#but characters in constant agony just scratch an itch

[lepusrufus]

I was gonna throw this in a list of hcs but actually I wanna give it its own post bc I'm very normal about Widow and what's been done to her

I know the more widely accepted idea is that Widow has some inhuman strength and agility due to all the procedures she went through, but what if it's actually the opposite? Her blood flow is so slow her body barely gets the minimum amount of oxygen through it to survive. It makes her lethargic and chronically exhausted because she's always on that fine line between surviving and dead. It helps her keep deadly still when sniping, with great results as far at that goes, but on the flip side a burst of physical activity while running from one place to another on an assignment exerts her body to the point of agony. There's always a team of doctors and days upon days of physiotherapy waiting at Talon's hq, but that doesn't really erase the pain.

There's nanites flowing through her system but they don't really work. Not like they work for Angela or even Moira because they're not there to heal her, they're just there to keep her body from collapsing in on itself.

Her blood flow is so fucked she has pretty much zero temperature regulation and any environment that's too hot or too cold or spikes in temperature really screw with her. And she can barely even feel it until it's too late and she's either dizzy to the point of fainting or can barely move. (Yes I see the cinematic of her wearing basically nothing in the tundra. Yes I'm ignoring that detail and saying her uniforms are made to help with that thank you.)

Her lack of emotions was a carefully crafted mix of psychology work and meds specifically made for her that by this point keep her body going just as much as every other bit of "maintenance" she needs on a regular basis to survive. It doesn't always work. The human mind is great and complex and frankly she would sometimes prefer it not to be because whenever a strong emotion manages to sneak past all the walls built in her mind it leaves her frustrated and more exhausted than she already is. She can still make connections, have likes and dislikes, but anything particularly strong is like an unwelcome shock to an already fragile system.

But Talon doesn't really care because she's their perfect sniper and at the end of the day all the pain that comes as a consequence is only there to make her stronger.

And to top it off, Moira loathes how Ameliè turned out.

She didn't have that much of a hands on role in the making of Widowmaker, she's neither a psychologist nor a surgeon or any other kind of doctor that could do all of that, but she has been sort of an overseer to it. She's the one handling the regular procedures Widow needs to survive and the one taking note of how she handles one thing or another. And she hates all of it.

Moira used to be proud of Widowmaker, but after years of seeing basically a dead woman constantly walk the line of barely even alive, she realised that this is the complete opposite of what her idea of going against the limitations of the human body used to be. If Widow was to ever stop taking the fistful of daily meds or the medical procedures needed to keep her body going she would simply die, and even Moira can despise something that cruel.

#see i can make serious hcs too #i say while putting the blorbos through the worst situations #i love her I promise #but characters in constant agony just scratch an itch #widowmaker overwatch #overwatch #headcanon #is Moira a little ooc maybe but shhhhh i love me a morally gray tal ginger nerd #moira overwatch

[bluejayblueskies]

portrait of shattered glass

Words: 1.9k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker (minorly)

Character: Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Canon-Typical Worms, Blood and Injury, Post-MAG40

Summary:

When Jon opens his eyes again, there’s only him, staring back at himself in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself beneath all of the bandages and the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion that pulls every part of him down until he’s hunched in on himself, the only thing keeping him up being his palms where they’re placed flat against his sink.

----

Jon goes home for the first time after Jane Prentiss’s attack on the Institute and finally sees himself in a mirror.

Read on Ao3

Or read below (content warnings will be listed immediately following the readmore):

Content warnings for:

- nausea/vomiting (non-graphic, brief) - graphic depiction of injury - blood - trypophobia - canon-typical worm content (the aftermath of said worms) - use of opioid painkillers (in the appropriate manner) - mentions of gun violence/death - paranoia - mild dissociation - picking at scabs

.

.

.

Jon aches. He barely makes it up the stairs to his flat, every muscle screaming as the copious amounts of pain medicine he’d been given by the EMTs begins to truly wear off. The process of taking everyone’s statements, hearing about the worms again and again and again, had been agonizing, but he’d grit his teeth and pushed through it because it was important to get it all on tape. He couldn’t let anything fall through the cracks, couldn’t let anything get lost—couldn’t let himself get lost. Forgotten.

 Martin had looked at him with cloying concern and said, “Are you sure you’re okay, Jon?” after the tape had clicked off and Jon had become, once again, quite aware of the fact that his skin was peppered with holes.

 He had dozens. Gertrude Robinson had three. And he wasn’t sure which scared him more.

 “I’m fine,” he’d snapped, and he hadn’t been coherent enough to feel bad about it. “Please, just- just leave, Martin.”

 And for once, Martin had listened. Just given him a quiet, If you need anything, please call, before leaving Jon alone in his office.

 Alone, with the musty scent of worms and that same oppressive feeling of being watched.

 Fear and anxiety had driven Jon out of the archives more quickly than he thought he was capable of, swiping statements and tapes into his satchel at random and trying desperately to escape the smell that made his skin itch and crawl until he was blocks from the Institute, his free hand clenching and unclenching reflexively as he desperately tried not to itch the throbbing wounds on his arms and face.

 He’d intended to take the tube. He made it halfway there before the pain in his leg became too much to walk, even with his new cane, and he reluctantly called a cab.

 The driver said nothing at his bandaged face and shaking hands. Which was something, at least.

 The moment Jon finally, finally makes it into his flat, his stomach twists sharply in time with the click of his front door locking, and he barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s retching, the cloying taste of earth and salt on his tongue as his body desperately tries to rid itself of something it no longer has inside it. His hands grasp the edge of the toilet with white knuckles and he sees red blossom against the bandages wrapped around his hands, wounds reopening from the pressure of his grip. It sends agony, sharp and piercing, through his hands and up his arms, and he can’t help the whimper that slips free from his lips.

 He doesn’t move for a very, very long while.

 At some point, his hands find his satchel—strewn across the floor of the bathroom, still halfway tangled around his shoulders—and he withdraws the opioid pain medication he’d been given. It takes him five tries to get a solid enough grip on the plastic lid to unscrew the bottle, and he doesn’t think, just takes three pills dry. The scrape of the pills against the rubbed-raw flesh of his throat barely registers against the hazy red backdrop of pain that’s turned his vision blurry. He rests his head against the cool tile floor and tries to ignore the way that it puts pressure on the bandage that sits just above his temple. Or the one just shy of his left eye.

 If he had opened his mouth to scream, would they have burrowed into his tongue too, into his gums, into the softness of his throat?

 Jon closes his eyes tight and tries very hard to think of nothing at all.

 Eventually, the opioids dull his pain enough that he can stand without shaking, can make his way to the kitchen and drink a glass of water without spilling it, though his fingers still struggle to maintain their grip, too much muscle having been consumed and left hollow. His flat is almost entirely devoid of food, only a few canned goods and several packages of biscuits being something one could consider ‘edible.’

 He forces a biscuit past his lips and is just thankful that he’s able to keep it down.

 Days turn into nights turn into days turn into nights, and now Jon’s standing in front of his bathroom mirror, staring into brown eyes framed with dark bags that speak of many sleepless nights spent trying and failing to find a position that didn’t place pressure on a bandage, that didn’t reopen a wound. The plasters on his face are stained with dried blood, curling around the edges, and he considers the new, pristine white bandages sitting on the counter in front of him.

 Every two to three days, they’d said as they pressed bandages and pain killers and discharge papers into his hands, either not seeing the glassy look to his eyes that spoke of a mind a million miles away or just not caring. Get someone to help you if you can. Wash your hands to avoid infection. Be careful to avoid re-opening wounds, as this will delay healing.

 They’d said a lot of things, he thinks. None of them had been about whether or not Jane Prentiss was actually dead, or who killed Gertrude Robinson, or if he was going to be next. None of them were important.

 But his arms are beginning to itch, his hands going to them absently as he lies in bed and tries to poke through the statements he’d brought home—all meaningless drivel, none of them important, none of them real, he’d need to go into the Institute soon and pick out some better ones—and so he needs to do this.

 Rationally, he knows he’s just healing. That this is part of the process, the itching, and that scratching will only make it worse, more prone to scarring. But he can’t shake the feeling that the worms are still in him, that the ECDC missed some, that Jane Prentiss is still alive and so the worms are too and he’s becoming just like her, he’s becoming a monster just like her—

 His hands find a plaster on his cheek, a large one stained in several places, and he pulls it away too-quickly.

 There are holes in his cheek. He knows this, of course, of course he knows this, but knowing that your body is riddled with holes and actually seeing them are two different things entirely. There are holes in his cheek, red, aching holes, and even though they’re closed over with scabs and halfway to healing by now, he can’t stop looking at them and seeing the worms burrowing into his skin, like he’d seen for a long, agonizing moment before the carbon dioxide fire suppression system had kicked in and his brain had finally given him the small mercy of unconsciousness. His fingers are at his cheek before he can stop them, his nails finding the edges of the scabs and scratching, like he can somehow remove the memory if he just scrubs hard enough at his skin.

 All he gets instead are red-tipped fingers and a new, visceral wave of nausea at the sight of the newly-opened sores. He runs his hands under the tap with a numb efficiency before affixing a new plaster over the wound, feeling the knot in his stomach loosen slightly as the holes are once again hidden.

 Red colours the bandage immediately, a persistent reminder of what lies underneath, and Jon has to look away from the mirror.

 It takes him several hours to get through the rest of the bandages. He manages to keep himself from scratching all but a few. One on the inside of his wrist, before he can stop himself; another on the side of his hip, deeper than the others, the itch coming from within his bone and nearly consuming him with the need to rid himself of it. The one on his leg, messy from the corkscrew and with lasting damage that has him leaning on his newly-acquired cane when he walks. It places an unfortunate amount of pressure on the hole that lies in the centre of his right hand, nearly emerging through to the other side. That one—the one on his leg—itches the most, though of all the wounds now covered by bandages, that’s the one he’s most certain is simply a hole, devoid of anything that may be lurking beneath.

 Thoughts of corkscrews and tapes and a strong arm around his shoulders, guiding him through the dark, flash behind his eyes like stop-motion pictures. He closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in them, to remember what it felt like to not know.

 To not know that one of the people he’s spent months working with and getting tea from and eating cake and wine and ice cream with is a murderer. And that he’s probably next.

 When Jon opens his eyes again, there’s only him, staring back at himself in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself beneath all of the bandages and the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion that pulls every part of him down until he’s hunched in on himself, the only thing keeping him up being his palms where they’re placed flat against the countertop.

 They’re going to scar, he thinks numbly. A living reminder of the way the worms felt as they squirmed beneath his skin. A constant mark of terror.

 He considers, for a moment, calling Tim. Tim would understand. Tim had been there. They could sit on Tim’s couch and watch some horrible movie that Tim had picked because Jon, you chose the movie last time, don’t you remember? and eat greasy pizza that always upset Jon’s stomach if he had more than a few slices.

 Someone killed Gertrude Robinson.

 Or Sasha, Jon thinks. Sasha had always been reliable; he could trust Sasha to get the job done, even when he didn’t quite understand how to get it done himself. Sasha could sit him down and they could talk and he could finally unravel the dark, twisted knot of anxiety and fear that’s been building in his stomach since he woke up with half his body encased in bandages. Sasha could help him.

 Gertrude Robinson was shot, three times in the chest, in the tunnels beneath the Institute.

 Even Martin. Martin, who brings Jon tea even though Jon doesn’t ask for it and who wields a corkscrew more adeptly than he wields his university degree. Martin, who apologises for such little, insignificant things but who still gets that sharp, demanding tone to his voice when he’s scared or frustrated or both. Martin, who offered to help Jon, who asked if he was okay despite Jon’s increasingly sharp retorts as the painkillers worked their way out of his system.

 Martin, who found Gertrude Robinson’s body in the tunnels, surrounded by tapes and with three metal bullets buried in her chest, put there by someone in the Institute.

 Jon turns away from the mirror, retrieves his cane, and leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t look in the mirror for the rest of his required bed rest, only catching his reflection once as he’s preparing to return to the Institute, his suit jacket too-tight against the healing wounds on his arms.

 His face is still peppered with bandages, hair pulled back to reveal another sitting just behind his ear, and he looks tired. So, so tired.

 He looks away. The click of the front door closing behind him as he leaves his flat sounds identical to the safety of a gun, clicking off.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #the magnus archives fic #jonathan sims #my writing #my fic #i won't tag all of the cw here as there's quite a few so please mind the ones listed before the fic/in the end notes on ao3!

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind

Edit: I think I fixed it now, should make a little more sense.

I was listening to I Lost a Friend and it made me me think about Lambert and Aiden for some reason. Why, you may ask, well I don’t know. This is just my poor attempt at what happens after Aiden‘s death (spoiler?), Lambert coping with the loss and remembering. This thing was sounded better in my head so, is it terrible? probably, I mean I’m trash, not the sexy kind. Attention please: I’m a sucker for feedback, give me all the feedbacks, I want to know if you liked it, hated it or if it’s so bad you stopped reading after 5 lines. 

Attention please, pt2: this is hardly canon, obviously, and it’s also surely out of characters but I mean no disrespect, sorry if it offends you. Leave me a comment or message me to tell me where did I go wrong and I’ll be a very happy cookie. It was originally longer but pt2 is still wip. Thanks to any single person that will spend their time reading it, I’ll love you forever <3

***

There’s no body and there’s no grave. Dead Witchers? It doesn’t make sense to have a grave for something that already filled people’s nightmares when it was alive. There was a space somewhere, a dirty and soon forgotten corner of earth where the medallions were buried, but that was it. Not wanted in life, not missed in death. And yet, Lambert fucking missed the Cat.

For a time he wore the cat medallion around his neck hidden and tucked away under his shirt, he made the chain longer for that sole purpose, even if it was weird wearing two. It seemed such a great idea until he woke up one night scratching and clawing at his chest, cause he felt like there was not enough air in the entire forest for him to breath in and the cold eyes of the cat were definitely moving, watching him, twitching and staring like they expected something from him but he has absolutely nothing to give. Another dream filled with green eyes slowly turning dull and empty, words dying on chapped lips, blood-splattered hair, and a cloud of red blooming under a familiar body. It’s not the first dream of this kind he had in the last month, Aiden’s death haunts every moment of his life except when he’s killing something. When he tears off the chain from his neck Lambert stares at it like it has all the fucking answers in the world, If he listens hard enough he’ll catch them, he just has to learn to listen.

The night is still and calm, the fire still crackling over the soft sound of the wind between the trees carrying nothing but silence. His life has always been filled with silence, noise usually meant bad news: his mother and he had to be quiet in the house to not further irritate his asshole of a father, cause they didn't want to give him another excuse to lash out at them, he was already beating them enough. Kaer Morhen was always silent, except during the trials so if the silence broke it was replaced by screams and agony and cries for endless hours. Life on the path was not without sounds, never the good kind though, cause nobody ever willingly talked to witchers unless they had a contract and monsters were harder to fight when they were irate because of the noise, already screeching and scratching enough as they were. Silence was the uncomfortable calm before the storm in his life.

Everything had to be silent to be fine until Aiden appeared. Then, the silence was comfortable, filled with a heartbeat as slow as his own, holding no expectations that he couldn't fulfill. Not that the cat was ever silent for too long anyway, but the words out of his mouth somehow never bothered Lambert cause Aiden never expected anything from him and never demanded more than what he could give. He didn't push him to talk when he felt like being on his own, he accepted his horrible habit of not thinking before speaking, and he called him out on his bullshit when he tended to lash out at anything and anyone just because he was upset or trying to protect himself. Aiden seemed to recognize the difference when he was silent because there was no need for words and when his mind was racing too fast and his thoughts were all dangerously closing in and choking him. Not only Aiden knew when to leave him alone and when not, but he also seemed to be able to pull him out of that rushing jumble of dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him and he made it look so fucking easy. Soon enough Lambert discovered that everything in his life required a huge amount of effort: fighting, living on the run, the hardships of the path, the choices always taken from him. Being with Aiden was easy. Being with Aiden was simply effortless. Traveling the path together seemed to make more sense and for once in his life, Lambert chose this. His choice was to be with Aiden, it's the only one that was not stripped from him, and the one he never regretted.

Before Aiden, he longed for winter. His poor excuse of a home was still better than life on the path, and while Kaer Morhen housed some of his most painful memories, it was the closest thing to a place and a family he ever called his own. But after he met Aiden there was not the same peace in the idea of walking up The Killer to the empty ruins for the long winter months, too much time to be on his own, and facing his brothers always made him understand how he was still not enough. He loved them, he'd die for them, but they represented everything he could never be. Spring seemed an entire lifetime away, and by the end of winter Lambert was fidgeting and itching to leave as soon as possible, the promise of seeing Aiden in Kaedwen alluring as the song of a siren and he couldn't even pretend he wanted to resist it. His brothers had their fair share of snarky comments and jokes ready for him, but not even the concern for whatever opinion they shared on his behavior was enough to keep him in the castle as soon as the snow melted. Aiden had the habit of asking him how much he missed him as soon as they were in the quiet bubble of their room in some inn or the other and Lambert had the habit of telling him to fuck off, kissing him hungrily and biting on his neck too hard on purpose, as if he was trying to reclaim something that belonged to him. There was this need under his skin to touch and feel Aiden everywhere at once, committing again to memory the map of his skin, the only place where he could lose himself. He'd notice if there were any new scars, breathing in the scent of spices and mint that now meant home to him, and always kissing with something close to reverence the long scar under his ribs that Lambert patched up himself the year before. He missed the Cat, terribly. He missed him when he was gone for two days on a contract, months were nothing short of torture. The knowledge that he'll miss him for the rest of his miserable life is too much for him to take. Aiden never hesitated before answering I missed you too.

He gave up any fantasy of sleep he may have had, coming to terms with the fact that he's clearly not going to rest tonight. Again. He stares into the fire, willing the tangled mess in his mind to sit still, but it never works when he's alone. Aiden would help, but Aiden's not here. He's not anywhere. Would it be better if there was a grave to dig? Or a pyre to build, if there was wood to collect, something to set on fire and watch it burn until dawn, maybe, just maybe, Lambert could force himself to finally say goodbye. To tell him how wrong he was about that vampire nest contract, and how he always cheated at Gwent because he's an asshole that doesn’t know how to lose, that his words always come out all wrong and I really wanted you to come to Kaer Morhen for winter, I don't care what anyone says, sorry, I love you. Will you still hear it I say it enough times now? It's always words that cause trouble in his life, words he meant to say but he never did and words he shouldn't have said and he regrets them now when it's too late to take them back. Between the two of them, it has always been a constant push and pull on a rope stretched thin by too much anger, and not enough choices.

Lambert remembers the first time they met. And the first time they kissed. The cold tight squeeze in his chest just where the medallion usually rests never seems to ease. There's this cat-shaped necklace dangling in front of him and it seems to whisper at him about how he failed again, as he always did his whole life, and Aiden could have had so much better. And it's true, cause in the middle of the night every part of him knows that Aiden deserved someone better, not someone who ran or kissed him in the middle of a rotting vampire nest. Aiden deserved the world and he couldn't even give him one winter.

*****

<<I told you it was a nest.>> Aiden extracts his sword from the body of the last vampire he killed, the one that managed to claw at his thigh. The cut already stopped bleeding by the time he catches his breath and looks around at the mess of severed heads and bodies surrounding them.

<<Why are you still fucking talking?>> Lambert is laying against a tree, there are claw marks on his chest where one of the beasts scratched his armor and his back is probably already one giant black and blue bruise considering how many times he was slammed against the wall of the cave.

<<Well, it got my leg darling, not my tongue.>> The cheeky tone doesn't go unnoticed, Lambert raises his eyes to where Aiden is standing, cleaning his  swords before he starts rummaging through their packs.

<<You never shut up, do you?>> Lambert adds growling, trying to hide the pain spreading from his side and back while he sits up, using the trunk as support. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, steeling himself to get up and prepare to finish their job and the next time he hears Aiden’s voice is suddenly much closer than he anticipated. The Cat is leaning on the very same tree, looking down at him with a vial in his hands.

<<You know you don't scare me you big stupid wolf, growl all you like. Now let me take a look at that.>> Lambert wishes he had enough strength to come up with a nasty comment or punch him, but he doesn't feel like moving anymore. The scent of the Cat so close to him is  relaxing him, more than it should be, his shadow is so close to him that if he stretches his fingers just a bit he'll be able to touch him. He wants to touch him. For weeks he has been craving something he can't have, and he knows he's not supposed to need that, though that knowledge doesn't stop him from wanting. He's convinced that the Cat sure as hell don't want to be touched by him, his attitude is just empty comebacks and nothing more, but at times it is harder to focus on that. Certain times like when Aiden is that close to him, and he's been thinking way too often about how bad would it be to kiss his...friend.

