the boot lights up.

Now all there is to do is wait. 

Napoleon returns to the room, climbs into the bed beside Illya, stares at the ceiling, listens to his partner’s breathing, and tries his best not to think of anything at all.

thanks for reading!!! i fear my writing has become sort of different somehow because i have not been living in english speaking places for the most part but idk. so if this sounds a little off i apologise. it is what it is lmao. hope you liked! love you all <333

[auxchord]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: DCU, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Whump, Jason Todd Whump, Jason Todd is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Wayne Gala (DCU), Kidnapping, Hostage Situations, Canon-Typical Violence, Self-Esteem Issues, Gun Violence, Bruce Wayne Has PTSD, Panic Attacks, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Hurt Jason Todd, Restraints, Head Injury, Concussions, revenge by proxy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Broken Bones, Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mentioned Selina Kyle Summary:

“Stop, or I shoot the kid.” The man presses the metal harder into Jason’s hair, and with horror that’s mirrored in Bruce’s expression, Jason realizes distantly that it’s a gun. He has a gun to his head, his arms are tied—

Or, newly adopted Jason Todd attends his first gala, desperate to fit into Bruce’s world.

The night doesn’t go as planned.

[hellorhightreason]

Not Going Anywhere

AO3 version here, my BTHB masterlist here

Pairings: Hucklerabbot (Dennis Whitaker x Michael Robinavitch x Jack Abbot)

Summary: The front door is in sight, the welcoming orange glow of the lamp in the front hall a beacon to guide the now violently shivering Dennis to the safety and sanctity of the warmth beyond. He’s clumsily extracted a hand from where it was thrust deep into the pocket of his jeans, to pull his house key from his jacket. All that meets his touch is soggy cotton. OR Dennis storms out after a particularly personal argument and doesn't come back, or so it seems.

Content: Hypothermia, whump, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, medical inaccuracies (probably), argument, implied homophobia, multiple POVs

A/N: shoutout to @/writtenincl0uds on tiktok for the headcanon that inspired this fic (used with permission!) about Dennis growing up having to wait outside if he forgot his keys. Sweet sweet boy cannot escape the Situations. Once again, I am not a medical professional so please take any details with a large grain of salt (though if you are a professional, feel free to offer feedback on how close I've come to the mark, I'm always eager to learn more and find out whether my research is doing its job!)

Word count: 7.9k

Pittsburgh ought to be a postcard-worthy picture of snowy winter delight by now. Instead it’s just cold and wet and miserable. The nights are drawing in earlier by the day, and long gone is the joy of seeing daylight before and after work; it’s still dark when Dennis and Robby arrive at PTMC and the sun has set by the time Jack arrives to take over in the evening. It’s their first time experiencing this cycle together - the older men have been through it all before several times throughout the duration of their marriage, but Dennis only became a part of the relationship in mid-spring. Since then, they’ve enjoyed the rare opportunity to get out in the sun when their days off line up (Jack is always willing to forego sleep to spend the time with his guys) or share relaxed dinner dates on Jack’s free evenings after the other two return from shift. It was a good time to start things, to navigate a style of relationship that was new to them all and find their feet under the gentle lightness of the soul that is provided by summer. Now, however, they’re learning how to keep upright through the lull, through the internal darkness that rears its head with the return of its exterior counterpart.

“What are we doing for the holidays this year?” Jack asks from the kitchen. Robby and Dennis have settled onto the couch, unwinding from another gruelling shift, while Jack - dutiful husband and boyfriend - takes advantage of his evening off to cook for them and is currently putting the finishing touches on the pot roast he’s been slowly braising all day.

Dennis, snuggled against Robby’s side, hums thoughtfully. “What do you usually do?”

“Suffer through the work’s Christmas party,” the man beside him grumbles.

The enticing waft of the roast accompanies Jack’s laugh. “Might not be so bad this year now we’ve got you, normally we end up dragged into some deathly boring conversation with management but you might be our excuse to stay drinking with everyone else.”

“I knew you had ulterior motives for asking me out,” the younger man laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Jack continues, “we should mark the occasion somehow. We always do a little something for Chanukah, and then if you have any Christmas traditions to work in we can do that too.”

The laughter dies in Dennis’ throat. Christmas traditions back home are several hours spent in church followed by more prayers over his mother’s overcooked roast turkey, and up until now his tradition since moving away has been a microwave chicken dinner for one and a slightly stale gingerbread from the nearest supermarket. Neither of those are suggestions he’d like to offer.

“You’re working Christmas Day, right?” Robby prompts with a nudge.

“Right, yeah.”

“Dinner when you get back then,” Jack says decisively as he summons them to the dining table and presents three plates, sitting down to remove his prosthesis for some relief while he eats. “And Boxing Day? We could go out somewhere.”

Suddenly, Dennis finds himself very invested in his food. He tells himself it’s just because it’s so delicious, as is all of Jack’s cooking, and that he’s imagining how much better the turkey will taste this year. It definitely has nothing to do with the text message that has been burning a hole in his pocket since he received it a little over a week ago.

“Sounds good to me,” Robby agrees after the silence stretches on a little too long. “Dennis? Anywhere you’d want to go?”

He swallows thickly, blaming the dryness in his mouth on the rich gravy. “Actually… My mom wants me home for Christmas this year. I told her I was working, so she said to be there for Boxing Day.”

Robby sees how the rest of this conversation will go before either of the other two say anything more. He can’t claim to relate to the Dennis’ need to appease his family even after all they’ve put him through (and he’s well aware of how little he knows of that, it’s a jumbled image pieced together from snippets of stories and offhand remarks), but he gets it. The kid’s always been one for validation, ever since he first set foot in PTMC, and if there’s even an inkling that he might get some this time then he’s bound to chase it. Jack, on the other hand, is famously unflinching in his belief that loyalty must be earned, and from the murmured conversations the older men have had whenever Dennis lets something particularly concerning slip about his upbringing, it’s clear he doesn’t think the family are owed anything. Quite the reverse, in fact. He watches that conviction manifest across his husband’s face in the tick of his stubbled jaw and the darkening of his hazel eyes.

“So you’re going?”

Dennis, despite being one of the most observant young doctors in the ED, misses the tightness with which the words are spoken, too busy staring shyly into his potatoes to see the glower that accompanies them. “Well, yeah. They want me there.”

Robby tries to salvage the situation. “Is that what you want?”

“I-” he starts. Stops. Finally meets the eyes of the two men watching him - one expectant, the other cautious. Drops his gaze again. “I don’t know. I’d like to celebrate with you both too, but… I’ve not been home in years and-”

“Does that not tell you something?” Jack interjects. Immediately, his face falls slightly like he didn’t mean to say it so harshly, perhaps not at all, but it’s too late.

Dennis rounds on him, cheeks burning. “What? That I’ve been too focused on my studies and neglected my family? That just because I kept saying no they’re not allowed to ask again?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Each word is snapped out, dripping with a quiet rage that none of them have ever seen the younger man display. Normally, his emotions build in a slow, easily recognisable way: the creeping overwhelm, the twitches of happiness when he allows himself to relax, the sadness constructed moment by moment like a brick wall. This is not only new, it’s different. It appears out of nowhere. “And you’re wrong.”

Robby watches helplessly as the words pierce into Jack, who raises an eyebrow. Any regret from his first sarcastic question fizzles away. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Good. I’ll write you a card to take from us, then. Would your mother appreciate a hamper?”

“Don’t do that,” Dennis hisses.

“Do what?” Jack bites back. “I’m just saying since they’re clearly okay with you now, we should-”

“Don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing!”

The atmosphere in the room has turned sour, any warmth lingering from the stove or the food ebbing away with the waves of frost rolling off Dennis, mirroring the air outside.

“Is that what you think this is?”

Both of them turn to their other partner for input, Dennis gesturing frustratedly like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I think what Jack is trying to say,” Robby begins diplomatically, “is that we don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Dennis reels, a bitter scoff bursting from his lips. “They’re my family.”

“We know, but that’s kind of the point.”

Jack tries a new tactic, reverting to his softer state of authority, the one that usually calms even the most volatile patient. “We trust your judgement, you know the situation better than us, but from what you’ve said-”

“Yeah, I do know the situation better than you,” Dennis cuts him off, chair scraping across the floor with a piercing squeal as he rises hastily. “You’ve never even met them.”

“Do you think they’d want to meet us?” Robby tries for lightheartedness, undercut by the implication he knows they’re all thinking about. The disapproval, the scrutiny, had been mentioned long before the relationship was even on the cards.

“Jesus Christ. This has nothing to do with you!”

Jack stands now as well, crutches retrieved from where they rest against the wall. “It does when we’re part of the fallout.”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to have said. Dennis flushes a deeper shade of red and pales all at once, body shifting with the ripples of his anger like he’s torn between puffing out in defiance and folding in on himself. “Right. Of course. I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m going through shit.”

“Dennis, wait-” Robby joins them on their feet, all three moving disjointedly through the house. They’re so used to moving in an easy dance around each other’s space that this feels wrong, like none of them know where to stand except for the younger man who is marching determinedly towards the front door.

