the face of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and what people write him doing with the other guy in this equation vs the face of a man who probably does not know what fanfic is and definitely does not know they are number 5 in the entire aew ao3 fandom
i have no idea where the inspiration came from for this old ass au, but i’ll take it
phantom pains are too much for darby.
[mini drabble]
Darby’s senses are gone.
At least, he thinks they are. He can’t see himself, he can’t feel anything move, and nothing else seems to work.
Realistically, it should be calming. Peaceful, really, in his state.
But there’s this sense of dread in his head, wherever it is, that keeps growing. It blooms down his body, to each crevice it can nestle into. There’s something wrong here. He just can’t put his finger on it.
A thud from somewhere cracks in his ears like thunder. He can’t hear his own cry, but he knows it must be there. He feels the shadow of it.
It happens again. And again. And again. It’s rhythmic and agonizing as each thud spreads pain, waking up every muscle in his body. He collapses somewhere, his body feeling way too heavy all of a sudden.
He starts to taste copper, and knows something is seriously wrong. Blood shouldn’t be here. Not unless-
He pinpoints the thudding. He may hear it in his ears, but he feels it starting from his chest.
Somewhere, he digs his fingers inside. They sink right in, and for the first time in forever, he feels a-
Darby snaps awake. He breathes in sharply, but doesn’t jerk. Not with the weight on his chest.
He unclenches his jaw and cautiously looks down to see what was holding him down.
Jungle Boy had once again snuck in and found his place, snoring softly as his dead weight comforts Darby in a strange sort of way.
Darby can feel a slow pump against his fingers. When he looks down, his hand is wrapped around Jungle Boy’s wrist. Right at the pulse, he can feel a steady heartbeat.
Darby carefully lets go, and slowly reaches up to his own neck. He hesitates, like his skin might burn, and presses down in a familiar spot.
He feels nothing, and sighs with relief. Still dead. Still no pulse.
Jungle Boy shifts, squeezing around him more and sighing in his sleep.
Darby relaxes finally, letting his hand drop back down to Jungle Boy’s back. He’ll deal with this problem in the morning.
[ stolen ] a quick, stealthy, and impromptu kiss snatched in secret
[ injury ] a careful kiss on a partner's wound to make it all better
[ apology ] a kiss offered as a way to apologize or make amends
If any of those spark joy!!!
(These have all sparked joy, and I have combined all three, specifically for you, from the depths of my inbox…and you know where this is set. XD 💚🖤)
*****
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"No, I mean it. I'm so sorry—"
"Darby, it's okay."
Darby opens his mouth to call bullshit, then snaps it shut. It's not like he needs to advertise any more than he already does—or at least feels like he does. People know about them, of course, but not everyone, and they don't…know. They don't talk about it, they just can't keep their hands off each other.
Literally. Like now, with Darby standing beside where Jack's sitting on the table in medical after their title match, their hands forming a little pile between them. Tangled fingers, palms finding their way together and apart again as they keep adjusting for comfort without ever breaking contact. Jack occasionally listing to the side to press his shoulder to Darby's, Darby curling fingers over Jack's knee before slithering away again.
"It was fun, though, right?" Darby asks hopefully, moving to stand in front of Jack so he can rest his hands on either side of Jack's hips as he leans in. "You, me, in the ring, tangled up together…"
Jack's cheeks go bright pink over his scruff, and Darby's thrilled he talked him into trimming the beard so he can better see the flush creeping higher when he's getting worked up.
"Darby…"
"Don't think I didn't catch you feeling up the bruises you left on my goddamn neck, baby—lucky for you, Gabe Kidd tried to strangle me last week so nobody twigged that they were hickeys."
Jack's expression goes from sweetly embarrassed and aroused to that smoldering fury in a heartbeat. He looks every inch the predator as his lips quirk to bare his teeth, reopening his split lip to stain his teeth just a little, and Darby's heart races with how badly he wants.
"I will gouge out his eyes. I'll bury my knife in his skull for—"
Darby leans in and kisses him—quick enough to escape notice, careful not to apply painful pressure to his wound, lingering long enough to neutralize the acid burning in Jack's blood. He knows, because Jack kisses him back, discreetly tangling one of his hands up with Darby's.
When they part, Jack's eyes are slow to open—but he's all pink cheeks and sweet smiles again, the fury dwindling to a low burning fire deep in those warm brown eyes.
"Darby…"
"It was fun. Right?"
Jack rolls his eyes, biting his lower lip with a smile.
"…it was a lot of fun." He confesses. "And I did win."
"Yup." Darby replies, popping the final sound between his lips. "And still your National champion."
"…so I'm honestly not bothered about the fat lip if…"
Darby raises an eyebrow. "If…?"
"If…you give me a shot at the world title when you beat MJF."
Grinning, Darby stops caring who sees: he frames Jack's face between his hands and leans over to kiss his forehead.