<<I'm fine.>>

<<Sure, I hear your bones cracking every time you breathe but you're doing great, I see that.>> Aiden passes him a vial and he gratefully gulps down half of it, the familiar taste of Swallow spreading on his tongue. Lambert must admit that it’s nice to have the Cat around. It will be painful when Aiden leaves like everyone else. It’s just a matter of time before he gets tired of the Wolf. Lambert doesn't believe in the Gods, he'd pray to them if he did, pray to be ready for that pain when it happens. He hopes they still have some time together before Aiden decides he can’t stand him anymore and their little agreement is over but he also knows that nobody ever stays for long.

<<Good to know you didn't poison me.>>

<<See? I didn't kill you yet, don't we make an excellent couple? Will you let me take a look now or are you scared I'll bite? I promise I won't. Unless you like it of course.>> There's nothing funny about their situation, but leave it to the Cat to flirt with him when they are stranded in the middle of nowhere 'cause their horses ran away scared. And it is fun to pretend there’s more underneath his words, except it wasn't flirting of course, Aiden talks like that to everyone. He has been warned countless times about how witchers from the School of the Cat can be too passionate, physical and most of the times unbalanced. Some mage decided it was fun to tweak with the formula before the trials and realized his mistake only when everyone involved died. Of course the bastard didn’t stop there, mages never did, and kept playing with the mutagens until the children involved lived. Well, 5 out of 13 lived, the asshole considered it a victory and sent the recently made Witchers on their merry way. Lambert has heard the story before, it’s different when Aiden tells him though, cause he was there. It still doesn’t stop him from pointing out the obvious from time to time.

<<You cats are really fucking weird.>> And Aiden doesn’t even get mad anymore, he knows there’s no judgment behind Lambert’s words.

<<Yes, comes with the package love, thank you for noticing. Take this off so I can properly look at you, want to make sure nothing is broken. >>

<<Don't need you to. I'm good.>> He'd never admit that he likes Aiden's attention on him cause he can almost believe that the Cat cares for him in some way. Almost. Lambert's mind quickly supplies that Aiden probably doesn't want to drag him across a swamp and the forest with a few broken bones cause it would take forever.

<<Clearly I'm the only one with some sense here, so how about you keep that pretty mouth shut and let me help you.>> Aiden kneels next to him on a patch of dry ground, and Lambert never really understood how the Cat could always be so attractive.

<<Clothes off, now pup.>> There’s no way he’s allowed to say something like that, more so because Lambert seems unable to resist him, and his hands are already making quick work of the buckles on his armor. He likes to believe that Aiden stares as if he was enjoying the view.

<<Well kitty, I know I'm hard to resist but you don't need an excuse to see me half naked.>>

<<Don't I? Oh, I'll hold you that promise later.>> Lambert wants him to, he'll deny it  to himself later when they're in a rented room and he's not listening to the Cat’s  breathing to fall asleep. He discards his sweaty shirts and tries to relax, fighting the suddenly kicking instinct inside him that doesn't like the idea of having someone so close when he's so exposed and he's not even clutching a dagger or two. For a few seconds, he has a hard time remembering that the Cat wanted to help him and not kill him. Aiden must sense his thoughts cause he's removing his two swords to gently lay them on the ground next to his legs, the metal shining in plain sight like some weird peace offering.

<<I'm not going to kill you, wolf.>>

Lambert turns around while the Cat silently moves behind him, he wants to say something but he's unable to put together the words to express his appreciation. It's not a small thing for a witcher to leave his weapons, he knows that very well, he's always reluctant to do the same, he's not sure he’d even think of doing it if the roles were reversed. Aiden did, and he had no reason to be this considerate with him, not a single one.

He so lost in his own though that the first touch catches him by surprise and the feeling of Aiden's fingers on his back make him jump a little, but it's his voice right next to his hear, close, so close that he feels the gentle puff of his breath on the skin of his neck that makes him shiver.

<<Just relax and be a good pup for me.>> Lambert is sure that Aiden said something else but he didn't catch it. The Cat is too close to him, his words, his scent of spices mixed with the sweat of the fight, the touch of his hand, it all overwhelms his senses in a way he had never experienced before. He desperately wants to lean against him and feel more of everything that Aiden seems to be so easily offering and it takes a willpower Lambert didn't even know he has to stop himself from moaning when both of his hands press over his back. He tries very hard to remind himself that this is not supposed to feel good, this is simply an act of kindness, a friend checking if you're hurt, it's not meant to make him feel like he's standing too close to a great source of magic and his senses are alerted, but then Aiden's hand is at the back of his neck, warm and inviting and there's no way in hell the Cat missed the sound that escaped his lips. He's cursing every God he can think of for the way his body betrays him, but then the feeling is gone, Aiden is gone, he's standing and collecting his swords again as if nothing ever happened. He knows there's a smirk on his face by the sound of his next words but Lambert is afraid he'll do something stupid if he looks up at him, so right now staring at his hands in his lap is perfectly good for him.

<<Good news, whatever was broken is already fixed but your back will be blue for a while. Bad news, we still have a pile of dead vampires to burn.>>

It takes a moment longer than necessary for Lambert to register the meaning of his words, his body still tingling from where Aiden touched him, the scent of spices and something fresh, is it mint? lingers around him. Oh he's so screwed.

<<Lambert?>> He pretends to busy himself with his shirt, just to keep his hands occupied and preventing him from reaching out to the Cat. He finally composes himself enough to look at Aiden: long and deceptively lean legs stretching in front of him, clothed in blue and covered in a layer of dust, narrow waist with too many belts tightly buckled, strong muscular chest and arms crossed over the layers of leather and armour, a scar on the side of his neck, barely visible under the dark caramel curls, green and intelligent cat-eyes looking straight at him. Lambert wonders for a minute if his eyes were that green even before he was turned into a Witcher, cause usually the colours were always altered. Wolf at best had amber eyes, at best meaning Geralt, lucky bastard as always.

<<Are you sure nothing is still broken? Cause I really don't feel like moving around vampire's heads.>>

<<That, my dear wolf, is called being a lazy ass, and has nothing to do with your not-broken back.>>

<<Fine, fine, if I strain myself I'll blame your poor nursing abilities.>> says Lambert before standing up. Aiden’s lips were curled in a smirk, he looked all too pleased with himself. Nobody should be so beautiful.

<<Oh trust me wolf, I’d knew perfectly well how to take care of you.>> Damnit. That was not supposed to sound enticing.

They start working together, dragging the bodies around and collecting the dry wood they could find. Aiden was moving quickly, keeping his hands and mind busy to get rid of the adrenaline rush. Lambert finds himself staring without even realizing he's doing it. He is torn between feeling unnerved by how Aiden managed to keep a sense of grace even covered in sweat and dust, collecting firewood to burn some fucking vampires after the shitty night they had, and the burning temptation of running his fingers through his sweaty hair down the side of his face, just to feel the warm skin under his palm. Sometimes he sees him panting with strain and when his lips twitch in the most inviting way, lips that seem to demand to be kissed, and it's a sin to leave him waiting....

<<See something you like pup?>> Aiden's voice distracts him from his dangerous thoughts, and thank for that cause there's no way he was thinking about how good it would feel to kiss the only friend he ever had. Lambert is determined to not ruin the frail bond between them just because he's probably horny. He never had a friend, especially not one like Aiden. He constantly fears losing him, he knows it will happen, but he doesn't want to speed up the process and send the Cat running away cause he dreams of his mouth. He has reasons enough to dump him anyway.

<<Don't call me that. And there's not much to like about this rotting nest.>>

<<Oh you know how to brighten the mood, don't you, pup?>>

<<For what? Burning vampires? If this is your ideal date then I'm sorry for your lovers, but I've got bad news.>> He can't seem to remember when was the last time Aiden mentioned a lover but he's pretty sure he talked about someone from the caravan. Lambert tried to make fun of the weird Cats habit to easily sleep with others from the same school as if he never spent a winter in Eskel’s bed. Lambert also knows that there's an asshole out there that left him and hurt him, when Aiden shares that story he has to stop himself from hunting the whoreson down wherever he may be and rip him to shreds.

<<And you are a real expert when it comes to dates and lovers, aren't you?>>

<<Wouldn't you like to find out, kitty?>> He wasn’t an expert, considering that he rarely even asked for the same whore in a brothel and every attempt at relations ended in his lovers running away, vanishing or dying. It was always bickering and poking fun at each other between the two of them, trying to get under the skin, riling the other up just to see who would quit first. It was nothing more than a game. He's still chastising the part of him that decided to be jealous of anyone that ever had Aiden in ways he'll never be allowed to have. There must be some lucky bastards around the Continent that kissed him, touched him, fucked him, woke up with sheets full of his scent.

<<Well, I'd love to find out. Is that a promise? >>

Lambert quits first this time, because there's something in Aiden's tone that tells him the cat is not kidding, and what if he isn't? Maybe the teasing is not just empty banter and there's a very small chance that Aiden wants him too. Lambert shakes his head, internally laughing at the absurd thoughts that cross his mind, and goes back to the pile of wood, brushing the stupid idea aside. The Cat didn't want him. It was good enough that he treated Lambert as an equal and most of the times he didn't judge him for his idiotic decisions, there's nothing more he could ask. That's more than anyone has ever been willing to give him. Aiden could have anyone in the world and he's too smart to be interested in a mess like Lambert. Nothing is interesting about him. He doesn't have bright and clever green eyes, he doesn't know what patience is and he can barely string enough words together on a good day to make sure people understood him, he doesn't smell like mixed spices and yes, the fresh tang he detects its definitely mint, it reminds him of the field behind his house when he was a child. Oh yes, it will burn like hell when Aiden leaves. If only the Cat would stop being so....easy to like.

<<Let's just burn this motherfuckers so we can get a drink.>>

<<I like how there's a we now. Any plans for us?>>

<<Gods you're exhausting, how does anyone put up with you?>> It’s one second after the words leave his mouth that Lambert realized what he said. It's one second after the shadow of anger and hurt flicker on Aiden's face that he understands he fucked up and he can see the cloud of emotions passing inside him.

<<Oh fuck, I...don't....>>

<<It's fine, exhausting is hardly the worst thing I've been called. Won't be the worst. I probably am anyway.>>

<<Didn’t mean it, fuck, I....>>

<<Save it. Not the first time I hear it.>> The pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked inside Lambert's head and stories traded in front of the fire echo in his head. 'Oh you're wrong, I'm not the one doing the up and leaving part. I'm the one that is too much to deal with and they leave. There's a reason why they say Cats are not very stable, everyone gets tired of that.’ Aiden doesn't look at him, his eyes are focused on the pile of dead bodies before him and this gives Lambert an accurate idea of how much he fucked up: it speaks volume if your companion (friend?) would rather stare at dead vampires than at you. He didn't even mean to take it so far, it was just supposed to be another joke. He would never hurt Aiden on purpose.

<<Listen, what I meant was....>>

<<Don't. I don't need pity. Not from anyone, and especially not from you. Let's finish this up and let's go.>>

<<Oh you stupid bastard, it's not that! I say the wrong things all the time, there's a reason why everyone always says I have no brain left to save my own life, Eskel is the smart one, I'm just the angry idiot, point is...>> He looks up at the Cat and Aiden is upset. His hands are clenched at his sides and Lambert doesn't really know how to fix it. He wants to walk over and grab him, hold him close until the anger is gone, and if he was a better man he'd try to explain that nobody ever taught him how to fix anything, let alone how to not break things. He can't stand the idea of Aiden being angry at him and he doesn't need to add this to the list of reasons why he hates himself.  

<<....I'd put up with you. >>

<<Oh thank you, how very generous of you. You'd put up with me like you put up with your duty and your contracts? You know what, shut up. You made it clear enough you don't like me and you don't want to have me around, I got it.>> Aiden is still not looking at him, and he sounds so different than any other time they fought before. Disappointment, that's what he sounds like. That's how every person that ever mattered spoke to Lambert at some point, usually before beating him, leaving him or disappearing from his life. He could take a whipping any day now, but he still can't take the disappointed voices telling him how much he messed up.

<<I....I don't. I mean I do like you. Not this...close to me. The longer you stay around the harder it will be for me when you go.>>

<<Do you want me to go? >>

<<I don't know, I never thought you would not not go.>> Since they decided to travel together after Temeria, Lambert has been waiting for Aiden to go, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable moment of truth. He's been expecting it like you expect a storm when you see dark clouds brewing at the horizon. Something inevitable you can't escape.

<<Why? I made it clear enough that I liked sticking around you.>> Aiden's voice is softer now, still laced with pain but less angry, less hurt.

<<Yes, for the contracts, slaying monsters is easier if there's two of us, less dangerous. >> Aiden moves too quickly for him to follow his steps and he is standing right in front of him, looking straight at him.

<<You honestly believe I kept traveling with you just because I want someone to watch my back? >> There's something in his tone he can't picture what it is, but Aiden is looking at him, and he has a little smirk on his face, so maybe this means things are not as bad as they were two minutes ago, maybe Lambert can hate himself a little less now. If Aiden leaves now, he won't leave angry at least. It's a small victory.

<<Seemed like a good idea as any. You kept sticking around. I've been trying to get rid of you but you don't get the hint.>>

<<You're not doing any better when it comes to hints dropped around. Do you want to get rid of me? >> Lambert doesn’t have the presence of mind to collect his thoughts, he’s feeling too raw, like the pink edges of the almost-healed gash on Aiden’s leg where his eyes fall.

<<What the fuck does that mean? I don't fucking know! Sometimes I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Sometimes I want to kiss you.>> It's more words than he ever had the guts to tell anyone, probably in his entire life, and this conversation was never meant to happen. Aiden never had to know, he has already plenty of reasons to leave. There must be something he can say to take back that last part, maybe Aiden will agree to pretend it never happened.

<<Then fucking kiss me you stupid pup!>>

<<Stop saying things you don't mean, it's....>>

Aiden crashes their lips together before any other question could be asked out loud. It takes Lambert the fraction of a second to close his eyes, frozen in his spot and trying to make sense of the whole thing, but it feels as good as it always does in his dreams just before he wakes up. Maybe this is not something that he needs to make sense of, so he dares kissing him back. His heart is racing too fast, and his mind blanks out the very instant Aiden's hand is on his neck. He can't get enough of his lips, Aiden tastes like the best thing he ever had, and he wants to stretch time in a slow line before them so he can savor him for a little longer. Or forever.

When Aiden moves back to put a little space between them he doesn't want to let him go, the gap there is suddenly too big and Lambert is not completely sure he can survive without kissing him again.

<<I meant it. Did you?>>

Lambert really wants to say yes, but words, treacherous things as they are, refuse to crawl out of his throat, so he just leans his forehead against Aiden's and breathes in his scent, mint, and honey, and a mix of spices that will always mean happiness from now on. He has never felt so vulnerable, but for the first time in his life, this doesn't make him want to run and hide or put on his armor. He just wants to kiss Aiden until the noise in his head stops. He sneaks a hand into the soft brown curls, fingers itching to touch what he never thought he could have, and brings their lips together again, hunger and desire pooling inside him as he roughly kisses Aiden once more. He's quickly growing addicted to that taste, Aiden's mouth is sweet and warm and he feels all of his anger and frustration melting away against him. Lambert deepens the kiss, and can't help but moan when a hand presses at the small of his back, the strength and power of the body wrapped around his own is strangely reassuring, in a way no one has ever been before. Lambert raises a hand to trace the side of Aiden's face, his beard tickling his palm and the first touch of their tongues makes him burn. Lust sparks deep inside him, making him crave more, he wants to know what Aiden tastes like everywhere, and if he feels like is skin is on fire too. Aiden pressed their bodies together as close as possible, moaning in the most sensual sound Lambert has ever heard in his life.

Aiden has the nerve of licks his lips after they part, making a scene of savoring their combined tastes, as if he doesn't know what it does to Lambert.

<<Took you damn long.>>

<<You could have said something!>>

<<Wolf, I've been saying something for the past three months. You spend so much time in your head you didn't notice.>> Lambert mutters something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like 'how could I have known' and Aiden just laughs.

<<Let's finish this up and get a move on, if we're lucky our employer will pay without making a scene and we can find a room. I’d like to do this some more without the added bonus of dead vampires.>> Lambert blinks twice, looking around as realization dawns on him.

<<Fuck! I forgot about the damn nest!>>

<<Did I kiss you stupid, pup?>>

<<Shut up.>>

He's growling at the Cat, pretending to be mad while he piles up wood and Aiden is laughing again. That is the best sound in the world.

#the witcher #lambert x aiden #witcher lambert #witcher aiden #lambden #aiden x lambert #lambert #aiden #spoilers #i think #the witcher fanfiction #this is trash #I don't know how I came up with it #things I write when I can't sleep

[avatraang]

7 and 11 for "fortune telling, reincarnation, love, and other (somewhat dubious) forms of science"

7: where did the title come from?

ngl, besides the concept of the gang going back to visit Aunt Wu, the title is the first thing I thought of when it came to this fic. After thinking of Aunt Wu and how cool of a concept that would be, I started to think of Sokka and his attitude that whole episode. His doubt towards fortune telling and anything spiritually-rooted is something that follows him throughout the series. It’s one of the things that sets him apart from almost every character. the title is entirely rooted in sokka’s begrudging belief towards these things, hence the “somewhat dubious” in the title. Fortune telling is the first thing we’re faced with, so there came the “fortune telling” part. I remembered Sokka’s little rant on how reincarnation isn’t proven except for in the Avatar’s case, and so after I decided I wanted to add a little moment for reincarnation, I put that in the title as well. the “love” part of the title is perhaps the only part I took from Toph, lol. She’s always had a harder time with that than Sokka. the name actually came to me very easily, which is SUPER RARE for me. after that, and the Aunt Wu idea (which had been nagging on me for years), the fic just flowed from there. i think that’s why i’m so attached to the title, lmao. i just love it so much! 

11: what do you like best about this fic?

The spirituality. I haven’t ever really written a lot on the concept of spirituality in Avatar, but this was something that, from start to finish, was enriched with it. We meet Toph, and she’s immediately grappling with the differences in the natural spirit of her people (to be grounded), and what she longs for (change). It ends on Toph knowing she’s scratched the itch her young self had, and on the most spiritual note of all: she doesn’t really die, she crosses over into the Spirit World. Tokka is so often written in the physical sense, and I definitely usually take that route! But it was so enjoyable to take a different approach, and look at them from Toph’s spirituality as well as Sokka’s begrudging beliefs. “fortune telling, reincarnation, love, and other (somewhat dubious) forms of science” is probably one of my top three favorite fics i’ve ever written, and it’s in large part due to the fact that it challenged me because of how different my approach was. but it was also very enjoyable to write, and i really love the end result. the quiet study of toph’s character (”even the earth moves unsteadily at times”), and the introspection of sokka’s hopes and fears (”maybe not every moment of his life has to be self inflicted agony”) is something i really enjoyed typing. all in all, definitely the spirituality of this fic! Besides Tokka, it’s definitely this work’s constant, lol.

Thank you for the ask! This is one of my fave fics, I had a lot of fun answering these questions:))

#ask #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #atla #tokka #thanks jake:')

[unfolded73]

My Heartbeat Shows the Fear (2/4) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: A canon divergent story: Patrick gets into a car accident and it brings the Brewers to town sooner.

Notes: This fic will be posted in 4 chapters, every other day. There is some description of injuries, but nothing too graphic or life-threatening.

The title is from “Overkill” by Colin Hay, which thanks to the show Scrubs puts me in mind of hospitals.

Thank you to Amanita_Fierce for putting so much time and thought into betaing this fic - you made it so, so much better. And thanks also to @high-seas-swan for some helpful suggestions, particularly on that one scene that I tore apart and rewrote.

Rated Teen, this chapter 5714 words. (ao3)

Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

Patrick first became aware of a constant, irritating beeping noise. He blinked his eyes open, his eyelashes crusty with sleep. Oh right, he thought as he took in his surroundings. He was in the hospital. It seemed like no time at all had passed since they told him that he was supposed to go into surgery for his arm. Was the surgery already over?