“No, don’t,” he almost snarls. “I’m going to get some air. Gives you both time to process whatever your problem is with this, and for me to get rid of the fallout.” He grabs his coat almost violently from the rack in the hall and bursts out into the darkness of the evening, slamming the door behind him with echoing finality.

Jack is halfway to the door when a hand, warm and firm, settles on his shoulder.

“Give him a minute,” Robby grumbles.

In spite of himself, he still lets his fingers drift towards the handle. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him.”

“He’s a grown man, he can handle it. Don’t tell me you weren’t like that at his age, because I know I was.”

This is true. He’s never not been headstrong, just got better at hiding it - or, rather, controlling it. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling tugging at his stomach like a snagged fishing lure, the one that whispers it’s a mistake not to go after the kid. Adult. Boy. Fucking hell.

Dennis realises his mistake the second the door thuds shut and he wriggles his arms into the long sleeves. He hasn’t grabbed his coat. There’s no fuzzy lining, no thick padding, no hood. He’s met with light cotton and a narrow collar. It’s the jacket he’s been meaning to put back into storage for weeks, the one Robby gave him in the spring when the weather was getting warmer and he’d made an offhand complaint about it being too warm for his coat but too cool to go without. He could have bought his own jacket, of course - there were perfectly decent ones at the thrift store that wouldn’t have eaten too much into his monthly budget, but the next day Robby had shown up and offered the soft navy corduroy with a forced casualness. He’s barely ever worn it, he’d said, hasn’t touched it in years so it probably wouldn’t fit even if he did want to try and it’s not Jack’s style, they figured it might as well go to someone who would get the use out of it. The garment was very clearly brand new. They’d gone on their first date, the three of them, a little over a week later.

He clings to that memory as the bitter sting of the wind lashes against his skin through the thin fabric. Really, he knows they have his best interests at heart, always have - he doesn’t need to have said much for them to have figured out just how utterly vitriolic his parents and brothers can be, and that’s not even getting into the more distant relatives who have no familial bonds to restrain their hateful outbursts - but he’s stubborn and riled up and he’ll be damned if he’s going to go back in there and let them have the win just because he’s been too busy to put away a fucking jacket. Besides, right now he’s scared that if he goes back he’ll say something worse, something that brings this whole perfect situation crumbling around him if he hasn’t done so already. It’s not worth the risk. It’s definitely worth the slight chill that will come from a quick walk around the block to cool off (both figuratively and, unfortunately, physically). Five minutes, ten tops.

One minute and seventeen seconds later, the heavens open.

By then, he’s already halfway down the street. Turning back now would not only admit defeat but also emphasise his foolishness even further. It’ll pass. He carries on.

His teeth are chattering by the time it stops, only a few moments later though it feels like half a lifetime. Such a brief downpour was enough to soak him to the bone, droplets running down from his sodden hair, carving their way across the furrowed lines of his brow, down his slender nose and into his parted lips. He spits. The action brings on another bout of tremors. He hugs his arms to his chest, trying in vain to hold onto any remaining warmth. He’s halfway around the block. Halfway home.

In the soft light of the house, Robby sits by the window and stews. The air around him feels less sharp than it did but no less heavy, still uncomfortably alien. He knows Dennis has every right to be angry, that his relationship with his family really is none of their business, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to be mad at him for storming off. Now he’s stuck with a very antsy husband flitting about the house like he can bring the young man back by wearing a hole in the flooring, the thud of his crutches shifting in pitch and volume as he moves from the carpeted living room to the wooden floorboards of the hallway and back.

“Will you give it a rest, Jack?” he sighs. “He’s only been gone ten minutes.”

Jack throws him a look that’s borderline disdainful, which he tells himself is merely the remnants of the heated energy boiling over. “You heard the rain! It’s not good for anyone to be out in that, never mind that it’s fucking freezing.”

“He took his coat.”

“Not the point.”

Robby relents, nodding to the space beside him on the couch. “Look, just give him some space to clear his head, half an hour or so, and if either of us are still worrying then we can do something about it. Drink?”

With a reluctant huff, Jack drops unceremoniously onto the couch and settles against the cushions. Robby returns with two glasses filled with generous measures of whisky. It’s no weather for chilled beers, and no mood for it either. If only their boyfriend were here to share it too.

Oh. Oh no.

The front door is in sight, the welcoming orange glow of the lamp in the front hall a beacon to guide the now violently shivering Dennis to the safety and sanctity of the warmth beyond. He’s clumsily extracted a hand from where it was thrust deep into the pocket of his jeans, to pull his house key from his jacket. All that meets his touch is soggy cotton. He tries the other pocket, already knowing the outcome. His keys aren’t there. They’re in the coat that remains on the rack. So is his phone.

When he was on the farm, there was a rule: if you were careless enough to leave home without your keys, you either found a way to make yourself useful until everyone was called in for dinner, or you waited on the porch so as not to disturb the more sensible people out doing the hard work. It’s been years since he’s lived under the enforcement of that rule, longer still since he found himself in a position to obey it, yet somehow it appears at the forefront of his mind, sharp and prominent enough that it pushes away the instinct to knock. It doesn’t take much of a push, to be fair. He’s dreading having to go back, tail between his legs. For one thing, he’ll have to admit the truth - that they’re absolutely right, that his family are cruel and judgemental and  that his motives for returning are not to experience the domestic ceasefire that he always hoped would appear around the holidays even though he was yet to see it happen, but to indulge in the purely selfish desire to stand before them as the living proof that he’s far happier being everything they tried to keep him from becoming. It’s more than that, though. He got so caught up in the fantasy of his own vindication that he let it come between him and the reason he’s seeking it in the first place - Robby and Jack. Neither of them deserve the anger, the misplaced hatred, that he hurled at them for the simple crime of caring about him. Naturally he’s worried that they’re still mad about the argument and his immature reaction, but he fears the prospect that storming off without any preparation will only have made them more mad. He can’t lose this. What he can do is just sit for a while until an opportunity presents itself for him to get back inside without too much scrutiny.

Maybe it’s just the raindrops still clinging to his lashes, but the world is a wash of speckled light, the rich blue of the night peppered with bursts of gold from the houses around him and the streetlights overhead. Making himself useful doesn’t feel like an option to pass the time right now: he can’t see straight; his arms are too heavy to even swipe the mess from his vision, let alone tend to the garden or lift hay bales; his legs are shaking far too much to carry him around the cowshed or control the pedals of the tractor. His only option is to wait until one of his brothers comes back, or his mother summons them for whatever pot pie or casserole she’s preparing. With unsteady steps, he fumbles his way up onto the porch and collapses onto the swing bench.

“This is insane,” Jack practically growls around his second whisky. “I’m just going to text him.”

He’s gone through a rollercoaster of emotions in the past half an hour (or slightly less, he knows, thanks to his agreement with Robby) - worry about overstepping, frustration about the conversation getting out of hand and Dennis’ reaction, back to worry about the kid, and now at frustration once again. This time it’s aimed at both of them. All three of them. Dennis shouldn’t be staying out in this weather just to prove a point; Robby shouldn’t be as calm about this just because he thinks he knows the man better for having worked with him longer; Jack himself shouldn’t be waiting a goddamn half hour to check on someone he cares about just because he’s told it’s what he’s supposed to do. He fires off a quick text.

Hey Den, you okay?

It’s delivered almost immediately, so at least his phone isn’t off and he’s still somewhere with signal. But where could he have wandered to on a night like this? It’s been too long for a simple walk around the block. Shit, it’s been too long.

I’m really sorry, he types frantically, I shouldn’t have said what I did or acted like it wasn’t something you could handle. Can we talk about it?

Delivered. Five minutes pass, taking them well past the half hour mark. Five more.

Please, Dennis. I’m worried about you. We don’t even have to talk yet if you’re not ready, but at least come home before you catch your death. Four more minutes. Or if you’ve gone somewhere, just let me know. Are you with Santos?

The steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece is deafening, and jarringly out of rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The hands look wrong. It can’t possibly have been that long. “Mike…” he starts, low and warning. Sharp. Jagged. As wrong as the late hour.

“Yeah.” His husband’s voice cracks on the word, his own anxiety betrayed by the sound. “I know.”

Robby tastes the acrid tang of regret in the back of his throat as he lifts his phone from where it's charging on the coffee table. He's maintained since the offset that it's important for Dennis to have his independence within the relationship, that it will help to reinforce the sense of maturity that he'd worried would be a barrier to him feeling like an equal partner alongside the two older, more established men. It seems this time he's taken it a step too far: it's been nearly an hour, and the fear of seeing Jack spiral at the realisation is the only thing keeping him from letting his panic fully show. Nevertheless, his fingers fly over the keyboard.

Worried out our minds here, Den. Please will you come home, or tell me where you are and I'll come get you. He pauses. Love you.

When he looks back up, Jack is fitting his prosthesis. No words pass between them; long gone are the days where that was necessary. Robby watches his text flicker from ‘sending’ to ‘delivered’, stares at it for far too long, willing it to transition to ‘seen’, tries not to let the dread settle too heavy in his stomach when it doesn’t. Before he can let either of them slip even further into the abyss, he clicks the phone icon. Two numbers sit, as always, at the top of his ‘recently contacted’ list - Jack’s and Dennis’. Pretending his thumb isn’t shaking, he hits the latter.