He looked down and saw his arm enclosed in bandages and a splint. Guess that's a yes to the surgery, he thought. The pain he remembered when he’d regained consciousness after the accident was gone, fortunately, numbed by what he assumed were some powerful drugs. He would have almost preferred some pain to this complete numbness.

Patrick had thought of himself as pretty unflappable when it came to getting injured — as a teen he’d suffered cuts that needed stitches more than once, and the sight of his own blood hadn’t really phased him. Once he’d suffered a ligament tear and knee dislocation playing hockey, and the sight of his leg bending the wrong way had been pretty grisly, but he’d still managed to joke around with his coach while he was being carried off the ice on a stretcher. None of that compared to the sight of his own broken bone protruding through the skin of his arm. That had triggered a visceral reaction, a deep, inborn knowledge from his hindbrain that screamed: this is very wrong! The paramedic in the ambulance had covered it with a bandage to keep any more dirt from getting into the wound, mercifully shielding it from Patrick’s eyes. The pain had been intense, though. ”He’s in shock,” he remembered the paramedic saying as he swam in a viscous soup of cold sweat and nausea and agony.

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked over to his right side and saw David sleeping on the pull-out sleeper chair in the corner of the room. He was still in his clothes, but he’d taken his shoes off and lined them up neatly next to the chair. The sight of David’s shoes brought a swell of emotion to Patrick’s chest.

“David,” he said. His voice was raspy, and he was suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. “David,” he repeated, louder.

David started up, lines on his cheek from the pillow under his face and his hair sticking up on one side. It made Patrick want to hug him.

“You okay? Need me to call a nurse?” David asked.

“No. Is there water?”

David nodded, standing up and grabbing a cup with a bendy straw off of a small rolling table. He brought it over, carefully directing the straw so that Patrick could take it in his mouth and suck down some of the water. It made him feel uniquely helpless, being tended to like this.

“How long have you been here? What time is it?” Patrick asked.

David glanced at the clock. “It’s 2:30 in the morning.” He pulled his sleeper chair closer and sat on it, taking Patrick’s right hand in his.

Patrick frowned. “How long was the surgery?”

“A couple of hours. Do you not remember when they brought you out of recovery?” David asked, the first hint of a smile that Patrick had seen flitting over his face.

“No. The last thing I remember was them prepping me for surgery,” Patrick said.

Now David almost laughed. “In your defense, you were very high when you first came out of anesthesia.”

“What did I say?”

“Well, you swore a lot, which was very out of character. And you said I was handsome several times.”

“You are handsome,” Patrick said with a smile.

“And now all of your nurses know it.” David squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember that.” It sounded embarrassing, but he still would have liked to see a video of it — of himself high as a kite and gushing about his sexy boyfriend to anyone within earshot. He squeezed David’s hand back.

“Mm, don’t be. You threw up and you kept saying your ears were ringing and I might’ve gotten a bit… testy… with one of the nurses when she said it wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“My hero,” Patrick sighed fondly.

“How are you feeling now?”

Patrick tried to assess how he was feeling. He had flashes of more memories — agonizing pain when he was in the ambulance and when they put in him the CT machine, but now there was little more than a dull ache. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yeah, you’re on the really good drugs,” David said, pointing up to an IV bag. “Morphine, I’m pretty sure. Also some antibiotics, but it’s the morphine that’s relevant here.”

“That explains it.” Patrick lifted his uninjured arm and tried to smooth down David’s unruly hair. “Thanks for staying here with me.”

“They would have had to drag me out of here,” David said, his voice cracking with emotion. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault; it was the other driver’s fault.” David reached up and stroked a hand over Patrick’s forehead and cheek. “Do you remember the accident?”

Frowning, Patrick tried to probe his memories, and while he did so the automated blood pressure cuff around his arm filled up, squeezing his bicep almost to the point of pain before exhaling in a long hiss. “Not the impact. I remember flashes of being extracted from my car and put in an ambulance. Some stuff from when they first brought me in here.” He looked down at his arm. “I remember my arm looking really not good.”

David winced. “Yeah. Well, look at it this way: you’ll probably have a very manly scar when all this is over.”

“The car,” Patrick said. “I had all the products from the Mennonite farms in the car.” He knew insurance would cover the losses, but he still felt a stab of guilt that he’d caused some of their precious merchandise to be lost. It would take time to replace, time during which they couldn’t earn any money from the sales. He wanted to kick himself for not watching more closely at that intersection. He’d seen someone run that stoplight before. He should have been more careful.

Shaking his head, David said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“David—”

“Let me worry about it,” David said.

“You should go home and get some sleep.”

‘Not a chance. Besides, Alexis drove me here and I sent her home a while ago, so you’re stuck with me until she comes back in the morning.” He lifted Patrick’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. David’s eyes were suspiciously wet. “Also I may never let you out of my sight again.”

“I love you,” Patrick said.

“I love you more,” David replied, “as evidenced by me sleeping on this thing.” He pointed at the sleeper chair. “It makes me long for my bed at the motel.”

Patrick felt an itch between his shoulder blades, and shifted his body in an attempt to scratch it. A spike of pain shot through his side. Broken ribs, he remembered. Right. “Ow.” He chuckled uneasily. “This is going to put a real damper on our sex life.”

David leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Why don’t you try to get some more sleep? Your parents are going to be here in the morning.”

“My… what?”

His face cracking into a yawn, David answered, “I called your parents while you were in surgery. It seemed serious enough that they needed to know.”

Patrick’s heart began to race, which unfortunately he could hear echoed in beeps from the machines behind him. David noticed too, his eyes flicking up briefly to the monitors before looking back at Patrick’s face. Mind racing, Patrick tried to sit up, and another lightning bolt of pain kept him from executing that maneuver. “What did… what did you say?”

“That you’d been in a car accident and your arm was being operated on.” David’s face betrayed his confusion. “Patrick, I know you’re not super close with your parents but they needed to know that you’d been hospitalized.”

“Yeah, I know, but… David.” This was the worst case scenario, the thing that he’d hoped to avoid David ever knowing. If he could have just gotten up the courage to tell his parents the half dozen times he’d almost managed it, then David would never have had to know that he wasn’t out to them. That he was keeping his relationship with David a secret.

Well, there was no hiding it now. Patrick looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, steeling himself, before meeting David's concerned gaze. “I have to tell you something.”

David frowned. “What is it?”

“I’ve… I haven’t told my parents about the fact that we’re… together. I’m not out to them.”

“Oh.”

Patrick winced at the hurt on David’s face. “I wanted to tell them, I did, but then I didn’t go home for Christmas, and it’s just hard to… I don’t know how to say it, over the phone. I can’t get the words out.” He swallowed around a lump in his throat. “David, I’m sorry—”

“Mm mm, no. Don’t apologize.” David squeezed his hand and then kissed his fingers again, his facial expression difficult to read. The hurt wasn’t in evidence anymore, but perhaps because David was doing a better job of hiding it. “Coming out is very personal, and it’s something you should only do on your terms. Okay?” His mouth slanted to the side. “That’s why I brought this couple home from college one time and just told my parents to deal with it.”

Patrick chuckled in relief at the way David was trying to lighten the mood, but just as quickly his guilt rushed back to the surface. “I’m not ashamed of you, David. I promise I’m not.”

David’s lips quirked up. “Yes, that was obvious from the way you talked to the nurses about me when you were high.” He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “When your parents get here, I can just be… your business partner.”

His gut instinct was to say no. That wasn’t fair to David, or to what they meant to each other. But then he imagined it, lying here in a hospital bed, in pain and a little bit high on opiates, his arm in a splint, looking up at his parents towering over him and telling them he was gay. That he and David were boyfriends. It was an agonizing mental picture.

“Maybe… maybe just for tomorrow?” Patrick asked in a small voice. He sounded pathetic to his own ears. He looked up at the IV bag. “For one thing, I’d prefer to be sober when I do the whole coming out speech.” It was an attempt at a joke, but it wasn’t untrue. He didn’t feel like he was in any kind of mental shape to talk to his parents about his sexual orientation or his relationship with David right now.

Patrick couldn’t help but notice that David had pulled away from him a little bit, but he still had an encouraging smile plastered on his face. “That makes total sense. Don’t worry about that for right now. Just focus on healing, okay?”

Patrick reached out, putting his hand around David’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered against David’s lips. “So much.”

David gave his shoulder a little pat when he pulled away. “Let’s try to get some more sleep, okay?”

“Yeah.” Patrick felt exhausted from just the half hour he’d been awake. “Okay.”

He watched as David resettled himself on the sleeper chair, twisting and turning before finally settling down and facing the wall. When Patrick finally fell asleep, his last vision was of David’s back, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath.

~*~

When the Lincoln pulled up in front of the hospital, David was outside waiting for it. He’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, noticing every time Patrick shifted in his fitful sleep, and then was woken for good at six in the morning when a new nurse came on shift and stopped in to check Patrick’s vitals and replace his IV bag. Patrick, meanwhile, was in more pain than when he’d awoken the first time, and he was in a mood to match. Alexis finally called to say she was ten minutes away, so David kissed Patrick’s cheek and told him he’d be back later and escaped.

He felt grimy, still in yesterday’s clothes, aware of his own body odor in a way that he absolutely despised. He walked over quickly to the car, wrenching the door open and collapsing into the seat.

“How’s Patrick?”

“Awake and coherent and cranky,” David said. “I told the nurse he needed to up his morphine, but they don’t listen to me.” He tilted his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

“You’re so sweet to stay by his bedside all night, David.”

He whipped his head around, looking for a sign that his sister was making fun of him, but her face was impassive as she concentrated on driving.

“Well, I couldn’t just let him wake up alone in the hospital. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, it happened to me in Singapore,” she said. “Also in Portugal, I think it was? Anyway. I’m glad he’s okay.”

“His arm is being held together with bandages and pieces of plastic and he’s in a lot of pain, but sure. He’s right as rain.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have left then,” Alexis said.

David gestured emphatically down at his clothes. “If I can’t get out of these clothes and into a shower soon, then I might literally have a panic attack.” He turned and looked out the window at the passing fields. “Besides, his parents will be here in about an hour, his mom said.”

“Meeting the parents, David!” Alexis said, and he turned in time to see her execute an exaggerated series of blinks that seemed dangerous to do behind the wheel of a car. “I guess you do want to be freshly showered for that.”

He huffed. “I have to open the store this morning. I’ll meet them later.”

“David, no,” Alexis gasped, “you should go back to the hospital. Stevie and I can cover the store for a few hours. I talked to her about it when I got back last night.”

“I can go back tonight after work. His parents will be there with him,” David said, his stomach in knots, exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs.

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, David.”

Sighing, David rocked his head back to knock against the headrest several times. “Patrick’s not out to his parents. They don’t know we’re together.”

Alexis bared her teeth like that Chrissy Teigen meme. “Oh, David. Yikes.”

“I know. So being at the hospital means that I have to pretend to just be his business partner, and I don’t know if I have the emotional fortitude to do that right now when he almost died yesterday.” He turned and stared out the window again. “Can we not talk about it anymore?”

Alexis didn’t say anything, but she reached over and patted his shoulder in what he guessed was supposed to be sympathy. They drove the rest of the way back to Schitt’s Creek in silence.

By the time David was showered and dressed and had his hair in order, he felt almost human, and he was resigned to not seeing Patrick again until the evening. He stepped out into his and Alexis’s room only to see Alexis and Stevie standing there between the beds. They turned to him and folded their arms, determined looks on their faces.

He pulled up short, indignant. “What?”

“We’re going to look after the store for you,” Stevie said flatly. “You are going back to the hospital.”

“Patrick needs you, David,” Alexis said.

“Patrick doesn’t need me lurking around, making his parents wonder why his business partner is being so emotional,” David said, turning to the mirror and probing gently at the skin under his eyes. His lack of sleep was painfully obvious on his face.

“I’m sure he’ll tell his parents once he’s gotten his bearings. But in the meantime, he needs to know you’re standing by him,” Stevie said.

“That is a lot of sincere emotion coming out of your mouth, Stevie. Did you hit your head?”

“Fuck off,” Stevie said.

“You could also go by Patrick’s apartment and pick up some of his stuff,” Alexis said. “If he’s going to be stuck in the hospital, he’s going to need some comfy pajamas, and some changes of underwear. And a book or something.”

Okay, even David had to admit that was a good idea. He blew out a breath and crossed his arms, mirroring Stevie. “Are you sure you can handle the store?”

“Ugh, David, we’ve done it before,” Alexis said, stomping her foot. “Now go!” she said, shooing him out the door.

“Wait, I need you to do something else for me,” he said. “Can you contact the police and find out where his car was taken? I need to see if any of the things in it are salvageable.”

Stevie nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

He made a quick stop at the apartment and packed a duffel bag for Patrick: pajamas, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, underwear, a book from Patrick’s nightstand, and his toiletries from the bathroom. He packed Patrick’s phone charger, although he wasn’t sure if his phone had survived the crash. He started to put in Patrick’s favorite hoodie, but then he remembered that Patrick might not be able to get anything long-sleeved over his arm. Instead he grabbed the afghan from the back of the sofa, figuring that would have to do if Patrick was chilly in his hospital room.

The nurse at the front desk of Patrick’s floor recognized him, waving him through. It occurred to him that after yesterday, one of the nurses could inadvertently out Patrick to his parents.

David’s first impression of Patrick’s parents was of blue sweaters. I guess that’s where Patrick gets it, David thought as he hesitated in the doorway to Patrick’s room. The Brewers were standing by his bedside, his mother touching the top of his head affectionately. It was a perfect family tableau that he was loath to interrupt, but he couldn’t exactly linger in the hall all morning.

“Hey,” he said, stepping hesitantly into the room. “I’m David Rose,” he said by way of introducing himself. His eyes drank Patrick in, cataloging again the small cuts on his face. His instincts told him to go over to Patrick, to touch him, but he couldn’t do that now. Instead he stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed like an alien who didn’t know how to exist in the presence of humans.

“David! I’m Clint Brewer,” Patrick’s father said, holding a hand out for David to shake. David shifted his bag over to the other arm and suffered the overly firm handshake Clint gave him.

“And I’m Marcy. David, thank you for calling us last night.”

“Of course.” He turned to Patrick. “I went by your apartment and packed some…” He panicked. Was knowing where Patrick kept his things a tell? I mean, it wasn’t a big apartment; he probably could have figured it out even if he wasn’t over there all the time. “Some stuff for you.”

Patrick gave him a fond look. “Thanks.”

David fixated on the least intimate thing in the bag. “I grabbed your phone charger, but then I wasn’t sure if you even have your phone.”

“Yeah, I have no idea where it is. Still in the car, probably, and who knows where that is.”

“Stevie is looking into it,” David said.

“Thank goodness Patrick has you, David,” Marcy said, holding her hands out for the bag, so David surrendered it to her.

David met Patrick’s eyes, and then quickly looked away. “I’m just trying to be a nice person, Mrs. Brewer.”

Patrick snorted, suppressing a laugh.

A doctor David hadn’t seen before breezed into the room and picked up Patrick’s chart. “How are we feeling today, Mr. Brewer?” he said as his eyes scanned over the chart.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Patrick muttered.

The doctor moved over toward Patrick’s injured side, forcing David to step out of the way. He watched with morbid fascination, unable to avert his eyes, as the doctor examined Patrick’s arm, then his side where presumably his broken ribs were. David caught a glimpse of terribly bruised skin under Patrick’s hospital gown, and he flinched. Pain was evident on Patrick’s face.

“No sign of infection; that’s what we are concerned with most with this kind of injury, so that’s a great sign,” the doctor said. He then checked Patrick’s pupils and asked him a few questions, making some notes before clicking his pen and putting it away. “Did they explain the surgery to you yesterday, Mr. Brewer?”

Patrick nodded. “Sure. That it had to be done quickly to prevent infection.”

“Right. We did what’s called an open reduction and internal fixation in this case. Metal rods were inserted which will allow your bone to fully heal.”

“Metal rods?” David asked, and then worried about how worried he sounded. Business partners shouldn’t sound so worried, he thought.

“How about that, you’ll get to set off the machine every time you fly,” Clint said, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s routine,” the surgeon said, putting Patrick’s chart back on its hook. “If you continue to show no sign of infection tomorrow and the wound is healing well, we’ll go ahead and put a cast on it so that you’ll be able to move more freely.”

“Am I going to regain full use of my arm? I play baseball and—”

“And guitar,” David interjected, his stomach queasy at the idea that Patrick might never be able to play again.

The surgeon smiled. “Well, you’ll definitely be on the disabled list for the rest of the season, but there’s no reason that with a little bit of rehab you won’t be able to do everything you’re used to doing after a few months.” He gave Patrick a corny thumbs-up gesture. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “How much longer before I can go home?”

“Well, that’s for the attending physician to decide, but I’d say tomorrow is a distinct possibility.”

“Thank you so much,” Marcy said as the surgeon gave them a wave and rushed out of the room as quickly as he’d rushed in.

David wasn’t sure what to do. There was no reason for him to stay now that he’d delivered Patrick’s belongings, and if he did stay, Patrick’s parents would probably wonder why.

“Is the store closed?” Patrick asked him. He had dark circles under bloodshot eyes, David noticed. He could probably use some more sleep.

“No, Alexis and Stevie are there,” David said.

“That’s your sister, and…” Clint asked.

“And my best friend.”

“Well, it’s very nice of them to help out,” Marcy said.

“Yeah.” David fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. “So I should go…”

“Do you have a hotel booked here in Elmdale?” Patrick asked his father.

“Not yet; we came straight here. I guess we need to find a place before we collapse,” Clint replied.

“Actually, I had an idea,” Marcy said, “if you don’t mind, sweetheart.”

“What?” Patrick asked.

“One thing you’re going to need when you get out of the hospital is food that’s easy to heat up. I was thinking we could stay at your apartment and I could use the kitchen to make you some meals and fill up your freezer before you get home.”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that—”

“Patrick, I want to. There isn’t a lot we can do to help, but I can at least do that.”

Patrick looked at David, and all David could do was shrug. It sounded like a good idea, actually, but he could also think of a few reasons why Patrick wouldn’t necessarily want his parents spending time unsupervised in his apartment.

“I can take them to your place, and… straighten things up.” David said, looking at Patrick pointedly to make sure he understood his meaning.

“Oh, we don’t care how messy it is,” Marcy said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No, that’s a good idea,” Patrick said.

“It’s no trouble,” David added. “It’s on my way back to work. You can follow me in your car.”

“Thanks, David,” Clint said, clapping him on the back.

“Is there anything else we can do for you this morning, sweetheart?” Marcy was still at Patrick’s side, stroking his hair. David felt a stab of jealousy that he couldn’t stroke Patrick’s hair right now. Or kiss him.

“No, I’m good. I’m just going to get some more sleep, I think,” Patrick said.

“I… um… brought the afghan from your apartment.” David gestured toward the duffel. He wanted to spread it over Patrick’s legs, to tuck him in securely, but instead he stood to the side and watched Patrick’s mother doing it. Then he had to settle for a little wave as the three of them left Patrick’s hospital room.

“I’m just going to run to the restroom before we go,” David said, already pulling out his phone before he’d cleared the door to the men’s room.

911, he texted to Stevie. Need you to go to Patrick’s apartment and remove any evidence of our relationship IMMEDIATELY. There’s a spare key in the top drawer of the desk in the back of the store.

Stevie: why?

David: I’m bringing the Brewers over there. We’ll be there in 40 minutes.

Stevie: check. what should i be on the lookout for?

David: Photos, mainly. And there’s a shelf with some of my clothes on it.

He groaned to himself and then added, Make sure we didn’t leave lube out anywhere. Like the bedside table or on the floor next to the bed.

Stevie: gross. if I have to pick up a used condom, you’re going to pay.

David: What kind of animal do you think I am??? Although maybe also empty the trash. Thanks, I owe you.

She didn’t respond to that, but he’d have to assume she’d get the job done.

Stevie dispatched on her errand of subterfuge, he returned to find the Brewers in the lobby. “I’ll be driving an enormous black boat of a car; you can’t miss it,” David said to them as they walked out into the sunshine.

Once they were on the road, David’s attention bounced from the road to his speedometer to his rearview, making sure the Brewers were still behind him. By the time they got to Patrick’s apartment building, he was a tight ball of tension.

He had a text from Stevie waiting for him when he picked his phone up and looked at it. mission accomplished. who needs that many kinds of lube? im mentally scarred and also very curious.

“This seems like a nice neighborhood,” Marcy said, looking around.