The lack of shivering, Dennis thinks, isn’t supposed to be a good sign. A tiny voice at the back of his mind is screaming that it’s definitely not good, but it’s muffled by layers of frost-coated cotton wool and the comforting dullness that comes after the incessant rattle of his teeth reverberating around his skull. He’d been shivering more because he was getting colder, so it stands to reason that if he’s no longer shivering so much then he’s no longer so cold. He can see the signs of it, sure: the tiny wisps of dragon smoke curling from his lips with every shallow breath, lingering in the porch light just long enough for him to watch them drift away into the night before he takes his next slow inhale; the glint of the puddles left behind on the tarmac, already freezing over into something dark and lethal. It’s dangerous to be out on the roads on a night like this. Thank goodness he’s not out there; he’s here, not shivering, waiting in the glow of the farmhouse for one of his brothers to come back and make a fresh flask of coffee to take to the fields. No, that’s not what he’s waiting for, is it? He’s sitting here until the shame subsides or an apology arrives. But what is it he’s ashamed about? What does he need an apology for? Or is it that he needs to give one? The sleeves of his jacket are damp against his arms, hair clinging in messy curls to his forehead, but they’ll dry off in moments once he’s by the stove in the kitchen. Maybe his mother will light the fire in the living room while he curls up in the armchair. There’s a comfy armchair inside, the one Jack sits in when he pretends he’s not still listening to the police scanner. Jack. That’s who the apology is meant to be from, or for. They hurt each other, over… something. If only he could make it to the door, envelope himself in the man’s broad arms and let the embrace ease heat back into his weary muscles. They’re all so heavy, even the ones fighting to keep his eyelids up. Surely there’s no harm in letting them rest, just for a moment…

Relief washes over Jack so hard it nearly takes his weight from under him. Between his frantic gasps and the rustle of fabric as he pulled back his trousers to refit his foot, he must have missed the sound of the front door. Or perhaps Dennis crept back in quietly, anxious and ashamed. The thought tugs at his chest. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Robby is standing on the other side of the coffee table, phone pressed to his ear, and an unmistakable ringtone is chirping back at him from the hall. They exchange a look, a silent “easy, let’s not startle him”. The moment Robby hangs up, Jack takes his husband’s hand and leads them both out of the room.

The hand in Robby’s tightens as suddenly and forcefully as his own lungs at the sight of the front door. They shouldn’t be able to see all of it like that. There should be a figure, bashful or defiant but almost definitely slightly soggy, blocking the way. For one horrid second, he wonders if he imagined the ringtone, conjured it over the incessant dial tone that was practically mocking him as it looped down his ear. But no, Jack heard it too. Or did he just want to hear it? He retrieves his phone from his pocket and clicks the name that now sits at the top of the list. This time, he doesn’t bother bringing the device to his ear. He listens. There it is. Clear as day. Coming from the coat rack.

Jack reacts first, diving towards the mess of garments with desperate, clawing hands. He identifies the origin of the sound almost immediately, holding up a navy coat with a deep hood and padded body like it might burn him. Nausea bubbles through his throat. By the look on Robby’s face, he’s experiencing the same.

“He didn’t take his phone,” he states. It’s blindingly obvious, but it’s all he can think to say.

Robby’s jaw twitches beneath his beard. “Or his coat.”

Jack teeters. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck, Michael, he’s- fucking-” He never uses that name. It’s always Robby or Mike or a sweet yet practical pet name. Never Michael.

The other man notices immediately. “Let’s go.”

For the second time that evening, Jack’s hand is halfway to the handle when he’s stopped. “Come on!” he urges. Every second that passes is another second that Dennis might be-

“Coat.” It’s not often Robby brings out his authoritative tone at home, but it does the job. Jack relents for the eight seconds it takes him to yank his own thick coat from the hook and wrestle into it. He barely even looks as he scoops up the boy’s coat with one hand and the keys to his truck with the other before barrelling into the night, Robby hot on his heels.

Outside, the icy air sucker punches him, knocking the air from his lungs with both the fierceness of it and the knowledge that Dennis is out there somewhere in this. That thought alone almost makes him crumble, but he draws in a breath and draws on every scrap of training he’s ever received. Assess, look for any signs that might indicate where the younger man has gone, any evidence that will let him feel like he’s searching with purpose instead of driving the neighbourhood in fruitless circles, even just a tiny hint of-

There is a figure sitting on their swing bench.

It takes a moment for Robby to convince himself his heart hasn’t just stopped. The boy on the bench is barely recognisable as Dennis. His Dennis. Their Dennis. In place of unruly sandy curls are dark strands hanging limply. The near-permanent blush is long gone. All life and colour has been leeched from those blue-green eyes, leaving them almost grey. The blue of them is beginning to tint the thin, trembling lips below. The two men stand over the figure, both as frozen as the remnants of rain that now lie slick across the wooden decking.

“We need to get him inside,” Robby hears himself say, though the words taste wrong in his mouth.

“Are you out of your mind? We need to get him to the Pitt!” Jack snaps.

Reality rushes back in. Doctor mode switches on. The other man is right… sort of. “He won’t ma-” He can’t say that, can’t risk speaking it into existence. “The roads are too dangerous to get him there in the time he needs, and if we jostle him in this state we risk triggering cardiac arrest. We’ve gotta warm him. Now.”

Jack is already springing into action, crouching down in front of their partner. “Den? Dennis, it’s Jack.”

Glassy eyes try to meet his, steady but unseeing. A name slips, mumbled, from Dennis’ mouth. It’s neither Jack’s nor Robby’s, nor anyone they know, but it sounds familiar. The memory of a story about his brothers swims to the surface, and Jack balks. “Waiting f’ you,” Dennis slurs out. “No key… ‘s the rule.”

The men exchange worried glances. He’s not quite talking nonsense, but he’s far from lucid. Waiting… Nausea ripples through Jack again, higher than before, at the realisation that he’s been out here the whole time.

“Okay, Dennis,” Robby murmurs soothingly, dropping down at his other side. “We’re here. You ready to go inside?”

The nod that gets is slow, laboured. “Dinner? …Mom?”

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Another nod, this one more understanding, spurred on by what Robby has had the sense to realise must be the sacred rule of washing the filth of the day away before being allowed at the farmhouse table. The familiarity of it brings Dennis just enough comfort that he makes no protest when the older man scoops him up, clutching him to the warmth of his chest.

Once again, no words need to be exchanged for Jack to rush ahead, gathering blankets and makeshift warm compresses. He returns to find the other two in the bedroom, Robby gently yet hurriedly peeling their boyfriend out of his damp clothes. The moment he’s stripped down, Jack takes over with a whole armful of soft blankets, draping them around him while Robby steps away to fetch a thermometer from the bathroom cabinet. Jack works carefully, torn between the instinct to smother the boy and the knowledge that he has to be slow and methodical to avoid inducing arrhythmia. The one thing he does know is that the whole time he’s muttering soft words of encouragement, as much for his own benefit as the other man’s. Moments later, Robby returns with the thermometer and swears under his breath at the reading.

“How bad?” Jack asks quietly.

Robby won’t meet his eyes. “Eighty-four.” He swallows thickly and steps back to crank up the radiator.

Fear, guilt, anger, determination… they all twist in Jack’s stomach like potent toxins. How cruel that his own cure lies in providing someone else’s. How fitting, when he holds himself accountable for it. “Not for long,” he mutters. “Den, baby, I’m gonna lay you back and give you some packs to warm you up, okay?”

“M’kay.” Under the cosiness and weight of the blankets, the boy has become pliant, soft, lethargic. Jack can’t focus enough to remember whether that’s a good thing. When he peels back the fabric, Dennis shivers. That is a good thing. “‘S cold.”

“I know, baby, I know. We've got you.” The compresses slip between the layers: two on his chest, one at the back of his neck, one tenderly applied over his groin. “You’re okay now, you’re gonna be fine.” He wills himself to believe it.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack recoils as if he’s been shot; actually, somehow, this is worse. Here he is, wracked with guilt over his part in this nightmare, desperately trying to weave his own apology into his actions like fixing this will make it all okay when he knows it’s far from that, and yet it’s from Dennis’ chill-chapped lips that the words fall. The need to see him be okay is almost drowned by the despair of knowing that the ‘okay’ of this situation is about so much more than Jack is currently providing. His hands tremble as much as the chest they hover above.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Robby assures him softly, stepping into the space with a steaming mug. Jack hadn’t even noticed him leave, but now he sinks down beside him followed by the alluring scent of spiced apples as he lifts the warm juice to the boy’s lips. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Did. F’rgot my key.”

Oh god. Jack lets out a small strangled sound, hand flying to cover his mouth. He will spend the rest of the winter regretting this; shit, he’ll apologise until summer if he has to and it still won’t be enough. “That’s not a problem, Dennis,” he chokes out. “You could have knocked. We were worried about you.” Still are, he leaves unsaid. “We didn’t know you were there.”

86. Better. “Not going anywhere now.”

“Good.”

“Correction,” Robby interjects, keeping his tone light, praying the others hear the amusement he’s trying to add for all their sakes, “you’re going to the Pitt to get checked over.”

“Work?” Dennis murmurs, shocked.

“To work, yes, not for work. They’re gonna look after you.” 87. That’ll do. He turns to Jack. “Can you get the truck open?”

Five minutes later, Dennis is snuggled into Jack’s side in the middle of the truck bench. He’s barely awake, still wrapped in blankets and shivering uncontrollably, but the shivers are a positive compared to how he was. Robby’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and they both know it’s only partly to do with the tension of driving across black ice in the dark. There is no conversation, no music playing, just their racing pulses and the jagged breaths of the young man in between them.

Have the fluorescents always been this annoyingly bright? This is the first thought that crosses Dennis’ mind as he slowly blinks awake in one of the rooms of the Pitt. Really, they’re almost giving him a headache. Or maybe that was already there. The dull discomfort behind his eyes continues down his body, growing sharp around his chest, then evening out into a deadweight in his limbs. Beneath his twitching fingertips, the sheets are clinically crisp but warm.

He remembers snippets. The porch, the chill, the worrying absence of chill. A figure kneeling before him, one that his brain had been so certain was his brother come to let him back into the house despite it bearing Jack’s face. Robby’s chest. Blankets. More shivers. The smell of Jack’s truck. Noise. Chaos. Warmth. Sleep.

They had the decency to give him a room with a proper door instead of a curtain. It’s one of the bigger rooms too, with enough space for the second bed that has been wheeled in and is currently occupied by a tangle of limbs. He blinks the exhaustion from his mind, rearranges the jigsaw puzzle before him into two distinct bodies: Robby, laid on his back, eyes closed where his head is turned awkwardly towards the other bed; Jack, looking the smallest Dennis has ever seen him, hand fisted in the fabric of Robby’s fleece where he curls against his husband’s chest. The sight of the two of them makes his entire being ache more than it already does. He blinks back tears with a quiet sniffle. Not quiet enough, it seems.

Robby’s eyes snap open at the sound of a small sniff against the low background hum of the hospital’s usual ambience. He hadn’t wanted to fall asleep after all of it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but Jack needed the rest and he knew he wouldn’t go down alone. He didn’t at the best of times, and especially not tonight. So he’d laid down on the bed that Lena had brought in, and made sure he was facing the other one so that he could keep an imaginary eye on Dennis. Now, the pale face of their boyfriend is the first thing he sees, weary but alive.

“Hey,” he whispers, cautiously extracting himself from the body pressed against his chest and slipping to Dennis’ bedside. “How you holding up?”

“Could be worse,” he croaks.

In spite of himself, Robby huffs out a low laugh. “You’re telling me.”

Dennis twists his hands into the bedsheets. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.” He settles on the edge of the bed, pressing a kiss to the younger man’s temple. “It’s okay, you weren’t to know. These things happen.”

“What, um… what did happen?” He won’t quite meet Robby’s eyes, whether out of embarrassment or something else.

“You were hypothermic. They gave you a heated IV and airway rewarming.”

“And before that?”

Oh. “We found you sitting out on the porch. You’d been gone for close to an hour.”

Their gazes meet then, and he finds Dennis’ full of remorse, anguish… terror. “I’m so sorry, Robby, I’m so- I’m really sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He’s said it before, but if the kid doesn’t remember then it bears saying again, or even if he does then it’s still worth repeating. “You were confused, it’s a common symptom.” A thought flickers to life. “Is that something you used to do a lot, sit out and wait? You said it was the rule.”

The boy nods. “On the farm. You forget your keys, you wait for someone to let you in.”

A little of the tension eases from Robby’s shoulders. “And that’s why you didn’t knock?” The small hands in front of him wring further into the fabric; the gaze drops again, this time undeniably in shame. “Dennis?”

“I thought you’d be angry. I was being childish, and then I was an idiot for not taking my phone or my keys. Didn’t want you both to-” he cuts himself off sharply.

Robby can think of any number of ways to finish that sentence, and all of them make his chest hurt. “We’re not going to… whatever you think. Look, I know things got out of hand, but I promise there is nothing you can do that will make us mad enough to outweigh how much we care about you. Ever.”

“Okay,” he replies, quiet, unconvinced.

“I’m serious. When we saw you out there, I was so fucking worried. So was Jack. I think he nearly passed out.” That, to his relief, earns him a tiny laugh. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“First off, let’s never do this again. No matter what happens, you can always come to us, or tell us to back off. Whatever you need.”

Dennis nods solemnly. “And second?”

“Not a word to Jack of the real reason you were sitting out there for so long.”

A more vigorous nod. He completely understands, of course he does. His own part in the argument had been gnawing at his insides the whole evening and he knows he’s the one who took it as far as it went; if Jack, who didn’t deserve the reaction he got, invariably felt guilty about things getting out of hand, then the idea of him being responsible for Dennis’ condition would eat him alive. He can’t do that to him. He’d rather get hypothermia again than put him through that.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the other man stirs, slowly at first, then faster when he remembers where he is and why he’s there. He’s out of the bed before he’s even fully awake. It takes two strides for him to cross the space and grip Dennis’ hands as though he needs to feel the proof of the blood flow warming them.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” he sighs, not stopping to consider whether the force with which he kisses their boyfriend will have an impact on his oxygen levels. It isn’t until he feels a soft, breathy giggle against his lips that he pulls away. “Sorry, I just… fucking hell, Den.”

Robby places a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder, seizing the opportunity to deliver each of them a brief kiss of his own. “Don’t worry, I’ve already read him the riot act.”

“Oh no,” Jack tuts, “I’m not angry. I’m just so glad you’re alright. You scared the shit out of us.”

Dennis pales again, but Robby gives him a triumphant wink. “See? Told you we weren’t mad.”

The two of them watch as the younger man sags with relief, suddenly looking very small against the crisp white sheets. He whispers something, too soft and faltering for them to make out. They wait. He tries again, a little firmer. “You were right.”

“Well, yeah,” Robby chuckles, “I’m always right.”

“No.” Dennis’ eyes meet Jack’s, watery but firm. “You were right.”

Their hands are still linked; Jack squeezes reassuringly. “It’s okay, we don’t have to do this right now.”

Dennis shuffles further up the bed. “I want to. Please.”

Before he can get any further, a light yet insistent knock sounds on the door, followed shortly after by the appearance of Shen. “All still with us, then?” he grins.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Touch and go, bud. I don’t think my heart could have taken much more.”

“Come off it, you’re gonna outlive me at the rate you’re going.” The room erupts in amused mutters, something about death by iced coffee. “Alright, lay off. Glad you’re doing okay, Whitaker, just buzz if you need anything. I don’t know if there’s room for a third bed in here but I can try.” He lingers on the way out. “Oh, and Robby, tomorrow’s my night off, so if you want me to cover your shift just say the word.” Then he’s gone with a cheery ‘see you later’ and a peace sign thrown over his shoulder.

A few more visitors poke their heads in once news of Dennis’ return to consciousness spreads. Cups of tea and fresh blankets delivered by Lena; Toomarian, asking if he was okay or needed anything; a supportive fist bump from Henderson, who had quickly become a friend during the rotation he spent on nights (never again, a somewhat jealous Robby had said, much to Jack’s outrage). Soon, though, the flow settles, giving way to the stillness of the early hours. Robby drops the handrails on the beds and wheels them together, creating a rough semblance of a narrow double bed. It’s not nearly big enough to hold three people, especially not three grown men, but none of them complain when they slot themselves together in the tiny space. They can pretend to be clinging to each other as a way to keep them all in place. Pretend it has nothing to do with the all-consuming need to feel their partners’ breaths fanning across their skin and measure the temperature of the skin beneath their palms.

After a while, when their pulses are beating close to unison and they teeter on the edge of sleep, Dennis speaks again. “Thank you. For staying.”

“Of course,” Jack replies softly. “Didn’t think we’d leave you on your own, did you?” Silence. Stillness. The lack of response yanks on something in his chest, an insecurity he hadn’t noticed he’d dislodged in himself until he watched it shake loose in his partner. “We’re not going to leave, Dennis. Not over this, or anything. If you want to go home after Christmas, we’ll support you, I promise. As long as you’re okay.”

At last, an acknowledgement of sorts. “They don’t actually want me there.”

“Oh, Den.” His heart breaks a little more. “I’m sure they do. I didn’t mean to get in your head, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They invited me, but they don’t want me. There’s a difference.” Dennis sighs, burrowing further into the cavity between the men’s chests. “I think my mom is hoping I’ll show up and still be the person I was before I left, and the only reason I wanted to go back was to prove that I’m not.”

Fingers wind into his curls, and he melts into the sensation of Robby stroking across his scalp as he responds. “You’re definitely not. You’ve already outgrown the person you were when we met you, and that’s only half the time you’ve been away.”

Dennis nods against him, and Robby both feels and hears him drawing in a breath to steady himself and absorb the comforting scent. The air, now lighter, moves freely through his lungs. There’s so much he wants to tell them both: how sorry he is again for arguing in the first place and for making them feel like he didn’t care how much his outburst or the aftermath of him enduring a trip home would affect them; how much the relationship means to him and more so now he’s experienced the fear of losing it; how glad he is they went looking for him. Now, however, nestled half-asleep in the pocket of body heat between them, the right words escape him. He could voice them exactly as he thinks, but they don’t seem significant enough to bear the full weight of his emotions. Instead, he tugs Jack a little closer where he’s hanging off the edge of the bed and smiles as the man curls into him. “So, Boxing Day…”

“Mhm?” The reply is thick with drowsiness, Jack’s already low voice even more hoarse. Something about the sound reaffirms everything he’s been holding back.