David thought about the recycling bin he’d seen a couple of times outside the building that was full to overflowing with liquor bottles, and about the couple downstairs who had screaming fights on Saturday nights, but didn’t think either of those were anecdotes he should tell, particularly because they would indicate how much time David had spent in Patrick’s apartment already. Instead he just agreed noncommittally as he led them up the stairs.

It was only as he stuck his key in the lock that he realized that having Patrick’s spare key was one thing, but having it on his key ring with his keys to the store and his room key at the motel was quite another. He winced as he opened the door, hoping they hadn’t noticed.

“So this is Patrick’s place,” he said unnecessarily, his eyes straying to the mantel and then to the desk. Stevie had done her job — the photos of him were gone. His eyes raked over the shelving next to the bed and zeroed in on the shelf where he’d had a couple of sweaters and a pair of jeans. It was empty.

“It’s not very big, is it?” Clint laughed. “But Patrick never has been someone who kept a lot of things.”

David wanted to agree vehemently — the only reason the apartment didn’t look much more spartan was David’s influence — but he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. “So here’s the key,” he said, unclipping it from his keyring and handing it over. So much for not drawing attention to his key ring, he thought. “There’s a grocery store, Brebner’s, that’s not far away. And you can get fresh produce at our store,” he added, which made Marcy’s eyes light up. “I should change the sheets for you,” he said, turning to the bed.

“We can do that, David. You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

“Nope! It’s no trouble,” he said, and he knew he sounded manic, but there was no way on God’s green Earth he was going to let Patrick’s mother touch the sheets that were currently on Patrick’s bed. “I help my friend Stevie change sheets at the motel sometimes,” he said as he quickly stripped the bed. “I’m very good at it.”

“Oh, Patrick mentioned the open mic nights,” Clint said, pointing at the framed poster on the wall. “Did you know he used to play at an open mic night in high school?”

David finished stuffing the dirty sheets into the hamper and grabbed a clean set from the shelf. “Mm hmm, he mentioned that.”

“I’m glad he’s picked it back up. I think he’d stopped playing guitar for a while before things ended with—” Marcy stopped herself, like it just occurred to her that she maybe shouldn’t be gossiping about her son’s past love life with his business partner.

“Rachel?” David supplied as he stretched the fitted sheet out over the mattress. Marcy came over and grabbed the other side, looking relieved.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew about that,” she said, putting her corners of the sheet on as David did the same on the other side.

He nodded, remembering the worst week of the last year (until this one). “I do.” Then felt like he needed to explain knowing it. “All those hours of working together, you end up telling each other things.” Although not, apparently, that he isn’t out to his parents, David’s brain supplied.

“Thanks for all your help today, David,” Clint said. “We really do appreciate it.”

David stifled a wince and nodded, trying to approximate a smile.

~*~

“Marcy, you don’t have to start cooking right this minute,” Clint said once they had the groceries unpacked. “You’ve barely slept in the last 36 hours.”

“I want to at least get a lasagna put together,” she said, organizing the ingredients for her meat sauce on the counter and then opening cabinets, looking for an appropriate saute pan.

“Well,” Clint said with a sigh, “give me the garlic and onion and I’ll prep them for you.”

Marcy fiddled with the knobs on Patrick’s stove until she had the correct burner heating up. “His store certainly was beautiful,” she said, thinking back to their brief visit that afternoon. “I never imagined that Patrick could put something like that together.”

“Well, he did tell us that he mainly handled the financial side of things, so I suppose the look of the place is down to David.”

“I guess that’s true.” She unwrapped the package of ground beef, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“He’s going to be okay, honey,” Clint said. “Don’t worry.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell a mother not to worry, Clint Brewer.”

She put the ground beef into the hot pan and began breaking it up with a spatula.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Clint said. “I think David might have a crush on our son.”

Marcy frowned at him. “You know, it’s not okay to assume someone is gay just because they’re… you know. Effeminate.”

“It’s not that.” Off his wife’s skeptical look, he conceded, “Okay, it’s not just that. It’s the way he looks at Patrick. You didn’t see the way David looked at our son?”

Marcy blinked, trying to remember. She’d been so focused on Patrick, she’d barely looked at David while they were in the hospital room with him. “I guess I didn’t.”

“Well, I think there are some unrequited feelings there,” Clint said.

She mulled that over while she continued to put her meat sauce together. It wouldn’t be good for their business relationship if what Clint said was true. She wondered if Patrick knew, and if so if it made their relationship awkward. David seemed like a respectful person; surely he wouldn’t do anything to make Patrick uncomfortable at work.

Marcy was still worrying about it when she was brushing her teeth in the bathroom that night, beyond exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. She wasn’t sure what impulse made her reach out and open Patrick’s medicine cabinet.

“Hasn’t Patrick been saying he wasn’t seeing anyone?” she asked Clint as she got into bed next to him.

He was already half-asleep. “Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got a mostly empty box of condoms in his medicine cabinet,” she said.

“Marcy, you shouldn’t snoop.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You didn’t mean to open his medicine cabinet?” he yawned.

“It’s a big box.”

“Marcy.”

“Okay, sorry.” She curled up on her side.

“Maybe he hasn’t had any relationships serious enough to tell us about,” Clint reasoned.

She didn’t want to have to think about her son that way, having casual, meaningless sex instead of a real relationship. That wasn’t what she wanted for him. It was why she’d encouraged him to patch things up with Rachel in the past. And while she now believed Patrick when he said things were really over between them, she still hoped he would find someone else who would love him the way he deserved to be loved. All night as she slept, her hopes and worries for her son monopolized her dreams.

Chapter 3

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek ff #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #my fic

[iwhumpyou]

BTHB: Magical Curse

Rose - requested.  Origami rose - filled.  As a reminder, anyone can request any square, any character, any universe!

So I did two out of three, because, like I said, I have no self-control and I tend to always choose the option ‘do everything’.  I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist.  Kyran.  (Taglist: @i-see-so-many-beautiful-stars​.)

It’s All My Fault.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Kyran rubbed at the back of his neck as he shuffled into the kitchen.  He was annoyed and restless, and the combination was particularly dangerous when he had companions.

But none of them reacted to his seething, frustrated shouts, or his bitter, poisonous quips, or even his normal sneering taunts, darker than they were before.

No, they did react. They just didn’t react in the way Kyran expected.  There were no murderous threats, no lunges, no vicious insults.  There were a lot of glares and choked-off words and tightened fists and guilt.

There was a lot of guilt.

Kyran was almost gagging on it – in addition to Rae’s foul mood, the simmering tensions between Gabriel and Elizabeth, and his near-constant fatigue, the house had become almost unlivable.

Unfortunately, he had nowhere else to go.  And, even if he did, he’d burned through the wards in the cavern on too-little energy and too-little sleep and even the slightest touch of magic was agony, like cotton on a wound rubbed raw.  Adam and Gabriel had made it clear that they were willing to use physical force to keep him here, and malnutrition and insomnia did not make for great physical prowess. 

Kyran slammed the glass on the counter perhaps a little too hard, but it didn’t break, and he filled it with the water jug until it was almost overflowing.

He had the urge to push it over and watch all the water spill out.  He restrained himself, and bent down to lap at the glass until it was empty enough that he could lift it without spilling.

When he straightened and turned, he was met with Elizabeth standing in the doorway.

Kyran raised an eyebrow. Elizabeth stared him, her expression blank.  As he watched, it twisted, warping into disgust.

“It’s just a glass of water,” Kyran said, almost amused.  It figured that the princess would be a snob.

“No,” she said, her voice harsh, grating, cold.  Kyran frowned, his smile dying.  “It’s just a piece of trash.”

Kyran actually took a step back at the venom in her tone. 

“Excuse me?” he croaked, shocked.  Elizabeth strode further into the room, her gait fluid and purposeful.  Kyran noticed that she had a knife.

“You heard me,” Elizabeth snarled, “Demon.  You dare to blame my fiancé for treating you like the scum you are?”

“Excuse me?” Kyran repeated, significantly more outraged.

“You are going to learn your place,” Elizabeth promised, and Kyran abruptly remembered that this was the legendary warrior princess that had led the angel armies into battle.  “And I’m going to teach it to you.”

She advanced and Kyran scrambled for the other door, running as fast as he could.  Was it the resurrection?  Was it a side effect of the orb?  They really should’ve done more research on that.

Or was this who Elizabeth really was?  Perhaps madness ran in the family.

Unfortunately, Kyran didn’t particularly like his chances if he actually killed her this time around – if he even could – and he continued his race through the hallways, hoping to find someone to help –

He nearly crashed into Gabriel as he spun around the corner and he flailed wildly before he caught himself. “Gabriel,” he wheezed, panting, “Your girlfriend’s gone mad, she –”

He didn’t see the punch until it connected and he stumbled back into the wall, eyes wide as he clutched his now-bloody nose.

“I should’ve drowned you in holy water,” Gabriel said, and Kyran didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand – “I can’t believe I let you live.”

Kyran skittered back as Gabriel stepped forward, dark rage on his face – the same rage Kyran had seen when those horrific lies had spilled from his lips – and he instinctively reached for magic, to disappear –

He nearly screamed as the faint brush rebounded back, clawing across his soul.

Kyran saw a blurry Elizabeth round the corner and Gabriel paused, following his gaze.  He didn’t chance another attempt at magic, and used Gabriel’s distraction to make a run for it, sprinting down the hallway.

He could hear raised voices behind him, but didn’t try to decipher them.  His heart was pounding in his ears, drumbeats of shock and betrayal. He didn’t understand.

He paused at the stairs – maybe Rae or Lilith – and turned away, unwilling to see their expressions twist to hate as well.  He thought he’d gotten used to it, to the venom and sneers and the insults, but he’d let his guard down and now he was bleeding.

He needed to get out of here.  He needed to find someplace that was safe, or at least somewhere he could catch his breath.

He turned and headed for the front door – he had to get out, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he was vulnerable without his magic and intimately aware of how breakable he was when surrounded by angels and crusaders –

He skidded to a halt six feet from the front door.  Elizabeth bared her teeth at him and lunged.

Kyran turned – the back door then, the woods might even be better – and crashed into Gabriel.

He stumbled back, reeling, but Gabriel didn’t let him recover – his chest exploded with pain and Kyran fell.

Gabriel dropped on top of him, straddling him, a heavy weight that Kyran couldn’t throw off and he scrabbled against Gabriel, twisting, as Gabriel’s hands closed around his throat.

And squeezed.

Kyran gasped, choking, clawing at any part of Gabriel he could reach, but the angel was too heavy, too strong, and Kyran was losing air fast.

Panic welled up, his lungs burning, and Kyran lashed out, grasping magic with desperate fingers, twisting frantically to disappear, to get out –

It cut off like a door slammed in his face, and his body burned with the rejection, sores and wounds opening up and screaming –

Black spots were washing over his vision, growing larger and larger as he gasped for breath he couldn’t reach, his struggles dwindling as he faltered, his head swimming –

The last thing he saw before everything went black was Gabriel’s hate-filled gaze.

~#~

Rae scratched at her elbow, staring at the book on the table.  It was dull, dry, and so far, utterly useless.

She resisted the urge to throw it across the room, and turned another page, rubbing the back of her neck. Why was she bothering?  The book was useless.  All the research they’d done was useless.  She was never going to get her wings back, there was no point in even trying, and why the goddamn hell was everything itching – 

Rae froze, completely still, and the itching swelled and died.  It took her rage with it.

Magic.  Rae knew that the paltry wards she’d erected with Kyran’s coaching were too weak, and here was the proof.

She needed to find Kyran and figure out how to block this attack with what little magic she’d learnt.

She ran out into the corridor and immediately caught sight of Lilith.  “Lilith, have you seen Kyran?  I think someone –”

“You?” Lilith laughed, high and sharp, “Thinking?  Will wonders never cease.”

Rae stared at her. What the hell –

And then had to promptly duck a punch aimed at her face.  Lilith’s anger wasn’t rare, but she usually didn’t get violent in her rage – Rae dodged a few more attacks before it struck her.

The attack hadn’t been aimed at her.  Or, hadn’t been aimed solely at her, anyway.

Which meant area-effect, which meant hexes.  But the hex would have to be inside the house – the windows, maybe, or the front door.

Adam appeared from his room, staring at them blankly for a moment before his face twisted.  Lilith turned towards him with a snarl, and Rae ran for the stairs before their attention shifted back to her.

Downstairs was quiet and she hurried to the front door, checking for any strange objects.  Her frantic sweep unearthed nothing, either inside or outside, and her panic swelled.

She could hear shouts and bangs from deeper in the house, and ran to check the windows – they were closed in every room she peered into, and the noises were getting louder.

The back door.  It was close to the woods, if someone wanted to sneak up on them.

Rae ran towards the back of the house, passing the living room and coming to a screeching halt. Kyran was only the floor, gasping, as Gabriel choked him, dark rage in his eyes.  Kyran was clawing at Gabriel but her brother wasn’t letting go.

“Gabriel,” Rae breathed out, shocked – and then froze when Elizabeth’s head snapped up with disconcerting speed.  She hadn’t noticed the once-dead angel in the shadows.

Rae backed up as the angel advanced, and she shot one last look at Kyran before turning on her heel and sprinting for the back door.  She needed to break the hex, and she needed to do it fast.

The canopied porch in the back was covered with shards of glass.  And in the center of the broken glass was a small, unassuming, brown drawstring bag.

Rae snatched it up, nearly gagging at the oily feel of it, and turned back the way she came.  Hex bags needed to be burnt, which meant the fireplace.

She ran through the halls, ignoring Lilith’s and Adam’s fight, dodging Elizabeth’s swipe, and trying not to panic at Kyran’s sudden stillness as she raced past her brother and threw the hex bag in the fire.

For a second, it sat there innocuously in the flames.

And then it caught fire.

Rae threw her hands up as the hex bag exploded, magic lashing out. The force of it threw her into the table and cracked the mantelpiece.  There were shouts from all around the house as everyone came skidding into the living room.

“What?” Gabriel’s voice was low, hoarse, and horrified, “What was that?”

Rae scrambled up and limped over to him.  He was still straddling Kyran, who was still and silent – Rae couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.

“Hexes,” Lilith snarled, stalking to the fireplace to recover what was left of it.  Elizabeth was leaning against the wall, exhaling slowly, wide-eyed.  Adam was staring at his hands like he’d never seen them before. 

“Get off,” Rae pushed Gabriel out of the way – it wasn’t his fault, it was the magic, but it’d still been his hands around Kyran’s neck, squeezing tight – and bent over her friend.

His breaths were low and raspy, but his heartbeat was strong under her fingers.  Rae exhaled in a rush and let her head fall on his stomach.

Someone had tried to get them to kill each other, and had nearly succeeded.  Rae was coming to the startling realization that they needed Kyran more than they originally thought.

Kyran, who was exhausted, depleted, and now unconscious.

~#~

Bedside Vigil.

#whumpfic #badthingshappenbingo #magical curse #kyran #arc: orb #choked #passing out #betrayal #request fill

[existence-overwhelming]

Thy Reality Consumed

Dusty Viscera

Author - Player Characters - Doom Slayer, Demons, Ruby Rose, Yang Xiao Long, Weiss Schnee, Blake Belladonna and Bartholomew Oobleck. Word Count - 14,510 Description - One of the countless incursions carried out by the forces of Hell begins, and the timing couldn’t be any worse for those on the receiving end of it all. But so long as the surviving bastion of a bygone era remains--innocent blood shant be spilled like it did on that day.

Fear.  Among many things, fear has proven to be and still is the most effective motivator, the single thing capable of delivering utter control unto any man, woman or child. Fear drives the desperate into taking spasmodic action in a feverish attempt to prolong their life; it has a profound effect on a war, either crippling or bolstering the resolve of entire armies; and yet the most impactful result fear could bring about were in the reputation of important icons located throughout the annals of history. Examples of such terrifying individuals were Genghis Khan, Vlad the Impaler, Elizabeth Báthory, and Gilles de Rais--they dominated those of a lower status than themselves by way of intimidation, cruelty, and often psychopathic violence.  But such cruel savagery was limited to not just the malign-hearted. When the need for individuals capable of such inhumane barbarity rose, the civil called upon their most stalwart members to take up the arduous mantle of the monster. In the name of all that was morally just and good, these men and women were to spread untold horror, paranoia, and dread into the hearts and minds of all those who’d dare threaten the laic. Through this, fear could also function as a tool for the righteously benevolent. And it had been that very fearmongering icon of righteous deliverance that had quite literally given Hell a run for its money.  The unholy denizens thought themselves the pinnacle of cruel and abhorrent bestiality, but they hadn’t even scratched the surface of true brutality. As such, they were vastly unprepared for the stark visceral barbarism forced down their individual throats by the castigator of the fallen dimension.  Immediately preceding the assimilation of Argent D’nur, the bastions known simply as the Night Sentinels struck hard against the oncoming demonic legions. Betrayed and now facing an inexorable defeat, they let loose a primal fury never once thought possible by even the most iniquitous of heathens. The forces of hell were battered and routed, again and again, but with every battle, the utmost minute casualties of the doomed bastions whittled their numbers down little by little. Yet their ferocity never waned, resulting in a prolonged subjugation that only came to an end when the Icon of Sin’s advent--one aspect of the inconceivable price the exploited Sentinel had to pay--marked the final stages of the dimensional convergence. With this, the untold legions of Hell were wholly loosed upon Argent D’nur: eventually overwhelming even the stalwart guardians of the Argent Wraiths.   Despite the incredulous advantage of their numbers, however, it was not until all but one Sentinel remained standing did they shed their first drop of innocent blood. Until only the leader of the Night Sentinels, who was by far leagues ahead of their colleagues, stood as the last bastion of a doomed existence, the demonic wretches failed to lay a claw on a single noncombatant. Such was the unparalleled choler and sheer might of the dreaded Night sentinels. In the end, though, Argent D’nur was toppled and subsequently made one with the chaotic discord of Hell’s fiery landscape.   Yet even this interplanar spectacle could not fell the dreaded leader of the now fallen Sentinels. Rather--seeing the flagrant insolence in which the abominable spawn treated with their once-home, as they perverted the scenic lands and architectural masterpieces, merely invoked an even greater enmity. Such vehement antipathy gave the survivor an unquenchable desire to bleed the entirety of Hell dry--to see rightful judgement brought to the villainous scum and their vile ilk for what they did. And satiate this thirst they did, again and again without end.  Leaving naught but carnage in their wake and bringing total butchery to the foul anathemas, the survivor of the Night Sentinels carved an appalling renown among the hellish hoards. They came to refer to this force of unbridled slaughter by countless names: The Hellwalker, the Unchained Predator, the Scourge of Hell, and the Doom Slayer are but a few.  But this tale has been spun numerous times before, anyone that’s someone knows of the Doom Slayer’s one-man war against the forces of Hell and all who would try to exploit it. Not many, however, know of the countless times this force of nature followed the bloody mire’s natives through tears in the fabric of reality to squash any and all of Hell’s plans to invade and assimilate even more dimensions.  These are the tales I wish to weave for your virgin ears. So gather around and listen closely to the Hellwalker’s bloody escapades.

The crimson ether’s stagnant, torrid and muggy climate bore down on the haphazard hellscape as Hell’s ambient chorus screeched its discordant melody. Suffering interwove with excruciating agony to form the harmonious resonance of the damned, as the profuse pungency of brimstone, molten rock, voided bowels, gore and creeks of partially congealed blood neatly tied up the scenery. It was an everyday experience the Doom Slayer had long-since grown accustomed to.  Unlike most days, however, he had the commodity of constant movement to help overlook the footling sultriness. But such expeditious locomotion was stripped from him, as this was among the seldom instances when he voluntarily ceased the progress of his unremitting warpath--among the few moments where the constant bloodshed and utter extermination of all things demonic ground to a halt. Despite the anxious itch that afflicted him during this self-instated suspension of hostilities, the Doom Slayer wouldn’t cause even an iota of disturbance among the unholy populace. For he would remain in the lackluster and utmost bare bone encampment set up in one of the many alcoves littering the cliff faces of the Krueger Bluffs, a series of cliffs that bordered the Burnt Basin--a deep bowl of jagged obsidian glass that held a lake of boiling blood and dots of land poking above the vivid scarlet here and there like flaky fingertips. What brought the Scourge of Hell to this damnable basin resided at the very center of the bloody lake: a platform and grand altar constructed of flesh and bone erected atop the largest island found jutting above the opaque depths.  Amassed atop the wicked structure was an unholy legion of Hell’s crooked denizens: clouds of meandering Lost Souls, Imps, Prowlers, Hell Knights, Cacodaemons, Mancubi, Hellrazers, countless caged Pinkies, clouds of meandering Specters, and Summoners, all of which undoubtedly served the lone Baron of Hell residing among the riffraff. This sinful and abhorrent aberration lounged on a miniature throne, fashioned from innumerable skeletons, whilst examining that which laid before him. Seeing the macabre adornment that displayed its lofty position in the anarchic hierarchy of Hell decorate its sacrilegious form invoked a rage the Doom Slayer struggled to bridle. But he managed to do so, as allowing the white-hot wrath that kept his body moving to the rhythmic beat of murder would render the lengths he went to to get here for naught.  Having lost his sense of time long ago, the Doom Slayer could not recall exactly how long it took for him to arrive at his current location. Nor could he remember just how much time passed for the insidious structures to be constructed and the equally nefarious entities to congregate on top of it. All he could say for certain was that it had been quite the lapse of inactivity on his part. It proved worthy of such a lack of action, however, when the profane Archviles--creatures that served the role of Hell’s ungodly priests--finally, finally made their advent.

Huddled around the blasphemous altar, painted with a spattering of gruesome offerings, the Archviles performed dark constant dark and impious rituals. They had begun such irreligious activities quite some time ago, and none of them gave an inkling of ceasing. With a disgusted sneer, the Hellwalker tore his gaze away from their profane presence and turned it to the root from which all this stemmed. A fracture, a tear--a literal rift in the fabric of space-time made visible.  The plane of existence commonly associated with the descriptions of the land of sin was a literal hub for interdimensional disturbances. It did not happen exceedingly frequently, as such things tended to crop up whenever another plane prods the barrier, but when it did anomalies like the one the demons were crowded around popped up. Normally imperceptible to the naked eye, Hell’s natural energy--combined with Argent energy--provided such phenomena with the medium to manifest as fractures in the air, on the ground, or wherever they might crop up. When this occurred, the possibility of manipulating and expanding said rift to force a gateway connecting to whatever existence decided to stick its nose where it didn’t belong opened up. And on account of Hell’s prior history with such things, the denizens were more than happy to violate the borders set between its dimension and the rest.  Suffice to say, the Hellwalker didn’t take to the prospect as fondly as the demons did. Subsequently, whenever he caught wind of a rift’s appearance, there wasn’t a thing in all the planes that could prevent him from plugging it up. But until the abominable priests successfully forced open the passage, he could do naught but bide his time. For the only method of permanently patching up such a tear in reality required for the portal to be created first, or else the rift could simply be exploited again and again until the gate was finally opened. So, despite how it irked him, the Doom Slayer could do naught but wait for their sacrilegious rites to be completed.  But even the Unchained Predator’s patience had its limits, and such a limit was put to the test countless times as body after body of the Unwilling were dragged to the bloody altar. A good thirty bodies were brought and scattered about the profane protrusion like worthless rubbish. Each served as nothing more than a sacrifice to feed whatever demonic powers were at work. Then, after the next fifteen, something finally occurred.  Following the forty-fifth sacrifice, after the lifeless carcass joined its fellows, the already putrefying flesh began to meld together. It was akin to seeing a watered-down gelatinous mass getting manhandled, forced into merging with countless other like substances as each was malformed and twisted. Virtually reduced to mere pale white crimson playdough, the meat tore itself from the gaunt creatures’ skeletons before inching up the stony item of satanic worship. Eventually coalescing into a single mass of sinew, muscle, and visceral gore--a formless blob of meat and skin and hair and bursting blemishes under the control of the hellish priests. With a flick of the wrists, the damnable Archviles commanded the ichor to drain from the disgusting mass--leaving it dry--to form a great pentagram around them and their altar. Then the blood coagulated, before adopting an incandescent scarlet hue that soon outlined the profane clergyman, too. While glowing, their bodies fell limp and hung in the air like a slab of meat pierced by a gruesome hook. After a lapse of inactivity, their forms seized and contracted spasmodically--each unnatural spasm and bone-breaking contortion heralded the portal’s advent. The Baron of Hell leaned forward on his throne, interest piqued.   It took little time for the blob of gore to react to the Hell priest's seizures: twitching and undulating in sync with its unholy masters. Before, finally, it began to squeeze and contract all of its stolen mass directly underneath the rift. More boils and pustules popped and sprayed their sick fluid about the grey stone as the sinew and organs began to wrap around each other, developing a sort of frame around the rip. Then the rest of the pale flesh proceeded to sheath the frame, filling in the gaps and occasionally forming a hook that dug into the very rift itself. And once the organic machination became whole, the various hooks digging into the disturbed space began trembling ever so softly. Then the priests' bodies splayed out like languid Starfish, vehemently undulating as the entire manifestation of gore began to pull in all directions. Gouts of blood and other fluids spewed forth from the meaty contraption as it began to develop splits and tears here and there, but it continued to pull and tug on the margins of the rift. A ghastly screech emanated from the disturbance as if someone was peeling layers of metal away with their bare hands and only grew louder and louder with each passing second. Vivid red arcs of jagged energy streaked out from the widening rift, as the horrific squealing transcended into a malign chorus of dissent crying out against their foolish efforts to defy the sacred barrier between dimensions.  These irregular bolts of red death raced up along the stony platform, leaving naught in its wake, and finding their way onto the occasional unlucky demon--each unfortunate individual turned pitch black as their flesh was charred, before exploding into a cloud of scarlet mist. Suffice to say, all but the greater demonic entities frantically danced to avoid meeting an untimely, grisly end. Among such creatures was the Baron of Hell, who, in his boredom, plucked an unwitting Lost Soul out from the air and gingerly crushing it between his fingers. Then he regarded the priests, barked something, and curtly interrupted whatever superfluous, ceremonial niceties drawing out the profane rite. This did little to accelerate the process, however.  The visceral manifestation of unholy energy continued to strain the fissure, pulling it apart in every direction. A trembling distortion beset the very space about the sluggishly expanding opening as scrapes of foreign benign darkness began trickling through. And with one final convulsion of both the priests and the shaped viscera, like that, it was done. Splitting at the seams, effectively destroying itself, the macabre amalgamation of gore wholly tore the rift asunder into a wide gaping maw that peaked out into a black haze unfamiliar to the constant red tinted light illuminating the entirety of Hell. It was a veil of shadows unlike those native to Hell. They lacked the insidious animation, that skin-crawling fluidity akin to the dark depths of an abyssal trench. And the stark malign nature found in the hellish place’s seldom patches of shadows was absent. Unless the dimension beyond the opening was caught in a perpetual state of darkness, then it was probably nighttime. Barely visible dots of white flittered through the insidious wound, unsuspecting, before dissipating when exposed to the blistering heat of the profane plane. Snowflakes? Was the breach in existence exposing a plane currently under the effects of winter? When was the last time the gentle hue of snow and the joy of the ever-changing seasons greeted the warrior’s hardened eyes? He could not wholly recall. Or perhaps it was merely innate particles of the tear itself.  Once ajar, the Doom Slayer watched as the decorated Baron heaved his hulking form off the morbid throne and approached the portal. This opening towered over even him and stretched out wide enough to fit three of him with arms outstretched. He then turned around, slowly, to face the onlooking legion. Without warning, the hellish denizen rose a balled fist up into the air before bellowing out something--the Hellwalker’s distance kept the words from reaching his acute hearing. Then the demonic hoard joined their master’s bellowing cry, throwing their clawed fists above their head, before blindly charging through the opening. And their leader made to join their zealous stampede, but stopped and threw a look over his shoulder before passing the threshold. For a moment, the Baron’s paranoid eyes gazed in the direction of the Doom Slayer and, in turn, the last bastion glared back. But whether the demon managed to see anything or naught was never made clear, as he returned his attention to the task at hand and crossed the barrier.  And as droves of the damned filed through the gap, the Unchained Predator began moving to give chase.

The Scourge of Hell approached the perilous edge of the cavernous opening’s maw, hands tightly balled up and quavering with anger. His eyes never once broke line of sight with the artificial Hellmouth, the abhorrence burning like thriving embers in a roaring bonfire. One hateful thought prevailed above the haze in his mind like a festering wound: “These sacrilegious heathens shall suffer tenfold more for daring to defile the very soil of another dimension.”  At this point, the Doom Slayer could no longer differentiate between the causes of his vehement rage. Everything simply blurred together into one malformed haze of disdain and negative emotions, poisoning his hardened heart and nipping at the ends of his frayed soul. But this toxic infection, brought on by the abominable denizens of Hell, could never diminish the clarity of the morals and beliefs he lived his life by--before and after the fall of his home plane. No amount of taint from this hellish landscape could rob him of who he was and where he originated. In this regard, he believed with smug satisfaction, the endless droves of the nightmarish legions failed to accomplish what they set out to do. And he’d be damned twice over before he let the foul demons a second chance at achieving what they couldn’t with the lives of Argent D’nur.  A brief flash streaked its way across his consciousness, breaking the monotonous muddle of hostility and abhorrence. Images of lush greenery and breath-taking scenery interspersed with snippets of long-forgotten faces and voices. Something benign and forlorn tugged at the dulled harpsichord strings of his stony heart, for a fleeting moment it felt as if the weight of losing his home in its entirety finally began to press down upon him. But then he shrugged it off, returning to the task at hand as the old haze set back in.  For a moment, the Hellwalker beheld the machination magnetically appended to his person at the hip. The familiar sight of bluish-gray metal greeted his eyes, as well as the strobing lights emanating from the few buttons found on its handle. He carefully plucked the device from his side and brought it up to hold out in front of his chest, scrutiny divided between the interplanar rift and this tool.  It was an ambiguous shape too fickle to decide on whether it preferred looking straight and sleek or resembling the curved angularity of a dog’s hind leg. Thin crossbars curved from either end of the handle, curving and weaving together to form a bubble about the entire thing, leaving an opening on one side to permit one’s hand to slip through and grip the main device, as well as a slit towards the very top end of the thing. In the complex intertwined strips of metal resided a vague symbol: twin swords spearing a heart with an abhorrent and yet sagely benevolent monster’s deadpan visage--only the Doom Slayer knew its meaning. And a constant hum exuded throughout the metal, causing an endless vibration to reverberate the material. This device served as his weapon, the instrument of his wrath--the last remnants of technological fruit his reality bore, a dreaded Argent long-blade.  Tightly he gripped the machination, kneading one of the buttons with his thumb, before returning his stalwart gaze to the planar anomaly. With Argent long-blade clutched in hand, he approached the maw’s edge. The intense scrutiny he cast out examined the dwindling legion, finding that some of the demonic hellions were staying back to act as the Hellmouth's sentries. Good, he thought, then I shall have an interlude to wet my appetite before the main event. His feet now tittered on the edge of the precipice. There wasn’t a qualm to break the bloodlust beginning to cloud his heart and mind--the foul denizens of this place of brimstone and fire would know the fury of the Night Sentinels. Then, without so much as a second thought, the Doom Slayer took a single stride over the rocky opening’s periphery and shouldered his fate off to the laws of physics.  Akin to a javelin lancing towards its target, the Hellwalker careened through the sweltering ether. The screeching wind tore about his helmet like a bat out of hell, whipping about his bulky metal clad form like a storm, as the ground rushed up to meet him. But he never once took his eyes off of the bleeding wound, a grim sight that invoked memories he did not particularly desire to recall. Flashes and glimpses of a bygone time in a forlorn place lost to the annals of time. Each of which merely served as a reminder of why such a passionate anger continued to bathe his soul with white-hot abhorrence.  Bastions were left to guard the Hellmouth and the Archvile priests, keeping a vigilant watch over the profane icons as they carried out their sacrilegious rite. The Doom Slayer could only chuckle inwardly at the demons’ piteous attempt to maintain control, and he wondered just when they would learn the inexorable fate that befell all of their endeavors. But if they desired to walk towards the inevitability of death rather than run and prolong it, then by no means should he deny them their longing for such sublime release.  The ground below was nearly upon him, not but tens of yards separated his feet from the craggy lip that marked where the cliff faces merged with the curve of the bowl. A fleeting pang of pain pinched at the sides of his temple; an immediate stream of consciousness warned him of the proximity of the rocks below, briefly touching upon its lethality before advising him to shift the suit’s usage of its Argent energy cells’ power into the three-dimensional pressure compensation system. He complied mechanically, said instantaneous thought traversing the neural link to give the order to his armor directly. In but a fraction of a second, the energy usage of his suit’s various systems diminished as it bolstered the aforementioned pressure compensation.  A smoldering orange-crimson hue began emanating from the metallic material, highlighting his intimidating form in a frightening glow. Simultaneously, a low hum resonated from the worn metal. The cracked bloody stone below reached out to grip the last bastion with its craggy fingers, vehemently grounding the once airborne individual like a fallen airplane. A thunderous crack then reverberated throughout the dried-up basin, as the hum and glow abruptly waned until naught remained but a dull ghost of what they once were and the stone underfoot fractured. He regarded the information provided by his HUD to find his suit’s Argent Cells’ reduced to twenty-three percent--just enough to maintain the core systems as well as the combat systems. Seldom times like these brought a wicked smile to his masked face. Luck seemed determined to keep favoring the Doom Slayer, and that was quite alright in his mind.  In the distance, the Hellwalker spotted the demonic sentinels begin to divide themselves into two groups. One group expeditiously hurried to meet him head-on, an asinine attempt to cut his assault short. And the other seemed dead set on entrenching themselves about their profane priests. This saddened him, in a way, as they wouldn’t know the joy of dying together--as brothers-in-arms--but he doubted demons had such a capacity for sentimentality.  Gripping the hilt of his weapon tighter, the Doom Slayer glanced down the lip for but a second before striding forward and beginning his descent down into the Burnt Basin. Today seemed a fine day to add to the already profuse levels of blood in the lake of ichor.

The descent had been short and quick, and yet by the time the Doom Slayer’s feet made contact with the crimson sludge, breaking the thin surface skin of coagulation, the oncoming horde of hellions was already upon him. Perhaps, he thought, the intelligence of the Imps and Hell Knights have grown since I last did battle with them? There was merit in this line of thought, for the level of the bloody lake--it came up to his waist--impeded his movement. But in all likelihood, they probably hadn’t an inkling as to the fact such a sludgy substance would hinder him. He never attributed mental prowess to the lower echelons of hellish denizens.  Several condensed orbs of crackling fire careened through the vile either, trailing behind it wispy tails of fiery crimson energy, and aimed to strike him in the chest. But with a flick of his wrist and a press of a button, he swatted them out of the air and sent them plunging into the blood. The humming intensified in but an instant as a brilliant light stretched out from the device’s opening. It took the shape of a longsword’s blade, except there wasn’t a lick of flowery detail to admire. It was of a simple triangular design that extended out for several feet before tapering to a point. And other than the appearance of constant fluidity in the blinding Argent energy it was comprised of, as well as the hilt, there was nothing overtly impressive about it.  Crying out in protest, the imps responsible for the projectiles beat the ground with clenched fists before reaching back and charging up yet another volley. Meanwhile, the more courageous of the lowly demons charged in with their Hell Knight brothers--the latter spearheading it. In response to their eagerness to perish, the Doom Slayer tightened his grip on the device until his knuckles turned white and began striding through the ichor to meet them head-on. Of course, even with hampered movement, he could still move at an equal pace with them.  One of the Knights, whilst running, leaned forward and launched itself into the air, showering half congealed blood everywhere. As it sailed, familiar tails of wispy energy trailed behind not only its body but its hands as well, specifically the one it kept raised above its spherical head. Due to its sheer mass and the strength behind its initial jump, the Hell Knight came careening towards the Hellwalker incredulously fast. But the ease with which one could predict the end of the demon’s trajectory always proved to be the attack’s fatal flaw.  He leaped forward, tucking and rolling, and avoided all but the resulting impact’s spray of blood. Then he swiveled about with a sweep of his hand before hewing into the monster’s back, feeling meager resistance as the blade of energy glided through muscle and bone like tissue paper. It managed to bury half of the blade’s length into the soft flesh.  A satisfyingly agonized wail met his ears until the discordant screeches of its fellow daemons rose above it, one of which, an imp, drew nigh to melee range. The Doom Slayer grinned wickedly.  Jerking his free hand forward, he dug into the gaping maw splitting the Hell Knight’s grey skin until fingers met bone--screams of anguish responded. The Imp continued its approach. Then he clawed through muscle and sinew until he found purchase on the item he sought. The Imp got within range. With a wide smile, he yanked back on the bony protrusion he vehemently clutched before an explosion of blood and loose bits of crimson flesh and tiny white fragments to some macabre jigsaw puzzle decorated the front of his armor like a serial killer’s arts and crafts project. Snapping bone and rending meat graced his ears as the lengthy cord connecting the Knight’s mind with the rest of its body pulled free from its fleshy case with a sickening sucking of air sound., inch by inch until the entirety of the bony rope--even the bulbous head!--was freed.  Then, in a single fluent motion, the last bastion swung the grisly mace, talk about disembodied, up and over his head like a pendulum, before bringing it back down and cracked the ghoulish toy into the head of the oncoming Imp. The two met with a flourish of split flesh, shattered bone fragments, and a mixture of grey and scarlet ichor. He released his hold of the now broken weapon and watched the now spineless corpse of the Hell Knight topple over in unison with its brained comrade--they made quite an unorthodox piece of modern art.  While caught in the admiration of his handiwork, one of the few other Knights lunged forward, bringing its foot into the Scourge’s side and sending him careening several feet back. But the damned champion refused to fall prone, vehemently digging into the clay-like ground beneath the bloody lake and scraping along the lake bed until coming to a full stop, sending crimson wakes rippling across the otherwise stagnant surface. He held his head up high, screwing both eyes up into a baleful leer pointed towards the heathen. It roared in protest of the audacious scrutiny before unceremoniously dropping to all fours and leaping forward once more, clawed digits outstretched and aimed for his heart. The Imps and three other Hell Knights rushed to join the fray, three of the eight imps close enough to circle around and lunge for his flanks. And not but several feet behind them and closing in, fast, was yet another fiery volley. It seemed as though they were perturbed over something, and with the cruelest of smirks, the Doom Slayer wondered what he could have possibly done to anger them.  He flicked his wrist, flourishing the blade, before brandishing its wicked length. Oh, how he enjoyed these moments.