“I was thinking, maybe we don’t go out?”

“You wanna stay here?” he frowns. On the other side of the bed, Robby - the most awake of the trio - tightens his arm where it’s draped across them both and presses another kiss into Dennis’ hair.

“Not in the hospital, no, but-”

“‘S not what I-”

“I know what you meant,” Dennis insists softly, entirely at odds with how he’d said those exact words a few short hours ago. This time, there’s no misplaced insinuations, just pure synchronicity. “Just… here.” He waves a hand vaguely between the two of them, gesture loose and uncoordinated as his exhausted mind tries to remember how to control his limbs. “If that’s okay?”

“Course it is,” Jack hums, the comfort of returning to a state of mutual understanding finally lulling him over the brink.

“We’re here for as long as you’ll have us,” Robby confirms, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.

“You have a shift in four hours,” Dennis points out, voice deadpan but humorous.

Robby doesn’t look up. “Shen can cover. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

He runs his free hand up and down Dennis’ side in slow, soothing motions, until he feels the swell and contraction of the boy’s ribs even out into languid breaths, the deepest he’s taken all night. Only then does he allow himself to relax. It occurs to him that he never actually informed the other attending of his plan to take him up on the offer, but by the time he realises the lights are burning a little less brightly behind his eyelids and he couldn’t open them even if he wanted to. It doesn’t matter. By the time the day shift begins rolling in, Shen finds the three of them fast asleep in an unbreakable cluster and keeps his name on the board without comment.

[rock-crusher]

Testing Limits

After discovering what Aru has done to his body, Yutaka decides to test the limits.

For @badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Self-Harm

Fandom: My Beloved Apocalypse

https://archiveofourown.org/works/85691556

[whumperofworlds]

Home Invasion

RED X = COMPLETED

BLUE LINE = REQUESTED

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Ship: F!Edeleth

Characters: Edelgard von Hresvelg, Female Byleth Eisner

CWs: bound and gagged, used as bait, home invasion, tied to a chair, tied to a post, blood, whumpee x caretaker, female whumpee, female caretaker, male whumper, open/ambiguous ending, whumper calls both of them "little girls" but neither whumpee nor caretaker are minors, guilt

Tags: @badthingshappenbingo (let me know if you like to be added or removed!)

_____

"Byleth? I'm home," Edelgard called when she opened the door to her and her wife's house. She held bags of food in one hand as she used her other hand to push the door further, revealing darkness inside.

She frowned. Usually, Byleth was immediately there, greeting her beloved whenever Edelgard came home from doing errands. The fact that Byleth didn't greet her right then and there set alarm bells off in Edelgard's head.

The house was eerily quiet. Too quiet to the point Edelgard could hear the spring breeze outside.

Something was very wrong here.

She entered, closing the door behind her as she placed the bags on the floor, completely forgotten. Her eyes narrowed, trying to see through the darkness and for any sign of her wife.

"…Byleth?" she called again. No answer.

Instinctively, she touched her sheathed axe that was on her side, as her senses sharpened then. Years of war had taught her this; if something was wrong, trust your gut. That was what Caspar had said.

She walked past the living room, noticing no signs of anything unusual, but when she entered the kitchen, she realized a few things that made her freeze in place.

A mug—Byleth's favorite—was shattered on the floor, its contents spilled. A few kitchen chairs laid on the floor, with one having broken legs. To top it all off, there was a splatter of blood on the wall, frightening Edelgard more than needed.

"Byleth!" she cried, caution thrown out the window. Something had happened here. An intruder? An assassin? Where was Byleth?

She rushed down the hallway that led to her and Byleth's shared bedroom, her heart racing. The blood proved to her that Byleth was injured, or worse. She needed to find her, and fast.

With shaky hands, she opened the door to the bedroom; she didn't expect a horrifying sight to meet her. Edelgard gasped, freezing in place as her eyes widened.

In the center of the room was Byleth, bound tightly to a kitchen chair. Her hands were behind the chair, tied, and ropes bound her torso to the chair. Even more ropes kept her legs apart, tied to the chair's legs. A crude cloth was fastened around her mouth as a gag. What scared Edelgard the most, however, were the bruises that mottled Byleth's left side of her face, and the bloody cut on her right cheek.

When Edelgard opened the door, Byleth's eyes widened in panic, as she strained and thrashed against the ropes holding her to the chair. She cried out through her gag, words muffled.

"Byleth!" Edelgard cried, immediately pulling out her axe. She needed to free her wife, to save her, to find whoever did this to her beloved.

Byleth shook her head violently, her eyes growing wider and wider as she stared at Edelgard.

No. Wait. She wasn't looking at Edelgard. She was looking behind Edelgard.

The realization came too late. Edelgard yelped when something hard hit her on the back of her head before she fell to the floor, her axe completely forgotten on the side. Something wet and sticky began to flow down from the new wound, as she tried to get up. However, a boot dug into her back, preventing her from standing.

Byleth screamed through the gag, writhing against the ropes as she breathed heavily through her nose. She was saying something, telling Edelgard something. Or was she trying to speak to the intruder?

"Too easy," the intruder chuckled, using his heel to press harder against Edelgard's back. She cried out, eliciting a chuckle from him. "And here I thought the great emperor was strong! Seems like love has weakened you, Edelgard."

Edelgard gritted her teeth, struggling against the foot holding her down. There was no way she would let this man do whatever he wanted. She needed to escape, save Byleth, and defeat this intruder for what he had done to her beloved Byleth.

"Release my wife, now!" Edelgard demanded.

"And let her stop me?" the intruder sneered, "Not a chance. Now shut up."

Due to the hit to her head, dizziness began to set in as Edelgard groaned. She didn't fight as the intruder grabbed her under her arms before dragging her towards the bed.

Byleth cried out through her gag, thrashing as her eyes narrowed at the intruder.

Edelgard, still dazed and hurt from the blow, remained still as the intruder pulled out more rope from his belt and bound Edelgard to one of the bed posts, leaving her standing upright with her back against the post. By the time she got her strength back, she was thoroughly tied up; the ropes kept her wrists together behind the post, her torso also bound to the post, and her legs and feet were also tied to it.

She pulled against the rough twine, wincing when they didn't give way. She was thoroughly tied up, unable to move at all.

"Release me this instant!" Edelgard shouted, her struggling turning into thrashing. However, it created a headache due to the blow to the head, and she stopped to rest for a moment.

The intruder rolled his eyes, before pulling something out from his back pocket. "Quiet down, will you? You'll alert your neighbors."

"I will never take orders from y—mmph!" Edelgard attempted to bark back, only for the intruder to shove a filthy cloth in her mouth. Before she could spit it out, the intruder tied the cloth around her head, tightening it for sadistic pleasure.

Bound, gagged, and humiliated, Edelgard could only struggle and yell out muffled growls against her and Byleth's captor. She glared at the intruder, as if looks alone could kill him.

The intruder shook his head, sighing, as if his captive was nothing but a nuisance. "Will you quiet down?" he barked, "I'll be ransacking your little place. So you two just be good little girls and stay put." With a smirk, he left the room, locking the door for good measures despite Byleth and Edelgard being tied up.

Edelgard glanced over at Byleth, her features softening. Byleth looked back at her, tears threatening to fall from her eyes as she squirmed against her bonds.

Seeing the guilt in her wife's eyes broke Edelgard's heart. None of this was Byleth's fault at all. She wasn't sure how the intruder got the drop on Byleth, but from how she was subdued, the intruder put all the stops to make sure Byleth was held down.

She grunted through her gag, trying to tell Byleth that none of this was her fault, to not blame herself. But it fell on deaf ears as Byleth looked down, avoiding her beloved's gaze.

Edelgard clenched her fists. She needed to find a way to break free, rescue Byleth, and destroy that intruder who dared touch her Byleth.

The intruder had invaded the wrong house, that was for sure. She just needed to escape somehow.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

There's No Place Like Home

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.4k

Warnings: angst, being strapped to a bomb, heavy panicking

Summary: After running out of gas, you walk down a desolate road trying to find gas or to get bars on your phone to call for help. You come across a farmhouse that holds a deadly secret. The next thing you know, you’re in Washington DC surrounded by police and the FBI for something you never did.

Square Filled: heart attack for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

x

Your car slows down on a desolate road in the middle of nowhere. You curse and slam the back of your head into the headrest. You knew you should have gotten gas when you were at the station. You thought you’d have enough to reach the next one. Guess not. You take out your phone and curse again when you see there are no bars.

Of course, this would fucking happen to you.

Tears prick your eyes, but you try your best not to let them fall. All you can hear is your dad’s voice in your head, lecturing you on why you shouldn’t have let yourself get in this situation. Then you hear him yell at you to leave the house and not to come back. So, that’s what you did. You left a year ago and haven’t contacted your parents since.

You miss them every fucking day, but you’re scared to go home. You’re scared to face your dad’s angry words. Would they turn you away? Would they ignore you? Or would they welcome you with open arms?

He yelled at you in a fit of anger, so you’re not sure if he meant them or not. He’s taught you some valuable lessons in life, but when you fucked up badly, he got so pissed that you’d get yourself in that situation in the first place. Your mom tried to calm him down, but it was no use.

He said to leave, so you did.

If he could see you now, smoke would certainly come from his ears.

Okay, you have two options: you can either walk to the nearest gas station to buy enough gas to get you there, or you can walk far enough to get some bars to call for help. Either way, you have to walk. There is no way you’re spending the night in the middle of an empty road for anyone to come and attack you.

You grab your coat, your phone, and your wallet before leaving the car. You lock it and start walking in the direction you were heading. You’re too far to turn back to the last gas station you were at, so the only way to go is forward.

As you walk, you’re constantly checking your phone for bars.

You walk for what seems like hours when you see it. Not a gas station. A house. A farmhouse. Through the moonlight, you can see the tall building in the distance. You’re not sure how far you’ve got to walk, so maybe there is someone there to help you. Maybe they’ll have a can of gas you can use.

With your dad’s voice screaming in your head not to go there, you walk in that direction. There is no paved driveway, but there is a dirt trail that’s been used by cars so often that there is a clear path through the woods.

The closer you get, the clearer it is that this place might be abandoned. All the lights are off inside the house, and there are no cars anywhere in sight. Still, that doesn’t mean anyone isn’t home.

The house is two stories with a wrap-around porch, but the wood seems a bit rotten with the way it’s crumbling. As you climb the porch steps, you think the wood is going to break apart with the way it’s groaning under your weight.

“This is so stupid,” you whisper to yourself. “I’m gonna get killed here, and no one will ever find my body.”

You knock on the door and wait for someone to answer. One, two, three seconds pass before you knock again. No answer. You’re about to leave when you hear voices drift through the wind. They’re not coming from inside. It’s more like they’re coming from around the house. Maybe there are people here.

You leave the porch and follow the sound of voices to the very tall barn in the back of the property. The door is slightly ajar, and the sounds of voices get stronger with every step.

This is a very bad idea. It might be, but what other choice do you have? You don’t know how long you’d be walking, and you might have been worse off if you kept walking. You push the door open and step inside, seeing four specific things that make your blood run cold.

One, there are guns and other weapons on almost every table inside the barn.

Two, there are drugs tightly packed into wrapped rectangles stacked in the back.

Three, on one table, looks to be a homemade device with wires sticking out of it. You know a bomb when you see one. Your dad works in the bomb department on his SWAT team.

Four, five angry men stare you down with deadly looks on their faces.

You should have kept walking. This place is abandoned for a reason, and now you know why. For five seconds, nothing is said between you and the men. It takes a second to process what’s happening before you turn tail and sprint away from the barn.

“Get her!” one of the men yells.

That causes you to push faster into the dense woods on either side of the dirt trail. Branches whip at your skin, tearing at it as if the trees want to keep you there. The sound of multiple footsteps storms behind you, but you don’t dare look back. You keep your gaze purely on the ground before you, so you don’t trip over logs or rocks in your path. You absolutely hate when a woman is running in a movie and always trips over something, like they can’t fucking run.

You don’t actively run anymore, but you used to run track in high school.

Just when you think you’re about to get to the road, arms wrap around your waist. You scream in terror as you fall to the ground. Whoever grabbed you falls heavily on top of you, causing the air in your lungs to whoosh out of you quickly.

“Got you,” the man sneers in your ear.

The last thing you see is a rock flying toward your head, and the last thing you feel is that same rock smashing against your skull.

When you come to, you hear multiple voices asking you if you’re okay. What happened? Where am I? It takes you a moment to remember what you walked in on. Running through the woods. Getting caught. Getting knocked out.

Your eyes shoot open in a panic, and you see several people standing over you with concerned looks on their faces. What? What is happening? A small crowd is forming around you. None of these people looks like the men you encountered last night. Plus, the sun is shining high in the sky. Wherever you are, you’re not at that farmhouse.

“Are you okay?” a woman asks.

“Um…” Your throat is scratchy and dry. You need water. “Where am I?”

“Washington D.C.” D.C.? How the hell did you make it here? What is happening?! “Here, let me help you up.”

Two hands grab yours, and you’re hauled off the ground to your feet. Your head is pounding from where you were hit, but you don’t feel pain anywhere else. What did those guys do to you? You look down and see a huge coat draped over your shoulders. You weren't wearing this last night.

The coat is so big that it slips off your shoulders, revealing what’s underneath. Two seconds pass before panic erupts around you. People are screaming. They’re running. No, they’re running away from you. People are on the phone as they run and scream in a panic.

A soft beeping noise sounds, and you look down to see one of your worst nightmares come to life. The bomb that the men were making? It’s strapped to your chest with a red countdown in the middle of it. T-minus one hour.

“Oh, God,” you mutter in horror.

What happens next happens in a blur. The entire area is blocked off in minutes. Police come storming the area where you are, staying behind their cars with their guns raised. You hold your very shaky hands up in surrender with tears streaming down your face.

“Please, don’t shoot!” you beg. “This isn’t my fault! I don’t know what’s happening!”

No one approaches you. You have no idea how to turn the bomb off or if it’ll even go off. These guys could have made a real bomb to hurt as many people as they could, or they could have made a fake to instill as much fear as they could. You don’t want to stick around to see which fate is yours.

“Please believe me,” you cry. “I had nothing to do with this!”

The police don’t come near you, but that doesn’t mean they sit back and do nothing. Ten minutes later, the FBI shows up along with the SWAT team. If your dad is here, you’d be absolutely mortified. He’d be so disappointed in you. Even news reporters are setting up along the perimeter to report the situation.

“What do we know?” Hotch asks the chief of police.

“We got a call about a woman with a bomb strapped to her chest. We don’t know more than that. None of our men have gone in, but there is a timer. Fifty minutes left.”

Spencer Reid steps through the crowd to get a better look at you. He raises his binoculars to get a better look at you, and what he sees is… someone who could not have done this. You’re shaking like a leaf, trying hard to stay still. Tears are rolling down your cheeks with no hints of stopping. Your chest is moving rapidly, a clear sign of panicking. There is more to the story than what is known.

“Hotch, let me go in there,” Spencer says. “Let me talk to her.”

“Take a SWAT member with you.”

Spencer waits for one of the SWAT members before walking slowly toward you.

You’re having a heart attack. You’re going to die. You’re not going to get to grow older and fall in love. You’re only twenty-nine. There are things you still need to do. This isn’t happening. My parents are going to be so disappointed in me. I want to go home. I want my mom and dad. You can’t control your breathing even if you try. You’re going to pass out soon if you don’t calm down.

“What’s your name?” Spencer asks when he’s close enough. You can’t focus on anything right now. Blood is pumping so hard in your ears, it’s hard to hear anything else. Tears are making your vision blurry, so you can’t focus on the two people walking up to you. I’m gonna die. I’m going to die, and my parents don’t even know what’s going on. “Hey, focus on me. I need you to calm down. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you answer while hiccupping and stuttering.

“I’m Spencer Reid with the FBI. Y/N, can you take a deep breath for me?” The SWAT member walks closer and inspects the bomb more closely. “Don’t focus on him. Keep your eyes on me.” You snap your eyes back to him. “Take a deep breath.”

For the next minute, you try to control your breathing enough to get a sentence out. “I didn’t have anything to do with this. I swear! I don’t know how to take this off or how to stop the timer. Please help me!”

“I believe you, but I’m going to need you to calm down. This won’t work if you’re panicking. I know this is scary, but keep taking deep breaths for me.”

You take several deep but shaky breaths. “You believe me?”

“Yes. Can you tell me what happened?”

“My car ran out of gas last night. I decided to walk to the next gas station, and I came across this farmhouse. I thought someone there would be able to help me.” You look down and see there are now forty-two minutes left. “Oh, God. I’m gonna die.”

Spencer steps as close as he can and grabs the sides of your face so he can tilt your head up. “Just focus on me, okay? Keep going. What happened when you got to the farmhouse?”

“Um, I heard voices from the barn and decided to walk over there. There were five men inside with guns and weapons and drugs and a bomb on the table. This one. I ran as fast as I could to get away, but they got to me. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here. Spencer, please get this off me,” you plead.

“We’re working on that.” He looks at the SWAT member. “How’s it looking?”

“Definitely homemade. The lock looks complicated, as does the setup. I can either work on getting it off her, or I can work on disabling it.”

“Unlock it!” you cry. “Get it off me!”

“Disable it,” Spencer says to the man. “Do whatever you have to do to disable it.”

The man nods and turns back to the bomb.

“Spencer, I need this off me.”

“Y/N, this will mean nothing if it explodes with it off you. We need you to be as still as you can, okay? Can you tell me more about what happened last night?”

Spencer works hard to keep your focus on what happened last night instead of the bomb on your chest. You tell him exactly what happened as best as you can, and he’s right there to bring your focus back when it wavers. Once Spencer gets enough of the story, he tries to leave you.

“No! Spencer! Don’t leave me, please,” you beg.

“I’m just going right over there. I’m not leaving.”

You grab his hand and grip it tightly. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to die alone.”