Pitched combat, even in its basest forms, is an unequivocal art-form of the utmost caliber. In this respect, it is anything but an exaggeration to describe a battlefield as a painting--a masterpiece composed with hues of red and black and silver and white and grey and azure and a rapturously macabre somber atmosphere. Every inch of land could become a palpable canvas at a moment’s notice, and it never shied away from depicting disturbing themes and controversial subjects. But seldom do even the artists responsible for each rendition possess the stuff required to control the flow.  Most believe the only true masters of this described flow of bloodshed are the commanders, the officers, those in charge of the warriors doing the bloodletting. This sometimes proves true, however, it does not dictate who can and who cannot direct the painting. Truly, polished medals and high-ranks do naught to appease the lofty standards of this sultry mistress known as combat. She is a cruel and covetously demanding dame of the utmost perfection, in a morbid way, that will rip a father away from his newborn babe just as thoughtlessly guide a naive child to safety through the clash of fire. As such, only the warriors with the utmost grit and audacity can force this salacious seductress to bend the knee and obey like a submissive bitch.  Among these scant individuals, the Doom Slayer ranked among the greatest. This icon of righteous vengeance never stopped, not even for a second, until fear and terror became synonyms for the psyches of his enemies. He never ceased the bloodletting until the gallons of crimson could fill an ocean. And there was never a moment in recent years that he refrained from splitting flesh and tearing limbs, never once held his punches, and always sent heads rolling. Which is why he garnered the utmost respect and obedience from the scarlet-cloaked mistress.  And this submissive confidante was particularly pleased with how this addition to the Hellwalker’s collection seemed to be panning out.  With a deft twist of the hand, the Doom Slayer brought up the humming blade to ricochet several of the volleyed smoldering shots. He could not deflect all of them, though, but the searing anguish that singed each point of impact simply fueled his bloodlust. These few returned phosphorous-like orbs zipped through the air, careening into the sunken sternums of the imps closest to him and boring and preemptively cauterizing a hole that left the profane denizen's chest cavity utterly exposed. They crumpled out of sight, bodies dropping below the ichor before their still breathing brethren could do so much as blink in disbelief. But the vehement choler that pierced their outraged screeches and guttural roars provided everything the Slayer could have wanted and more. These remaining Imps impulsively leapt forward, two on either of his flanks, with claws outstretched and wicked dagger-like teeth bared. A whitish red foam trailed from the corners of their craggy lips as the hellish plane's natural luminescence reflected off the bloody water's surface and brought out a malevolent sparkle in their eyes. Eyes, windows to the soul, were so full of vim and vigor. If you could not discern the level of life and resolve a man had through the manner in which he carried himself, then one need look no further than the eyes. And, oh, how the Doom Slayer longed to watch every last scrap of the light drain from those damned infernal windows. In said fleeting moments, he knew the sick delight such a sight brought him would make him forget the horrors of years, decades, whole centuries past.  Firmly stamping one foot through the thick and partially coagulated ick, he launched himself up and above the blood just in time to use one of the lunging demons' heads as a makeshift foothold. He felt the others' claws find purchase on his legs but otherwise paid it no mind. The searing pain that resulted from their sharp digits digging through the armor and biting into flesh only goaded him to keep going. He forced the fiend's head down as the muscles in his leg extended, the other's coiling in the fleeting moment it left the muddy ground below the bloody liquid. Then, as the Imp began flowing through the motions of falling flat on its face, the Doom Slayer brought his opposite leg up to plant his foot onto the knotty small of its back before using the inclining springboard to propel himself several meters up in the air; the profane denizen subject to the bastion's nigh indomitable strength vehemently lodged into the soggy soil below. A resulting shower of dazzling sparks sprayed out from where the Imps' claws were effectively ripped out from the suit, leaving decent piercings all along the lower torso.  Once up in the air, he used the momentum to pivot around and directed the hilt of his blade down at the cluster of demons. The glowing crimson hue dimmed until the Argent Energy no longer extended from the handle's mouth. Then, with a twitch of the finger, a nearly inaudible click heralded a shift in the weapon he brandished. Its flowery cross-guard receded and stowed themselves away in micro-compartments hidden along the handle, and once exposed the entire item began to change. At first, it split itself in half, horizontally, with a seam along the pristine metal, and then another seam vertically divided the shaft in an incredulously lopsided manner. Several jets of heat-saturated air spewed from the vertical crease, heralding a sudden split along the aforementioned line. While the back half remained unaffected, the two larger halves extended forward until they formed a perfect sixty-degree angle. Then the upper halves of the back tilted back before extending and fitting into sockets that were once hidden within the make of the armor’s wristguards.  The open slit that permitted the blade portion to protrude shifted, moving from the top to the middle of the side and then producing several spindly appendages that sluggishly rotated around the mouth. Each resembling the spinners used in tandem with a spider's silk gland. When it was all said and done, it bore an uncanny semblance to a crustacean's claw.  From the opening emanated a distinct crimson fiery glow, of which expanded and expanded until the spinners pierced the expanding orb and began to manipulate its shape, bending and stretching the energy into a plethora of different three-dimensional objects, squares and stars to name a few, until the emanation resembled a tangled spiderweb. Once its final dimensions were determined, the orifice it secreted from emitted an intangible force which compelled the intricate webbing of Argent to propel countless small pellets from the accumulated mass.  The droves of smoldering crimson pellets cleaved through the air, leaving a visible trail where the ether was pushed aside for a moment before they collapsed in on themselves. They peppered the rippling liquid of the bloody lake, impacting and detonating against both the disturbed surface and the fiendish Imps. Each projectile tore through the muscle and flesh of the demons like tissue paper, shed their boiling alien ichor like tens of water balloons with each audible pop, blew holes into the already perturbed bloody liquid, and melted their barbed bones like molasses in a microwave. One of the abhorrent things lost more than half of its mass from the merciless onslaught; another had its head blown off, inch by inch, into a spray of red mist before the section connecting the lower and upper halves of its torso was literally carved away; and yet another had the meat from its hips up to its collarbone melted away until it was down to the freshest layer of the body--the stark, gore-strewn bone of the spine and rib cage.  When the red hail ceased to fall, the little that remained of the Imps collapsed into and disappeared beneath the darkening surface of the lake. And the Doom Slayer continued carrying through the air towards the remnants of the entities that meant to intercept and deal with their kind’s ultimate nemesis.

Heavy boots clomped against the crimson rock of the hellish blood lake’s center island, laden with the bodily fluids and visceral remains of the fallen. Liquid lapping at the edges of the protruding slab of slick rock was drowned out by the profane whispers of the parted portal. The Doom Slayer’s vigilant gaze was steadfast, wholly locked upon the grisly sight of the altar and its damnable congregation of priests. Yet these gaunt, hovering and cloaked creatures failed to acknowledge his advent. So entranced by the task at hand were they--not even the disappearance of their guardians reached their apprehension.   Sauntering up to the circle of Archviles, his hand tightened its grip upon the hilt of his blade. Memories surfaced for but a moment before he forced them back down. This was no place to recall such things.  Pacing around them for a moment, the Slayer stopped behind the apparent leader of the assembly. This one’s back faced the portal it and its cabal tore asunder. He glanced back and examined the rift for a moment, fruitlessly trying to peer through the pitch black atmosphere which laid beyond. Then his gaze returned to the priests and their fiendish rite. Once again he felt his grip coil ever tighter upon his instrument of death, but he stayed his rage--now wasn’t the time to enact justice upon the wicked. Not until he dealt with the incursion beyond, that is. Otherwise, the world beyond would be left to deal with the droves of demons on its own.  He approached the altar with a slow, meticulous gait as the hilt he held shifted to its projectile mode. The many spindles of the device, from a ball of Argent energy, wove a vast and intricate scarlet web. Upon completion, the Slayer stuck this pulsing web of condensed Argent onto the center of the sacrilegious tabernacle, allowing it to idly draw from the profane energy the Archviles focused into maintaining the portal. Then he turned and marched off, towards the dimensional gateway.  Striding through the rift, the Doom Slayer felt something he’d forgotten countless millennia ago--coldness. The air of the foreign dimension suffused his heated armor with its frigid touch, icy fingers wriggling their way through the cracks and gaps of the material and brushing against his irritated skin. And the ubiquitous illumination which lit up the whole of Hell stayed back at the border between its own plane of existence and the other. Now only the light of the pale moon overhead cut through the mundane dark of night.  Looking around, he found himself standing at the back of the partially dispersed legion of demons which charged through the spatial opening. Said gate seemed to have parted and led into the center of the ruined and dilapidated remains of a city intersection. It reeked of sulfur and putrid body odor. The cacophony of the fiends’ discord shattered the serene silence, their abhorrent cries and devil tongue insulting his ears with their mere presence. And this horde of fiends, headed by the tower of muscle that was their decorated lord, congregated around an area like the onlooking audience of an arena stadium.  The demons shouted and cried out in their broken tongue, vile words composed of even viler sounds. An undercurrent of echoing pops and thunderous cracks intermingled with the occasional clash and clatter of metal was present. He picked out few words amid the chaos, the profane tongue of the damned still alien to his ears. “Death!”, “Weaklings!”, “Soft-flesh!” and “Hatchlings!” were but a few. And rising from the fiends’ discourse were the voices of unseen individuals, their high-pitch indicating youth and possible femininity from all but one, and they shouted to one another in yet another language he could not understand. Every so often--a pained cry emitted from one of the several voices.  Memories forced their way to the surface in a violent fury.  The young and the infantile cried out.  Whimpering children met his ears.  An unbridled rage was set free.

The Slayer lunged at the first unfortunate daemon to fall under his red scrutiny, and with the rippling strength of a thousand men, he plunged either hand deep into the flabby folds of flesh that made up its back. His sword clattered to the cement underfoot. The mancubus’ glutinous jaw parted to unveil its gratuitous rows of yellowed, crooked teeth before loosing a thick guttural roar in agony. So shrill was the pain, its crescendo rose above the voices of its peers and garnered the attention of all but their repugnant lord. All combat ceased as the once combatants turned and watched the Slayer’s vehement display unfold.  Only the sounds of the past reached his ears, though, and the writhing fiend’s insufferable screeching did nothing to ease the burden pressing down upon the interior of his skill. He bellowed an enraged sound which drowned out even the mancubus, one that chilled the blackened souls of any demon who was unlucky enough to hear it, before digging the tip of his right boot onto the small of his victim’s back and jerking himself up onto its fat shoulders.  It’s one bulbous eye flicked up to gawk in horror.  He dug his armored digits into the abomination’s meaty neck and yanked back, ripping the weighty head off its shoulders in a messy display of tearing tendons and stretching strips of fatty flesh, like plucking an egg from the nest. Its spine followed after. Jets of crimson ichor spewed forth like a fountain, the rupturing of skin and bone grotesque in its resounding audibility. Then its cries were silenced forever more. And yet the eye still stared, blinking once. Its tongue lolled out of its disgusting maw and hung limp to the side. The body staggered a single step forward, naught more than a dead twitch, before falling to its wrinkled flabby knees and collapsing to the ground.  The fiendish audience was left speechless, too shell-shocked for words.  Using the spine as a grip, the last bastion reared back and lobbed the freed head across the vast distance to the center of the horde. It slammed against the back of the aberration’s muscled neck with a wet smack--caving in and exploding like a bloody water balloon upon impact.  Body tensing and standing at attention, the wicked lord raised his head and threw a glance behind. The glowing red embers that were its eyes fell upon the visage hell priests carved into the rock as a warning to all. A warning the lord never treated with even a modicum of seriousness. Its angular brow inched up, a furry caterpillar resting above its eyes, as a smirk spread across its vile lips. Jagged yellowed daggers lined up against one another as several rows in its mouth. An amused mien sat heavy on its cocksure countenance. The demon about-faced and extended its left arm and hand, gesturing to the Slayer.  “Unchained Predator,” it greeted in its hissing, haughty tone. “It’s fortunate you’ve come--for me, not so much for you.”  The horrid thing had an incessant habit of chewing on nothing, affecting its hoarse and gravelly voice in an odd manner. Almost like it always spoke while eating.  A throaty laugh curled past its pierced, craggy lips. “I had planned to beget the favor of my lord by subjugating this insignificant plane, but with you here, why--there’s no end to the praise I shall receive!” Its arms spread out in a grand gesticulation. “I shall ascend above this demeaning station I have been cast into!” It gazed up at the ever-reaching black sky and spun around in a circle, inch by inch. “And then I shall receive all that I rightly deserve! All shall bend the knee to me! I, Tapnuilohr, Slayer of the Hellwalker, shall be feared! I shall become a Lord of Sin!!”  The Slayer reached down and plucked a chunk of rubble off the debris-strewn ground.  “And it all starts--” it faced the man anew “with your dea-”  Rage pulled the Slayer’s arm back, clutching the debris, and then drove him to yank the same arm forward. The ruined concrete surged out of his hand, whistling through the dark ether faster than the eye could track. Once thrown, Tapnuilohr’s speech was cut abrupt when the improvised projectile ran through one of its beady black eyes. The quasi-lord’s hand shot up to cover the now scarlet leaking mess of black jelly which struggled to remain in its small concave bowl. It growled and bellowed in anguish, akin to the grinding of rocks, as the force behind the debris sent it backpedaling several steps. Each thunderous thud of its cloven feet punctuating the ephemeral pauses for breath between each pained roar. Once it composed itself, though, the fiend threw a furious one-eyed leer at the expressionless slate of the Slayer’s helm.  “Impudent whelp, you heap of filth!” It rose the hand not covering its mashed eye and jabbed a clawed digit in his direction. “End him!!”  And while the terror the Unchained Predator’s presence, alone, invoked--the fear of disobeying their lord, as well as the courage imparted through their immense numbers, overrode any and all reluctance in their sinful little minds.  When the ire of the horde shifted from the youths, who had yet to make themselves known, everything save for the oncoming daemons faded away. The lightless ether burned a fiery crimson, singeing the edges of the bastion’s vision with the muddled shadows of the past. Chaotic and boisterous, the resounding discord of the damned intermingled with the echoes of lives and people long since returned to dust that nipped at his perception. Boiling blood coursed through his veins. Either hand clenched and squeezed until his knuckles were white. Wispy lines of dark red trailed up out from the gaps and seams of his helm and its faceplate, and a thick shadow descended upon him, darkening and blurring the features of his armor like a shroud. A nigh-tangible miasma of wrath and ruin permeated from his very presence. And then a fleeting moment of lucidity washed over him, allowing a familiar voice to cut through the blistering rage.  <Rip and tear, until it is done.>  Then his blinding anger returned, more vehement than before.

Leaping through the air, a Hell Knight held its meaty fist above its head as Argent accumulated around it in a wreath of green flame. It was exceptionally foolhardy.  The Slayer reared back and threw his fist forward. It connected with the abominable knight’s in a vehement crack of spasmodic resistance. Then the condensed Argent dispersed across his bracers, charring the metal. Bodily fluids sprayed out from rupturing veins and tearing flesh, bone splintered and peeled back like a banana peel as momentum carried the fiend’s outstretched limb through the immovable pillar of rock that was the man’s fist. It was like several layers of rolled up tissue paper being thrust against the razor edges of two crisscrossed blades. And once the creature’s arm had been peeled open up to its shoulder, a profuse explosion of ichor painted the surroundings.  It landed with a heavy thud, fell to one knee and clawed at the gaping stump of its arm. The metallic sting of blood weaved its way into his nostrils. An agonized bellow crawled up its throat. Not one to miss a beat, the Slayer pivoted. He drove the knife-edge of his heel into the small of the fiend’s back. The crack of bone resounded as the abomination now bent at an unnatural angle. It fell over dead.  Several shrill voices screamed from all around. He turned and swung the same bloodied battering ram. Its wide arch caught the closest of his new assailants. Red and green and grey fluids sprayed out from the once-head of the Imp. The gore splattered across a small mound of debris.  The hammering of his heart roared in his ears, challenging the cries of the horde for supremacy.  A paltry weight slammed into his back. He could feel the tearing of flesh between his shoulder blades and along his right shoulder. The infernal mass latched onto him, sinewy legs wrapped around his waist. It slashed and scratched at the metal and the flesh it protected.  Before he could reach up and take hold of the pathetic thing’s head, the squealing of a third demon drew nigh. Still spinning with the momentum of his prior swing, he’d come face to face with the pink bull so many fiends considered a delicacy.  The Pinky rushed him, its great tusked maw ajar, and plowed head-first into his solar plexus. It was like bashing your head into a pillar of solid iron. A grunt forced its way past his clenched jaw. His breathing had been disturbed following the collision, and he fought to retain whatever air he had in his lungs at the time. Strength drained from the muscles in his legs, giving up several inches of ground to the demon’s brazen charge. Pain bloomed from his shoulders and back.  He steeled himself and dragged air down into his lungs, the sound reminiscent of a throaty croak. Then he dug the heels of his boots into the fractured asphalt. One of the Imp’s hands slapped and grabbed onto the visor of his helmet. He thrashed his head back and forth. An ear-splitting cacophony rose up from the conflicting forces. Bits and pieces of black rock sputtered out from where the metal broke through, vivid sparks cascading from the points of contact. Their movement ground to a halt.  The Slayer shot his curled fist up and brained the piggy-backing Imp. A carousel of stars spun before its eyes. He then pounded the same hand against the Pinky’s forehead once, twice, and thrice. Its skull caved in with a wet sucking sound. Either of its luminous scarlet eyes bugged out, eyelids going slack. A thick pink mass lolled out of its mouth. But it wasn’t enough.  Seizing its two lower tusks, he sucked down another breath of air as he began straining his forearms in opposite directions. The splitting of flesh and whining of the sow met the Slayer’s ears. Pinkish blood spurted out from the waxing fissure dividing the Pinky’s head down the middle. Its whining crescendos, replaced with frantic squealing and gurgling. Bone strained and cracked until finally giving way and breaking in two. Then muscle and sinew and ligaments followed right after. Finally, the seam wrenched ajar like a banana peel--shattering a jar of pinkish red ink and splashing its contents everywhere.  Its once whole tongue was hewn in twain, swaying this way and that as ichor trickled down the tips like leaky faucets. What minuscule grey matter its skull guarded now dangled by its stem. The Pinky’s body fell limp and crumpled into a puddle of its own blood.  With his hands freed, the Slayer jerked his shoulders back. The spasmodic motion loosened the sure grip of the rider. He reached back and took hold of the aberration’s collar, digging each finger into the skin and around the bone. A single yank of his arm ripped the Imp off his back. The anguish of its claws being torn out stung him like insect bites.  The scrawny creature flipped up and over his head. He threw his first up and clasped the side of its hip. It lurched to a stop above the Slayer’s head. An immediate jerk of his arms wrenched the body down. Taking a knee, he smashed the center of the Imp’s back against the edge of his thigh. A crack heralded the shattering of its spine. Its body twitched and convulsed several times before the tension dribbled out of every muscle. Then he shunted the limp weight away.  Standing up with a roll of the shoulders, the Slayer flexed either arm and clenched his fingers. The muscle-bound tree trunks strained beneath the armor. His eyes narrowed, sweeping across the legion surrounding him in a red haze. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as air flooded and vacated his lungs in spasmodic breaths.  Each demon surrounding him hesitated, reluctant to tempt Fate like their fellows did. But this did naught to diminish the Hellwalker’s tireless fury.  He took a long drag of the air before throwing his arms to either side and howled into the night, head tilted back and raised towards the sky. The vehement, resounding bellow reminded the fiends of fear, of terror and dread. And as it reached Tapnuilohr’s ears, echoing throughout the whole of the ruins, the cacophony of a nearby collapsing building dwarfed the vocal testament to rage for but a moment.  The Unchained Predator had only just begun to slaughter.

Tapnuilohr enjoyed toying with mortal insects, took a sick pleasure in it, and as such was especially fond of playing with the five unfortunate souls he and his horde encountered straight out of the rift. Not even the advent of a nuisance such as the Doom Slayer could detract from such bliss. After said individual arrived, he left the matter in the hands of his peons and continued toying with the only of the five mortals still standing.  Bartholomew Oobleck--the name of the man barely holding himself together. It was the one he knew, that is. Who knew if his four concubines’ prater heard before each subsequently fell unconscious was to be believed? And this mere man, this Bartholomew, proved quite entertaining. For, unlike the other four, his albeit frail frame had withstood far more punishment. Not only that but his every attack hit harder than the women. As such, more of the whelps Tapnuilohr called followers met their end by his hand. Thus the fiend took particular interest in the man once all four of his mistresses fell.  Prior and proceeding the Slayer’s advent, Tapnuilohr toyed with Bartholomew. He batted the insignificant man this way and that like a rag doll, guffawing all the while. Yet whenever he was knocked down, he stood back up onto shaky feet. Every time his meaty ham of a fist slammed into the other’s side or his tree trunk cloven feet cracked the man across the cheek, he struggled back up to his feet.  No matter the attack, no matter the thunderous show of strength, Bartholomew refused to stay down.  However, no entertainment lasted for as long as you’d want it to. In this case, the Doom Slayer’s unwillingness to lay down his life like a good dog spoiled the daemon’s fun--just as Tapnuilohr had just begun to squash the man beneath his foot, too.  A cacophony rose up from the collapsing building and a tidal wave of dust nipped at the sound’s heels. Tapnuilohr eased up on Bartholomew, stepping back and throwing his gaze over his shoulder. What faint moonlight there was dissipated as the dark brown cloud engulfed the whole scene. But this discord paled in comparison, not but a moment after, to the bellowing roar of the Doom Slayer. On and on it dragged, reaching up and piercing the high heavens with his vehement fury. Those with little spine among the assembly were shunted to the ground, quivering like maggots.  The dense haze of debris did little to obscure the baron’s vision, his smoldering pupils cutting through the screen to rest upon the enraged disposition of the Unchained Predator. Gore decorated his armor like a litany of war medals, and blood painted the metal a new hue. Slowly but surely, the cloud began to disperse and settle onto the craggy ground.  Dust and debris stuck to the ichor-splattered suit, dying him a muddy maroon.  Two blazing, seething scarlet orbs bled out from the ocular region of the helmet.  The insignia emblazed upon his forehead and the back of each hand glowed with the same fiery intensity.  Wispy trails of red curled up towards the sky from either orb.  A black shadow seemed to perpetually cling to him, muddling his features.  Hate and fear exuded from him in profuse waves, each nigh-tangible.  Every demon amassed around him took an instinctive step back, unadulterated terror etched into their visages. And for all his bravado and gumption, when faced with Hell’s boogeyman, Tapnuilohr was no better than a sniveling wimp. But he couldn’t allow his underlings to see him in such a state, not to mention allow them to defy him due to one man--no matter how horrifying.  “You pathetic whelps!” he bellowed, shifting and turning around from Bartholomew. “He is but one man--he bleeds just like you lot!”  The fiends looked from their master back to the Slayer several times, finding themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place. And Tapnuilohr knew he was losing control of the situation, and that fact infuriated him to no ends.  Fear gave way to overriding rage as he stomped forward, tossing aside imps like rag dolls with each thunderous step. His cloven feet cracked the asphalt, his clawed fingers balled up into ham-sized fists. The terror of the man’s presence skirted the edges of his apprehension, probing the margins of his psyche as red blinded him. Dark green energy began to coalesce around either fist like a raincoat, crackling and popping when exposed to the cold atmosphere. His eyes, akin to smoldering coals, glowered with unadulterated hate.  The Slayer’s gaze did not shift or waver for even a moment, further infuriating the Baron.  “You think just because you’ve frightened the dreams of sniveling babes, you scare me?!” he roared not but ten long steps away from the other. “I am Tapnuilohr, do you hear me! Tapnuilohr the Bloody-handed! And you will kneel before me in fe--”  The darkened form of the Hellwalker blurred and in the fraction of a second, he was hurtling towards the Baron’s head. Whatever bravado his indignation invoked drained from his visage, just like the now ice cold blood. Death incarnate had launched itself at his head without so much as acknowledging the insignificant, hollow threats which spilled from his mouth. And as the mere foot distance which now separated them dwindled like the individual granules of sand in an hourglass, Tapnuilohr came to the startling realization of just how small he was compared to the Scourge of Hell.  But a final moment of defiance flared up inside him.

Feeling the immense weight of the abhorrent abomination lift up off of his person, Bartholomew made an effort to pick himself up off the asphalt. The world was a fuzzy mishmash of unfocused lines and partially blurred shapes--he’d lost his glasses at some point during the confrontation. Yet the chorus of carnage and putrid stench of death continued to come in as clear as a picture taken of a transparent waterfall on a cloudless sunny day. This included the anguish which set his entire body aflame.  He hadn’t expected to encounter these appalling entities here in the ruined city--there should have only been Grim and potential criminals on the mountain. Those he’d been prepared for, those he felt the girls could deal with. But not this. Especially not with the sheer number that poured out from the bizarre rift that parted the ether before them.  They were surrounded and overran. It was inexorable. However, he thought for sure they’d have been able to escape before anyone was badly injured. So he either overestimated the team’s abilities or he underestimated their unknown enemies. Or was it due to the lackadaisical nature of Ruby? The bullheaded aggression of Yang? Maybe the overweening of Weiss? Perhaps Blake’s hypocrisy and the resultant friction it begets in the group as a whole? Whatever the reasons, they were in their current situation and no amount of retrospection would get them out of it.  Thankfully, whatever higher powers that might be deemed it appropriate to interrupt the apparent leader of the abominations, before it could deal a finishing blow. Whoever this individual was--the entities trembled in their presence, whereas they laughed and guffawed when faced with the girls and himself. And for a moment, this terror even spread to the leader.  But then it stomped forward, bellowing its language of grating vowels and harsh consonants as it approached the armored man. He couldn’t understand the reasoning behind this entity’s sudden aggression, they both witnessed the sheer ferocity and brutality of the man--albeit less so for himself due to his circumstances. Yet the sheer contempt which radiated from the thing was nigh palpable, seconded only to the murderous aura which exuded from the individual’s presence.  As it towered over the man, though, Bartholomew wondered just how the fight might go. He overpowered the abominations which heeded the beckon and call of the great behemoth that led them, but they were not like their leader. It was of a power that far exceeded the peons it surrounded itself with. Was it more than the new arrival could handle?  The professor squinted and tried to focus his vision on the fuzzy silhouette of the armored man. A sudden sensation washed over his body, causing goosebumps to crop up all across his skin. For a moment, it seemed as if the whole world’s breathing hitched in his presence. One might describe it as the cosmic position of the planet being displaced several centimeters in response to some unseen force giving way to an insurmountable power. In a split second, where the individual once stood was naught but empty space; just like that, he was gone. Then he watched a baffling scene play out as if caught in molasses.  With a deafening crack, the lumbering abomination drove a fist into the side of its left knee, bending the joint at an unnatural angle, and jerked his entire body in the same direction. Gravity yanked it to the ground, and the sudden change in position narrowly saved it from oncoming death as the same individual rocketed past its head with a shower of shards and ichor. His momentum carried him ways away from the target, pulling him to the pavement with an ear-piercing crack. The sudden solidity of the earth did little to jar the stalwart bastion of metal and strength; he began to skid across the asphalt, deep runnels through the black asphalt trailing behind him. And after a moment, he came to a gradual stop directly in front of Bartholomew--clutching one of the curved horns of the behemoth in a gauntleted hand like a child’s toy.  There was a piercing keening noise, then, which emanated from the entity as it pawed at the stump its right horn had been reduced to. A trail of stomach-churning fluids stained the asphalt. But the truly grisly sight to behold was the individual.  The proximity made the murderous intent and vehement fury exuding from his mere presence as thick as molasses. It was arduous to breathe when exposed to such an overwhelming aura. His eyes moved from the professor to each of the students, and then back to himself. This begot a single thought in Oobleck’s mind: “Was the enemy of my enemy truly my friend?” Yet when the man’s gaze shifted up from the concrete and onto him, there was an overt lack of interest. Nay, not a lack of interest--rather no aggression, no directed hostility. In fact, it felt like those glowing coals hovering over the eye slits of his helmet didn’t even register Bartholomew’s existence.  Despite all that, though, a sliver of empathy trickled out from the abyss of rage and hate that had swallowed the individual whole.

If the confounded demon hadn’t shown such a brazen act of defiance, his death may have been swift--one does not usually experience much anguish when the entirety of their head was splattered across the ground. But in skirting around the Slayer’s trajectory, Tapnuilhor sealed his fate.  He skids to a halt before a thin, scholarly man who was still collapsed on the black ground. The four women he saw not but several moments prior were on the ground, unconscious and likely bleeding out. Inside him, the inferno brought his blood to a broil. But when his gaze rested upon the relatively well-dressed man, bloodied and yet refusing to stay down, the fire waned for but a moment. And in the lessened oven of hate, memories of times long gone resurfaced anew. Had he been as strong as this man, then perhaps...  But there was no time to further the thought--the keening of the fiend reinvigorated the flame. He stepped back and reeled with the horn clutched in hand. The machinations in his mind turned the shearn appendage into a missile, a razor-sharp boomerang ready to spill the blood of the wicked.  Spinning around in one fluent motion, the Slayer heaved the horn and flung it forward at an arc. It was similar to watching a chakram being thrown as the tip whipped around and around like a saw blade. The sheer force with which it split the air begot a high-pitched whining noise as it careened its way into a crowd of fiends. Much like throwing a wrapped package of meat into a wood-chipper, it was a bloodbath.  Ichor sprayed out like a set of showers in a locker room, each body caught in the horn’s path torn to ribbons as if in a grinder. It was all the same in the red tint of his vision. The object even impaled a few on its length, carrying each with it as momentum launched it into one of the many ruined structures of the city. A great upheaval resounded throughout the many streets as cement and metal crunched, broke and were sundered. Then a cloud of smoke poured out from the very same building, bleeding out and suffusing the area in all directions. It was like a smoke screen, it grated eyes and irritated nostrils as both’s respective sense became muddled.  Not the Slayer’s, though--whether due to his helmet or the lust, he knew where his prey resided. The red of his vision almost highlighted each one, his smoldering pupils piercing through the haze. And perhaps it was for that very reason that the now outlined demons began to flee. They turned tail en masse before dashing back towards the portal, some in other directions, each scrambling or pushing or trampling over one another--all to get as far away from their waking nightmare as possible. Primal instincts working at their finest. But those who didn’t run for the rift met with a terrible demise.  The man darted to each animated bag of meat, always leaving behind an afterimage wherever his movement waned enough for the mortal eye to track. It’d be like a flashlight flicking on and off to anyone watching from the sidelines. One second a fiend was alive and standing, then they were a pile of gore the next. No one saw the bastion land a single blow, let alone the one that killed; all but the ephemeral afterthought of his presence was a blur of motion.  As he carried out his work, the sound of a large mass scrapping along the asphalt reached his ears. Then a voice exclaimed, “Cowards! The lot of you!” broke through the cacophony of battle. Despite its brave front, the owner could not hide the quaver and desperation in its tone. “Not fit for the maggot heaps, all of you! Each and every one, you’ll know what it truly means to be in pain when I’m through with you!”  He stopped dead in his tracks, remnants of a summoner’s head clenched in one hand like a shredded rag. Glancing to the side, Tapnuilhor was what he saw. Crumpled to the ground, prone and shouting out to those fleeing past it, with one clawed handheld to its snapped knee and the other inching along the ground, the thing was dragging itself along the ground. It, too, moved towards the opening. The haughty always kept blowing hot air, even after being brought low.  A tight frown creased his split lips.  Uncurling his fingers and shaking the wads of red, white and gray from the nooks of his gauntlets, he stepped to the side and settled his eyes on the abomination. A sneer would have contorted his visage had Hell not already ingrained a perpetual hating scowl and furious frown upon it. He took one step forward, then a long stride and another. The still stagnant veil of dust could not save Tapnuilhor from his wrath, nothing could.  It must have heard the heavy falls of his boots because the chastising was quick to turn to pleas for help and its pace picked up. Whatever concern it had for its limb went out the window, now using both arms to pull itself along. Even with both arms, though, it’d never reach the portal before their paths intersected. His strides were too long and far too fast. The great, lopsided head snapped back and forth with fretful frequency, the one good beady black orb of its face dripping with dread.  “Waitwaitwait!!” cried Tapnuilhor. “Oh, Great and Mighty Slayer of All That Is,, please bequeath the sniveling, undeserving maggot that is I your mercy!”  He continued to tromp.  “I-I can help you! Yes, yes even someone as lowly and undeserving as I can aid you in your conquest of the Umbral Plane! I have more use alive than dead!!”  He brought up either fist, clenching his knuckles until they audibly popped.  “O-or-or--or...! I-I-I can get you anything! Anything at all, for I am a Baron, no one can question my requests! Name your price and I’ll--I’ll...!”  With a crack of bone, the Slayer planted the sole of his boot into the base of the demon’s neck. It was pinned, now, under his sheer strength. Then he began stepping up and onto the whole of its girth.  “Anything, I’ll give you anything!!” Its voice was noticeably constricted. “Please don’t--”  The Hellwalker reached for and took hold of the creature’s only other horn, yanking it back. His crimson orbs, the ones bleeding from the slits in his helm, met with the terrified gaze of Tapnuilhor. Its facial features twisted in fright, grimacing and desperate to shrink out from under his glare as the color drained away. Each finger curled around the bone until several thin, web-like fissures stretched out from the points of contact. The demon howled but was cut off by his other hand jerking for and grabbing the upper half of its jaw, digits digging into the roof of its maw and knuckles pushing back the thick slab of meat that was its tongue. Then three low, hoarse words crept out from the lower region of his helm--a series of sounds so clear that they were the only thing it could hear, even amid the rest of the world’s noise.  “Give them back.”  Brimming with venom, his was a curt statement that heralded the Baron’s demise.  He wrenched his hand back. It, the mouth’s roof, gave way like liquid candy. Crimson sprayed out as sinew and veins stretched, snapping and spurting bodily fluids. Eventually, flecks and globs of dark jade green began mingling with the hues of red as the nasal cavity burst open and added its own ichor to the shower. Then the black jelly of the eyes and their stringy, twine-like optic nerves joined the fray as he continued to tear. Soon his hand reached the forehead, to which he responded by yanking the opposite hand perpendicular to the direction said mitt had been carving. His fingers plunged in and shattered the bony barrier of its cranium due to the shift, causing him to scoop out a handful of gray matter and fragments of white bone as the appendage emerged anew from the top of its skull.  Then Tapnuilhor’s body fell limp, its ruined head being the only part held up off the asphalt. Once finished, he released the horn, huffing before stepping off the neck. Looking around, the Slayer saw several stragglers from the prior slaughter. They were using the environment to cover distance faster than they would just by running. Meanwhile, the droves that decided to flee for the portal back home were avoiding him as they dashed past, circling around where he stood. Treating him as if he was a plague carrier.  The cloud started to disperse in the rolling wind. He could still make out the fiend farthest away, see it scaling a small building far off, and it was entirely possible that he could reach it, too, in a matter of a few seconds or so. And he wanted to, oh how he wanted to feel each demonic bone crack and blood vessel pop in the palms of his hands. But as his body readied to spring back into action, a calming voice drawled in his head and broke the epinephrine high.  <Time is of the essence, my champion.>  His head rose up and oscillated all around. Without the red haze, he spotted the altar and a few of the priests among the fiendish bodies. The evergrowing orb of Argent, too, was in sight. It was a timed detonating emanation of his blade, one which was reaching the end of its fuse. And once it exploded, the rift would seal--forever.  So he glanced around at the man and unconscious girls, scrutinizing them. In his moment of clarity, he truly acknowledged the fact that they hadn’t been torn limb from limb before he got there. Not only that, but for one to still be clinging to life and consciousness after being reduced to a plaything of a Baron? Such a feat wasn’t something to be taken lightly, especially by him of all people. Hell and its denizens were no pushovers, after all. Though they were certainly in no condition to fight anymore, nor did the man on his own stand much of a chance, but if there were more people like them in this dimension? Then he felt confident that what few abominations survived and fled to elsewhere in this world could be dealt with without him.  About facing the prone man who was staring back at him. The Slayer made a quick gesture, knocking his fist against his chest thrice, bidding his fellow warrior goodbye and good luck. Before finally turning around anew to charge for the rift and fiendish droves, snatching up his tool from the ground and placing it where it’d normally reside.  Then the haze returned and his hands extended this way and that. Chunks of meat and a mist of ichor were left behind with each fallen corpse. Hell’s sweltering heat gradually interposed itself over the welcomed chill of night, bit by bit, each intense wave begetting memories of aeons past.  A tight frown creased his mouth.  Reinvigorated was the now sundered horde’s clamor at the sight of their monster giving chase. Some lashed out with claws, tooth or projectiles from sheer desperation. They met their fate headlong by his prompt retaliations. And those unfortunate enough to be within his proximity suffered a similar end. Those that remained scattered to the four winds, wading through the lake and towards the walls of the bowl.  While popping out a Hell Knight’s head and spine, the Slayer could hear a shrill whining. It originated, he found, from the Argent orb. The condensed scarlet ball now hovered a foot off the top of the altar, an undulating spider’s web of the same energy spread out from the center point and siphoning all it could from the available sources. If a manifestation could be bulging, burgeoning like a mouth filled to bursting with water, to be engorged, then this was certainly what it’d look like. As such, since he last saw it, its size had increased close to a hundredfold. Now it was whining, throbbing and pulsating as it struggled to contain what it’d already garnered.  It wouldn’t be long before the sphere reached critical mass.  The Slayer spun the head by its spinal column, overhead like a sling, and cast the whole thing to the closest of its brethren. It collided with a wet smack, caving in against the demon’s collar and dazing it for a moment.  Behind, the whining crescendoed into an exponential shriek as waves of energy made his hair stand on end.  He dashed towards the fiend, corpse in tow. Then, in an instant, the dead body was flung at the Knight like a doll. Their impact knocked the wind out of the still breathing one, as well as its balance--the momentum carrying both several yards back, together.  Shrieking turned to screeching and the rolling tide of energy caused the air to crackle and pop.  Just like a shadow, the man was already behind the two bodies. He reached out and wrapped either arm around the jumbled mess of limbs and torsos, tensing his legs for but a moment. Then he dug his feet into the ground before jumping back with all his might in the moment that followed. After, he tucked both legs up and behind his protective wall of meat, letting the immense speed of their collective bodies take him along for the ride.  There was an abrupt sound from the Knight before the deafening bellow of an eruption silenced the world.  What was felt in the waves before were droplets dripping into a lid compared to the deluge of the full release. The blood-red rock of the island was rent in all directions. An immense surge of force scattered chunks of debris and bodies alike, ravaging those unfortunate enough to be on the island to naught but viscera and scorching their flesh and the stone black with superheated air. This blistering heat ate its way through the protective metal around his arms, singing the hair and burning his skin. And even through the bulk of the two Knights, the Slayer could feel the Argent’s power like a punch to the gut. His only saving grace was the distance put between himself and it before the detonation and the very mass of the shields in front of him.  The wind screamed in unison with the world as both whipped past his helmed ears. He could hear the discord of the lake’s blood as it was tossed around by physics, rolling and lapping and trying to combat the explosive force while also attempting to fill in the new gaps and spaces opened up to it. An odd shift in the ether occurred, one which overcame the eruption’s disturbance, and unsettled the man.  When the ball exploded, the resulting force caused the rift to collapse--that’s how he always closed the portals. And when it did, it was like reality had begun coughing and hacking vehemently. The entire world always seemed to drop an inch from its resting place. He’d feel an ephemeral vertigo of sorts, an inward sucking that left him colder on the inside than before. Then everything reorientated itself to the new settings and it’d all fade. It just wasn’t something you could just adjust to.  And when things did normalize, he and what remained of the Knights’ bodies skipped once across the lake’s surface. The sudden loss of momentum was jarring and broke his grip on them. Chunks of meat dispersed and he began tumbling, end over end, through the air. Despite the adrenaline numbing his body, of which wanned bit by bit, the detonation compounded by the water’s smack left his everything throbbing in pain.  Then he skipped across the blood for the second time.  And then a third.  A fourth.  Fifth and sixth and seventh, each closer together than the last.  Two more skips later, he finally lost inertia’s drive and was left floating face down in the ichor after slamming into the surface. Half conscious, he was fighting against the inexorable crash to stay awake. The taste of burnt copper was against his tongue and on his lips, both his own and not of his. And the lake’s water lapped at his armor, seeping through the gaps. Then the perpetual light of the Umbral Plane was blotted out by an immense shadow.  He glanced above, neck aching as it craned, and saw the source--a spinning hunk of island debris the size of a small building. And it was already three or so feet away from colliding. It was the last thing he saw before blacking out.

All the Slayer knew, then, was black. Perpetual dark pervading an endless void in which he floated, listless. Emotion and thought had no place here, no meaning, nor did things such as direction or substance or time. He, too, had no purpose. No reason to be or amount to anything beyond a formless congregation of self cast adrift amid the abyss.  Was this death? Had he finally carried out his penance for all the sins committed in a time long since gone? Could he be free of the shame that befell him from transgressions past? Or did his eternal damnation for said acts come to plague him in the afterlife, too? If it had, then the man was at peace with his fate. To never be forgiven and lost among the nothing of death for eternity--it seemed a fitting punishment. Better to not beget memories of old to those lives he forfeited aeons ago, anyhow.  Then, where naught should have been, he felt pain.  Burning anguish.  A lone flower leading the charge of a whole field in bloom.  Then came a voice, stern and familiar.  <Rise--your work is still not through.>  Next was a flash, then the dark was gone. Replacing it was a less infinite black, the burn of oxygen-deprived lungs and the crushing weight of the rock as well.  Emotion and thought had purpose anew, and both returned to his psyche with one vehement and unanimous list.  Air!  Strength and feeling flooded back into his body. Each muscle and every fiber of his being contracted as one. Bracing his arms against the rock and positioning his feet beneath him after wriggling either pair out from where it pinned them, he exerted his whole body. He lifted the stone up and off the lake bed. Once he could establish his footing, he proceeded to lurch forward and propel the rock out of the blood like a missile. Nearly sweeping him off his feet again by the current that manifested from such force.  Air!  His lungs cried for air!  Without really thinking, the Slayer chose a direction and leaped towards it. Despite the dense nature of the partially congealed blood, he was still able to push through and zip up to the surface with tremendous speed.  The mallifying lake was upset anew as her burst forth from its crimson depths. Malformed and gelatinous of the ichor sprayed out in all directions. His pale blue-gray and bloodstained armor was a blur as the streaked towards one of the basin’s walls. For a moment, it felt like being in the void again, soaring through the ether. Then the scarlet steep filled the entirety of his vision, and he promptly smashed into the rock.  Gasping, he latched onto two of the stone outcroppings of the wall and began alternating between coughing, sputtering, inhaling and exhaling. Then he sucked down, even more, air, heedless of whether or not each mouthful reached its intended destination or not. Oxygen felt like a lozenge made of sandpaper going down his throat, scratching it raw yet alleviating the anguish of asphyxiation.  After a moment or two, he dug into the rock with the fingers of one hand until they were snug in the hole and found a place for either foot to rest. He released his hold of the other outcropping the opposite hand still held onto and glanced back, close to dangling off the cliff face. Far back, were the remnants of the island that the rift and altar once resided. The ichor was still trying to fill in the new gaps. A faint distortion hung in the atmosphere causing the blood beneath it to ripple. And the few stragglers of Tapnuilhor’s horde there was were wading through the lake, aimless.  Their incursion had been stopped dead in its tracks once again. And another litany of demons fell to his might. Yet it was not enough.  He swung back around and slammed his hand into the escarpment, puncturing the rock. Then he reached up to do the same with the opposite. And again with the prior, forcing each pocket to open wider with the tips of his boots as he made his way up. Thus began the ascent up the wall. He still had work to do, after all. No time to rest, not if the wicked didn’t.  On he went to finish his life’s work--there were still demons to rip and tear.