“You’re not going to die.” He can see the desperation in your eyes and the panic that will surely follow. “I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave.”

He can see the slight relief sag in your shoulders. Whatever will help you stay calm. He turns around and presses his finger to the comms in his ear. “Hotch, I need you over here.”

Hotch breaks apart from the team and walks over to you. “What’s going on?”

“The unsubs we’ve been looking for did this to her.”

“Are you sure?”

Spencer tells him exactly what you told him. “We profiled that there’d be a team involved with drugs and weapons hiding out not far from here. Five of them exactly. It’s not a coincidence.” Spencer looks at you. “Where is that farmhouse?”

You stutter, “I don’t know. Up north, I think. I don’t really remember those details.”

“I’ll get Garcia on it. Stay with her.”

Hotch is already walking away, dialing who you presume to be Garcia on the phone. The minutes count down too quickly for you, and before you know it, twenty minutes have gone by with no progress. The SWAT member has been close enough to you for long enough for you to understand that he is panicking. He’s trying not to let it show, but you can see it.

“God, my dad is gonna kill me,” you cry.

“What do you mean?” Spencer asks.

He hasn't left your side, and he hasn’t let go of your hand. Half of his team and a handful of SWAT members left the area, so Spencer thinks they may have found out where the unsubs are hiding out. Maybe in that farmhouse.

“I haven’t been home in a year. I fucked up, and my dad yelled at me to go, so I did.”

“What did you do?

“I got into a car knowing the driver was high on drugs. We were just around the corner, so I didn’t think it would have been a big deal. When I was in the car, we didn't get into an accident, but after I left… My friend wrapped his car around a tree. He was DOA. My dad found out and yelled at me for being irresponsible. I know I was, but in that moment… He told me to leave, so I did, and I haven’t been back since.” Tears roll down your cheeks. “God, I was so mean to him. He must hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Spencer says softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t, but from what you just told me, he was worried about you getting hurt. Rightfully so. I’m sure whatever he said was because of his anger, not his true feelings.”

“I’m gonna die here, and he doesn’t even know,” you cry and start shaking.

“I need you to stay still,” the SWAT member says.

Spencer grabs the sides of your face, and he wipes your tears away. “You’re not going to die. We’re going to get this off you, and you’re going to get to see your dad again.”

“You don’t know that,” you cry.

“No, I don’t,” he whispers. “But if I don’t have faith, then I don’t have anything. Don’t give up on me.”

The SWAT member starts sweating when the timer gets down to ten minutes. His hand actually starts shaking when it gets down to five minutes. Spencer has been trying to keep you distracted by asking you questions about yourself, but you lost focus when you caught a glimpse of the timer.

“Martha and Stuart Jameson. 830 Charleston Street, Richmond, Virginia. 804-555-0191.” Spencer looks at you. “Please call my parents and tell them that I’m sorry and I love them so much.”

Spencer stares deep into your eyes. “Tell them yourself.”

Spencer doesn’t want you watching the timer, but you can’t help but stare at them. They seem to move faster than time should, but maybe that’s your growing panic.

Four minutes.

Three.

Two and a half.

Thirty seconds.

“Spencer, you need to go. Get out of here. Please. You shouldn’t have to die because of my mistake.”

“I’m not leaving you. How are you doing?” Spencer asks the SWAT member.

“I’ve almost got it…”

Ten.

Nine.

“Spencer, go!”

Eight.

Seven.

“I’m not leaving you.”

Six.

Five.

Four.

The timer stops, and the SWAT member falls back onto his heels with a relieved sigh. “I got it.”

Getting the damn bomb off you doesn’t take nearly as long as stopping it from going on, so the second it’s off you, you collapse to the ground. Spencer catches you before you can hit the ground, and he lowers to the ground with you in his arms. You’re shaking like a leaf, crying hard into his chest.

The SWAT member carefully brings the bomb away from you to a container that can hold bombs in it. They will need to disable it when they can get to a safe spot.

“You’re okay. It’s over. You’re safe now,” Spencer whispers to you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you sob.

“Listen, when you’re ready, we’re going to the station where you can give a formal statement, and then I’m going to take you home, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper.

You black out most of the time you’re at the station to give your statement. You have no idea if those men will be caught, but that’s not your problem anymore. All you want is to go home.

Spencer stays true to his word and drives you to your parents' house in Richmond. Spencer doesn’t go with you but stays in the car while you walk up the steps to the front door. Before you can reach it, the door flings open, and your mom comes rushing out with tears rolling down her cheeks.

You slam into her chest and hug her while crying, and she says something to you that Spencer can’t hear. Your dad walks out of the house, and you pull away from your mom to look at him. No words needed. He holds his arms out, and you run into his arms, hugging him tightly.

Spencer smiles at the small reunion. He called them before dropping you off, so they knew you were on your way over. He knows you’re going to be okay. You peer over your shoulder at Spencer just as he drives away. You wonder if you’re ever going to see Spencer again. You hope so. He saved your life in more ways than one.

x

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[whumperofworlds]

do ur fave Used As Bait, u kno u want to

Hell yeah, you have great tastes ;)

Used as Bait

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Ship: M!Edeleth

Characters: Edelgard von Hresvelg, Male Byleth Eisner, Those Who Slither In The Dark

CWS: used as bait, bound and gagged, tied to a pole, attempted rescue, threats, blood and injury, open/ambiguous ending, Byleth is called a boy but is not a minor, captured, guilt, whumpee x caretaker, female caretaker, male whumpee, male whumper, multiple whumpers, unconsciousness.

Tags: @badthingshappenbingo (Let me know if you like to be added or removed!)

_____

The abandoned fortress was eerily quiet. So quiet, that Byleth squirmed uncomfortably in his bonds that tied him to a wooden post. The timber creaked slightly with each movement he attempted to make, but the ropes held taut.

He wasn't sure what had happened. He was ambushed by Those Who Slither In The Dark, and he was outnumbered and taken here. Not before Byleth had managed to slaughter a few of them until he was subdued. But… that didn't change the situation he found himself in.

Strong ropes lashed his hands behind the post, as more of the twine held his chest firmly to the timber, crushing his ribs somewhat and making it harder for him to breathe. Even more ropes bound his legs and feet to the post, forcing him to stand upright, his back pressed against the wood. Bruises mottled his face, and dried blood clung on his forehead.

He had overheard his captors, what they were planning. He had expected to be tortured or even killed for defying Those Who Slither In The Dark, but he learned something much worse.

He was bait for his wife, the emperor Edelgard.

Gods damned bait.

His shoulders tensed at the mere idea of Edelgard rushing to his aid, completely ignoring any signs of a trap that was set specifically to capture her as well. He knew full well that Edelgard would walk through hell for those she loved. That included Byleth.

One of the Slitherers approached Byleth, a smirk crossing his captor's face as he brandished a longsword; one wrong move, and Byleth would be cut down on the spot.

"For someone who is well known as the Ashen Demon," the captor sneered, "you were quite pathetic fighting us. And now, you're going to help us capture our true prize."

Byleth's eyes narrowed, his famous death stare that had frightened even the bravest of warriors piercing straight at his kidnappers. Some of them squirmed, while others were unaffected, instead chuckling.

"Edelgard will kill every last one of you," Byleth growled, "you have made a grave mistake. Once she comes here, you will regret taking me."

The captor with the longsword, the leader, Byleth assumed, shook his head with a sigh. "That's the whole point. You're merely bait to lure the emperor into our hands. The note has already been sent, and I'm sure that she's heading here right this moment."

Byleth's glare darkened, but there was a brief fear that clouded his expression. As much as he hated to admit it… he was right. Edelgard would be willing to throw her life away if it meant keeping Byleth safe.

And he absolutely despised how these bastards used that to their advantage.

"If you harm her," Byleth barked, "I'll cut you all down. I swear it."

"How are you going to do that? You're bound up," the Slitherer sneered.

Byleth didn't answer that; he refused to give any of them satisfaction. Instead, he snarled, straining against his restraints.

"Feisty man," the leader chuckled before turning his back on Byleth, waving a hand dismissively to one of his comrades. "Gag him. Make sure he doesn't do anything to warn her."

Before Byleth could react, a thick, filthy cloth was shoved in his mouth, before the Slitherer tied the knot behind his head. As if this wasn't enough, the Slitherer took a length of rope and wrapped it around Byleth's gag, then tied it behind the post. Byleth's head was fixed to the post, preventing him from moving his head in any way and muffling his cries more.

He glared daggers, letting out a muffled threat that was unintelligible. The Slitherers laughed at him, circling around him like vultures surrounding their next meal.

"Nice and helpless now," the leader said with a smirk, "hopefully your sweet wife comes for you soon, or else you'll end up hurt or worse."

The leader ordered the others to hide in the shadows to get ready for their guest, their fish that would take the bait soon. As they all hid, the leader glanced at Byleth for a brief second. He raised his hand.

The backhand echoed like a thunderclap the moment it made contact with Byleth's cheek. Byleth let out a muffled grunt of pain, his head remained fixed to the post despite the hit. A bruise began to form there, as he could only glare and growl.

The leader too hid in the shadows, leaving Byleth alone, bound and gagged to the post like enticing meat for prey.

Despite his worries for his wife and the humiliating situation he was in, he strained against the ropes, looking for any opening, any weakness, anything that could help him escape or warn Edelgard in some way.

The ropes didn't budge, as the post behind him creaked.

Byleth let out a frustrated sigh through his nose, his hands curled into fists behind the timber. He hated this. He hated being used to lure the one woman who was important to him. Edelgard. His El. He vowed to protect her, to keep her safe.

But this time, he was unable to. All he could do was stand here, tied up, and wait. The only thought in his mind was a plea. A prayer for Edelgard.

Please be careful, El…

_____

It felt like hours since Byleth was bound to the post, surrounded by Those Who Slither In The Dark lying in wait for Edelgard. Byleth's feet ached slightly, and Byleth wished that he could shift them, but thanks to his bonds, he was unable to. His wrists throbbed, and Byleth could have sworn that he felt something sticky and warm dripping down his wrists.

He was hurt. That would cause Edelgard to come for him faster.

He sighed through his nose, realizing that this was useless. He was useless. If he hadn't gotten himself captured, then Edelgard wouldn't be risking herself to save him.

He could only hope that she ignored the warning from the note. That she didn't come alone. That she brought Hubert, Caspar, the Black Eagle Strike Force.

If she did come alone… he didn't want to think about that.

Upon hearing boots scraping stone, Byleth glanced at the door in front of him, his eyes wide in fear as his heart rate spiked—a feeling he wasn't used to even though it had been a year since he could finally have a heartbeat.

He could hear voices screaming. A blade cutting skin. Thuds. Byleth's eyes grew wider.

Edelgard had come. And she was heading here.

Panic hit him hard, as he strained and thrashed against the ropes, the post groaning behind him. He pulled at the ropes around his wrists, feeling the warm liquid flowing down from there—blood. He grunted through the gag, low enough so Edelgard wouldn't hear.

El, don't. This is a trap. Leave while you still can.

His mind raced, as if his thoughts could somehow warn Edelgard somehow.

He heard banging from the door. Byleth's breathing hitched.

Splinters flew as the banging continued. Then a large axe went through, the blade cutting the wood.

He recognized that axe anywhere.

The door busted open, revealing Edelgard, her red dress darkened due to the blood—whether hers or the enemies, Byleth wasn't sure. She breathed heavily, holding her axe in both hands. Her eyes shifted, searching for something until her eyes landed on Byleth, bound, gagged, and harmed.

Relief filled Edelgard's face for a moment before deep concern replaced it.

"Byleth," she gasped.

Byleth's eyes widened once more, his pupils shrinking, as he thrashed against his bonds, harder than ever. He tried to shake his head wildly despite the rope fixing it to the post, as he screamed out warnings that were unintelligible.

Edelgard, however, didn't heed his signals. She instead rushed forward.

Byleth struggled harder, his breathing hitched as he screamed through the cloth. Damn the gag. Damn the ropes. He despised being helpless. Despised how he was being used to get to his wife.

When Edelgard was close enough, she fumbled with the knot holding Byleth's chest with shaky hands.

"Oh, my love," she whispered, voice low and laced with severe worry. "They harmed you… hold on, I'll get you out."

No! It's a trap! Run!

Byleth thrashed once more, attempting to push away his rescuer with wide and pleading eyes. He attempted to shake his head once more, but the rope held firm.

That seemed to have caught the emperor's attention as she stopped. She glanced at Byleth's face for a moment, too long for Byleth. With quick, shaking hands, she untied the rope around Byleth's head, before removing the cloth keeping him quiet.

The moment his mouth was freed, Byleth shouted hoarsely:

"Edelgard, trap! Run!"

By the time the warning registered to Edelgard, it was too late.

Magic below her feet glowed a dark, ugly purple, before magical chains flew from the floor. Edelgard gasped, attempting to fight it with her axe, but her weapon arm was bound tightly, forcing her to release her axe. The chains curled around her body, forcing her to her knees as she screamed from the magic's powerful shocks.

"EL!" Byleth screamed, his heart breaking as he could only watch his wife get ensnared as well. Guilt slammed into him, hard.

Edelgard struggled against the chains, grunting in pain as the Slitherers finally revealed themselves from the shadows.

"Too easy," the leader chuckled, approaching his new prize with a sadistic grin as he held his long sword.

Edelgard glared up at him, straining against the chains holding her down.

"You have me," Edelgard growled, "release my husband at once!"

Laughter rang in the room, with the leader shaking his head. "Here you are, under our mercy, and you're still protective of your beloved Ashen Demon. Predictable."

He knelt down, grabbing her by the chin as his smirk grew wider. "You caused us enough trouble, Edelgard von Hresvelg. Now that we have you, we'll make sure you'll pay."

Byleth clenched his teeth, leaning forward as much as the ropes allowed him to. "Don't touch her."

The leader sneered. "You have no one to blame but yourself, boy. Your capture has caused your sweet, precious wife to get caught too."

Byleth froze, as if the leader's words had struck a physical blow on him. Guilt hit his heart, as he could only glance down at Edelgard, still fighting her bonds, still fighting. It was true… because of him, Edelgard was captured as well, and now these damned Slitherers will harm her. Or worse.

Edelgard looked up at her beloved, a frown on her face upon noticing the guilt in his eyes. She whispered, "Byleth… please don't blame yourself. None of this was your fault."

Byleth opened his mouth, to say "It is though". But no words came out. He instead closed his mouth before looking away, the guilt growing like a weed strangling a garden.

The leader held out his hand towards Byleth, and magic sparkled on the leader's fingers.

"Sleep now, Ashen Demon."

The last thing Byleth heard before everything went black was Edelgard's scream of his name.

[cin-writes]

blood so sweet (like candy cane)

Read: Ao3 🪻 Squidge

Author: Hyacinth

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

Ship: Elijah Mikaelson/Damon Salvatore

Rated: M

Series: 'cause I dream about you in my sleep, would you ever love someone like me

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergent, Vampire Fiction

Summary:

Damon Salvatore is going through some things. One of them being his growing attraction to a certain original vampire.

Written for small fandom summer 2026 and the following events:

@badthingshappenbingo 🪻 compelling voice

@darkacademiabingo 🪻 a dash of vintage charm

@deadbingoclub 🪻 april 🪻 hiding

@fairytaleweek 🪻 day 2 🪻 beasts and creatures of lore

@fandombingo 🪻 kisses, chaos, & catastrophe 🪻 free space 🪻 the blooming hour 🪻 emotional phantom pain 🪻 winter medley bingo 🪻silent death

@monthlywritingchallenges 🪻 misadventure may 🪻 kiss

@thefairytalebingo 🪻 vampire

@secretcrypticevents 🪻 into the wilds bingo 🪻 vampire

[forgan-forge]

Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt fill: hiding an illness

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Loki (TV), MCU

Pairing: Loki/Mobius

Characters: Loki, Mobius

Additional Tags: POV Mobius M. Mobius, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s02e06 Glorious Purpose (Loki TV), AU Where Loki Never Becomes A Tree, Loki Whump (Marvel), Sickfic, Sick Loki (Marvel), bantering as flirting, Caring Mobius M. Mobius, Vomiting, Fever, Delusions, Established Relationship

Summary:

One of the dining room chairs scrape linoleum, creaking under Loki’s sudden weight. A rhythmic tapping against wood ensues. “I don’t need medicine,” Loki says. “Haven’t I made it clear enough? I told you I’m not sick, and you said you believed me. We’re beyond our days of betrayal.”

Yeah, right. Mobius turns to look at him and double-takes. In the harsh kitchen lights, his skin almost glows from the pallor. Terrible was an understatement. He looks ghoulish.

“What? You’re staring again,” Loki says.

Mobius bites the inside of his cheek. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

—

OR: Upon discovering that Loki is hiding an illness, Mobius decides to grant him space. That is, until his guise is forcibly ripped—but there is more than sickness beneath.

Link to Fic: “Will Pull It Taut (Nothing Let Out)”

[instanteggsalad]

BTHB - Addiction/Withdrawal

My pleading hands, your shaking head

Summary:

Carter follows behind him, feigning quiet composure, but doing a poor job at concealing the whirlwind of anxiety Peter knows is rippling just beneath the surface. Once again, he’s reminded of a much younger version of the man before him, one who bled the need for his mentor’s approval after each and every transgression, driven frantic by the need to make up, to convince Peter that he had a handle on things.

Peter hates to see a flicker of that returning now, under circumstances that pose no easy fix.

—

Alternatively, Peter is the first to discover Carter's drug use.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

After heavy procrastination I finally got around to starting a BTHB! I’m so excited to beat up my favorite fictional character 😩🙏

I’ve had the idea for this fic in my head for a while, and I’m so happy to have the first chapter completed! Stay tuned for more 😁

@badthingshappenbingo

[kokica1]

Caught, Released

Fandom: Project Hail Mary

Summary: Having a panic attack is no fun. Getting stabbed through the stomach by a rogue pipe also isn't very fun, either, in Grace's opinion, and yet here he is. Pinned down, freaking out, unable to think or breathe with the past catching up.

Through it all, though, Rocky won't leave his side.

BadThingsHappenBingo Fill: Bloodstained Clothes

@badthingshappenbingo