#⚠️ Warning : Possible Triggers Within ⚠️ #⚠️ Disturbing Imagery ⚠️ #⚠️ Graphic Description ⚠️ #⚠️ Graphic Depictions of Violence ⚠️ #⚠️ Death ⚠️ #⚠️ Profuse Gore ⚠️ #⚠️ Hell ⚠️ #⚠️ Sacrilegious/Demonic Worship ⚠️ #⚠️ Doom ⚠️ #⚠️ Doom 4 (2016) ⚠️ #Fanfiction #Personal Project #Crossover #RWBY #Doom Slayer #Ruby Rose #Yang Xiao Long #Weiss Schnee #Blake Belladonna #Bartholomew Oobleck #⚠️ Out of Exsitence - OOC ⚠️

[ineverhadmyinternetphase]

Steal My Heart (steal my whole life too) 24/28

Genre: Chaptered, fantasy AU, Prince!Phil, Thief!Dan, romance, enemies to lovers, angst and fluff, slow burn (like serious slow burn)

Warnings: some violence, mentions of death (no main characters), dark magic, descriptions of wounds/blood, some hints of sexual scenes (but no actual smut), murder, dangerous situations, stealing/thievery

Summary: Captain of the Royal Guard and Prince of Morellia, Philip Lester has never been given the chance to find love. Instead, he’s run from a system that works to end class differences and improve equality for its citizens. Happy as he is to make the world a better place, Phil can’t help feeling bitter towards his ancestors for making it impossible for him to find someone who will actually love him for more than just his title, and strives instead for a life of justice and doing good - only to meet his match in the King of Thieves, a man who will change everything he once thought he knew in life. Together, they must depart on a quest to save the kingdom, and, in the process, destroy their differences and find their own form of love.

Word count: 240,000+

Updates: Sunday

Thanks so much to @botanistlester for betaing this giant monster, as she’s been super helpful and encouraging with her little comments and endless excitement. We couldn’t have done it without you <3

Disclaimer: In no way do I claim that this is real or cast aspersions on Dan or Phil

For reference, @snowbunnylester is Phil, @ineverhadmyinternetphase is Dan

(AO3 link) (Masterlist)

Chapter 24

The next morning was decidedly not better. Dan woke in agony, his wounds having stretched in the night, and his desperate panting woke Phil too, despite how much Dan didn't want to disturb him. Dan was frustrated in general as he wanted to tell Phil to lie down and stop fussing, but all he could do was gasp while Phil rushed to change his bandages again. But the pain didn’t get better, not even with the soothing poultice reapplied, and no matter how much Dan closed his eyes and fought against the pain, it continued thundering through his veins, thudding behind his eyelids. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore, and pleaded with Phil for a little bit of the vial Brandon had given them.

Phil gave it to him, looking nothing but worried, and Dan itched to reach out to him. But the moment the vial touched his tongue he fell back into blissful oblivion, the last thing he saw Phil watching over him.

Dan wasn't very coherent for the next few days, slipping in and out of consciousness only to allow Phil to change his bandages or force some food down his throat. Dan was desperate to reassure him, desperate to reach for him and draw him close and tell him that everything was okay, that none of this was Phil's fault, that he was so incredibly grateful to have Phil looking after him, but all Dan could manage were a few mumbled 'I love you's before he ended up asleep again.

The new few days were particularly hard on Phil. He was constantly anxious, constantly on edge as he watched Dan suffer next to him. He didn't sleep well, even when Phil was forced to feed Dan from the vial of liquid Brandon had told Phil to use sparingly, and he was rarely coherent enough to do more than mumble sleepy I love you's to Phil and allow Phil to help him with a change of bandages and poultice. It was lucky for both men that Phil was good at rationing, as there was still plenty of deer meat left for them to be stuck here with for as long as Dan needed to get better. If worse came to worst, Phil knew he could just pay Brandon off to hunt for them.

Watching Dan suffer, however, was the hardest thing Phil had ever had to do. He felt the guilt rattle through him constantly, never leaving Dan's side for long despite how hard it was to listen to his whimpers throughout the day and night. It wasn't Dan's fault, though, and Phil had promised not to go anywhere, so if he wasn't sitting next to Dan whiling away his time on ravens he planned to send to his family, or wood carvings he’d only just learned how to make, then he was lying cuddled up to Dan’s right side, staring at his face and wishing that he could do something more to wash away the pain.

Phil cried a few times, feeling the guilt and self hate overwhelming him, and found himself having to remind himself of what Dan had said; there was no use in Phil blaming himself when it had been the dragon who’d struck Dan, and sheer dumb luck that had put them in the path of the loose rock Phil had kicked.

On the fourth day, however, Dan seemed to wake up feeling much better than he had the last few days, able to sit up coherently and actually tease Phil. It was a relief to find Dan's wounds hadn't re-opened and bled through his bandages again, and Phil wasn't even forced to change them this time, deciding to leave them for now as they were beginning to run low on the supply the village healers had given them. It was a good thing Phil hadn’t resorted to using any of the bandages on himself, despite maybe having needed them, and he was only relieved that there had been enough poultice for Phil to apply to the wounds he could find to prevent infection for himself.

As for the bandages they did have left… well, Phil was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t just changed Dan’s dressing far too often, but he wasn’t going to blame himself for that. They’d just have to be careful from here on out.

"I think I'm better," Dan announced as soon as he'd finished the broth Phil had made for him. "Or at least, I can manage moving again, if we go slow. We've got to start moving again if we're going to get to Cornelia in time." Dan met Phil's eyes then, expression softening. They hadn't talked much about Phil's family over the past few days, but Dan knew Phil must be panicking about the delay. The whole castle was waiting for their return, and Dan wasn't going to let some stupid scratch he'd been dumb enough to get stop them from saving Phil's family.

Phil’s eyes flicked up from his own bowl of broth at Dan’s words, but he couldn’t help feeling anxious about moving Dan just yet. His eyes trailed over Dan’s side, over his face, the anxious look in his eye, and then he slowly shook his head.

“It’s only been two weeks, Dan. It’d take another week itself if you were as strong as you were when we first got here, so there’s little point in leaving before you’ve recovered more. I’d rather not move you if you’re not up to it, okay?” Phil replied, trying to sound sensible and stern all at the same time. “Let’s give it another day at least,” he decided.

Phil couldn’t deny that he was anxious about getting home as soon as possible, terrified the dragon scale wouldn’t work and they’d need time to find another cure, but Dan was just as important as Phil’s family. He was Phil’s family, after all, and no matter how restless Phil was getting, he wasn’t putting Dan at any more risk by allowing him to walk around too early and stretch his wounds anymore than he already had.

Dan pursed his lips, not all that surprised when Phil argued with him. From what he could tell, Phil had spent the last few days simply staying by Dan's side and looking after him. From the bags under Phil's eyes, Dan was sure he hadn't been getting much sleep, too busy caring for Dan above all.

Still, for once in his life, Dan actually listened to Phil and didn't stand up straight away and demand they get a move on. He didn't want to worry Phil anymore than was absolutely necessary. So, instead of jumping up to his feet and running out of the cave like he wanted to, Dan held his arms out and looked up at Phil with unimpressed eyes.

"Fine. I'll listen to you. But help me stand up -- I want to test how much I can move before we go trekking back through the forest." Dan couldn't help smiling a little at the thought of being able to travel without any unwanted tag-alongs, the Duke long-gone, and he couldn't resist another little bit of teasing. "Maybe you can show me how to build a real bridge instead of a rickety raft, hm?"

It was honestly a relief to hear Dan agreeing to do as Phil said, and he nearly collapsed in on himself from the sheer exhaustion the last few days had brought him. Smiling tiredly, Phil stood up to do as Dan had said, happy to help him stand and see if Dan could actually hold himself up without falling. Phil would be there for him every step of the way, of course, but it was good to test the waters now.

Rolling his eyes at Dan’s constant teasing regarding his failed bridge from before, Phil merely replied, “Oh, I’ll definitely be showing you how to build a proper bridge, Daniel Howell. Just don’t be surprised if I don’t let you help this time.” Phil tossed Dan a wink for good measure, before crouching down low to help Dan from the ground.

“Careful, now. I don’t want us reopening your wounds when they’ve only just properly closed up. Put your arms around my neck, and I’ll hoist you up with my own around your waist,” he instructed, doing just that as Dan wrapped his arms about Phil’s neck.

Phil’s hand hovered awkwardly at Dan’s left side for a second just barely touching the skin of his hip, but Phil knew even before Dan began trying to hoist himself up that Phil was going to need a much better grip than that if he wanted to make sure Dan didn’t do anymore damage to himself. Stealing himself, Phil wrapped his palm more securely around Dan, and helt tight.

“Alright. Ready?” Phil asked, waiting for Dan’s nod of approval, the subtle tightening of his hands around Phil’s neck, and then said, “One… two… three.”

The two began to move in sync on three, Phil grunting as he used his legs to push his own body up off the ground with Dan wrapped rather securely around him. Dan, for his part, swayed in Phil’s hold, but he didn’t make a noise as he tried to gain his footing. For that, Phil was relieved, praying that Dan wasn’t just holding it inside and that he really was feeling less pain now.

Catching Dan before he could fall forward, Phil wrapped his arms more softly around Dan’s waist, and helped him maintain his weight on suddenly weak legs. “Careful,” he fretted, words soft against the shell of Dan’s ear. “How are you feeling? How’s your side?” Phil asked, not quite sure if he could pull back to check himself when Dan was so unsteady on his feet already.

The wound pulled and stretched a little as Dan got slowly to his feet. He leaned heavily on Phil the whole time, and gritted his teeth, desperate not to let any noise go that would show signs of weakness or pain. He scrunched his eyes shut and swayed a little, breathing fast little pants in and out. Phil's arms were tight around him, though, holding him steady, though he was careful around the wound.

"I… think I'm ok." Dan blinked his eyes open again once he was steady, sliding his hands carefully around Phil's neck to grip onto his shoulders.

Phil bit his lip, anxious and uncertain despite Dan reassuring Phil that he was okay. His thief was leaning a lot of his body weight into Phil, still, and his arms had moved to completely wrap around Phil's neck, hands gripping tight to Phil's shoulders. It made Phil fear that that meant Dan wasn't actually okay at all.

Dan shifted just a bit, wincing when he moved his left hip, and let out a relieved breath. "Yeah. No more bleeding. Let me try walking a bit."

Dan nudged at Phil until Phil started slowly moving backwards, holding Dan steady every step of the way.

Dan was a little unsteady, but he grew stronger and more confident with each step, until he was mostly holding himself up with only a tight grip on Phil's arm to keep him supported.

Despite Phil’s worry, when Dan asked to try walking a bit, Phil allowed it, pulling his body back a bit so that Dan was kind of on his own, and matched his footsteps to Dan's despite walking backwards. He trusted they wouldn't run into anything, and if they did, at least Phil would be the one taking the impact.

Eventually, Dan was pulling away from Phil, reaching down with shaking fingers to grip Phil's forearm instead, and Phil released his hips while maintaining a position to catch Dan if he did manage to fall. Somehow, his thief kept his balance, and the more he walked, the more confident he got, until Phil was grinning, proud that Dan was getting stronger again. He hated to see his thief laid out in pain when he was usually so full of life.

"Much better." Dan sounded satisfied. "Good. I was going crazy, not able to stand up." He glanced around the cavern, seeing evidence of Phil's cooking and cleaning over the last few days. His eyes widened a little when he fixated on the wood carving Phil has been attempting, letting out a soft breath. "I didn't know you knew how to carve."

Humming a bit in confusion, Phil followed Dan's gaze until it landed on the wood carving he'd been attempting for the last two days, and shrugged. "Not really. I just… needed something to do, and I'd already promised you I wouldn't leave your side, so I thought I'd try something new," Phil explained, leaning over to pick up the crude piece of wood he'd been shaving away. He was trying to get the shape of a bear in the outline so he could work on the details later, but he wasn't sure how it was coming along.

Dan's eyes were delighted as he stared at the wood Phil had been attempting to carve. He could see a rough outline of a shape, but wasn't completely sure what it was supposed to be, although it was clear Phil hadn't been working on it long. Dan's heart warmed at the idea of Phil taking him literally and staying by Dan's side as much as possible, even though Dan knew he hadn't been making much sense over the past few days. It filled him with warmth and love to know that Phil had been with him, watching over him the whole time.

"Thank you," Dan said quietly, "For not leaving, I mean." He was still leaning heavily against Phil's side, hunched over enough that Phil was actually taller than him for once, so it was easy for Dan to nestle his head into the crook of Phil's neck. He'd blame his open affection on the tiredness and herbs he'd been taking, but the reality was Dan just wanted to be close to Phil.

When Dan pressed his head into the crook of Phil's neck, Phil immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulder, drawing him closer still and hoping the touch would be as reassuring as he meant it. He nuzzled at Dan's hair, kissed the top of his head, and reveled in the fact that he was taller than Dan just then. "I'll never leave your side if I can help it," Phil murmured softly in response, squeezing gently around Dan's shoulder, wanting Dan to know just how much he meant it.

Dan shook his head, melting into Phil's touch with a contented little sigh. It was so good to have someone else supporting him, someone else to lean on and trust they'd hold him up. There were probably all kinds of metaphors in there for Dan's life and how he could lean on Phil, trust Phil in a way he hadn't trusted anyone before, but Dan didn't want to analyse just then. He wanted to lean into Phil's touch and allow himself to be held.

Dan glanced down at the wood carving with a familiar tug, nostalgia creeping over him, remembering a different shelter with different, smaller hands carving away at wood. Dan sighed.

"My brother used to love carving. He was way better than me. I've still got a bear he made me, back in my cavern along with the fairy tales and your grandfather's crown." Dan winced a little, remembering that, and felt a flush rise on his lower right cheek. He'd kept that crown with his most important possessions because it reminded him of Phil, and Phil had been important, even back then. Dan was a little embarrassed. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd let someone in as close as Phil, if ever.

Fingers shifting on the wood in his other hand, Phil listened intently to what Dan had to share with him, ridiculously happy that Dan was still willing to open up to him.

"Funny… I was trying to make you a bear as well," he murmured in response, hand tightening around the wood in the flat of his palm. "But I don't quite know what I'm doing." Phil hoped that it wasn't too painful for Dan, hearing that, seeing this... "I could make you something else, if you like, or I could just… not make it at all, if it's too painful for you." Wood carving was something Phil was only mildly interested in. He wouldn't be upset if Dan asked him to stop. The last thing he wanted was to cause Dan more pain.

"I don't want you to stop on my account," Dan murmured, glancing again at the shape he now knew to be a bear-in-progress. He could maybe see where Phil was carving the head, if he squinted a little. "It's actually nice. Those are good memories, it doesn't hurt so much to think about when we were happy."

Phil smiled at that, relieved to know that he hadn’t accidentally hurt Dan by trying to entertain himself in the cave the past few days, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Dan’s head. He was just proud of Dan being able to stand at all, now, and grateful for the short distraction from their misery, Dan’s pain.

Smiling as Phil realized what else Dan had said, however, he leaned over and nudged Dan in the side with his elbow. "Oh, so my Grandfather's crown is important to you, then, for it to be included in that pile?" he teased. "I wonder what meaning it might hold for you."

Dan’s face turned red when Phil turned to start poking fun at him, and Dan turned until he was fully hiding his face in Phil's neck. His right side was pressed tight to Phil's in a way Dan hadn't been able to enjoy in too long, so he clung onto Phil unashamedly and nuzzled against his neck. "Yes, OK, so maybe the crown was important to me. Mostly I was remembering how annoying you were being at the time." Dan softened the harsh words with gentle touches, wrapping his arms loosely around Phil and leaning against him. "You can have the crown back, you know. I never should have taken it, I was only after it because I knew it would get your attention specifically."

It felt better than Phil could say to have Dan curling into him like that. It felt like it had been too long since he'd had a chance to properly cuddle Dan, and it left a surprising ache in his heart. He hated seeing Dan like this, but mostly, he missed the comfort of Dan's big arms wrapped around him. Phil was happy to protect Dan, but when the nights were at their worst and Dan was whimpering in his sleep, Phil wanted more than anything to have Dan comfort him.

"I was going to say no and let you keep it, but my family would be very relieved to have it back in their possession once again," Phil replied, smiling down at the way Dan was hiding in his neck. He actually really liked it when Dan did that, because it belied his vulnerability, showed Phil when Dan was being the most open, and gave Phil a chance to keep him protected from his own fears.

"Now. Would you like to go out on a little walk for a bit, maybe up to the lake to wash? Or are you getting tired already?” Phil asked, turning a very stern look down at Dan’s head. “And don't lie to me, King of Thieves, I don't want you to overexert yourself," Phil insisted, nudging him a little to get Dan to look up at him again. He'd missed seeing clarity in Dan's eyes, and now it was back, Phil just wanted to soak it up forever. He smiled softly at Dan when Dan looked up at him, and reached up to press a finger to where he knew Dan's dimple should be. Automatically, Dan grinned, and Phil laughed as his finger disappeared into the small indent on Dan's face.

"Dimple," he whispered with a bright grin.

Dan was going to need Phil to stop doing that dimple pressing thing, because it was far too adorable and made Dan go all gooey and melty inside. He literally couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face. Phil's finger poking at his cheek made his nose wrinkle and his eyes scrunch up, and he hid his face back in Phil's shoulder as soon as he could, seeking more affection from this far too considerate man that Dan got to call his.

"I can walk a bit," Dan agreed, leaning away from Phil a little to prop himself up again, straightening back to his usual height. His wound gave an answering throb, but it was completely manageable. He grinned at Phil. "I like the sound of the lake, I feel disgusting. Plus I can make sure you've been looking after yourself, too, and not just caring for me."

Nodding, Phil tried not to flinch at the accusation that he hadn't been taking care of himself. He might have been a bit too preoccupied with Dan and washing him down every night. Phil had washed himself as well, but it had never been quite as thorough as when he helped out his Dan, nor as gentle. Phil was quite aware that he was covered in bruises as he kept pressing into them. He wasn't sure he wanted Dan to see that, but Phil would have to face the music eventually. Besides the scrapes on his hands had mostly healed up and his head and wrist seemed to be fine after he’d applied some poultice, so really, there wasn't too much Dan could say or complain about.

Dan carefully leaned on Phil's arm and took a slow step forward, grateful when Phil wrapped an arm around his waist to help him move. They made their slow way out of the cave and Dan blinked in the sunlight, glancing up the path towards the lake. He was surprised again at how steep it was, and how far they were from the dragon's cave, which seemed almost unviewable from here. Dan shook his head. "I'm still amazed you carried me all the way here. Have you been hiding god like strength from me, my Phil?"

Phil  followed Dan's gaze up the steep path towards the top of the mountain, past the lake and the two villages he’d traversed through, and towards the dragon's cave, and shrugged.

"Only the strength of my love for you," he replied, knowing it was cheesy and grinning even before Dan could turn an unamused glare onto him. Allowing himself to chuckle, Phil leaned over to kiss the top of Dan’s head again, and said, “No, but really… you'd be surprised what terror and love can do to you,” he insisted with a noncommittal shrug. “Now, come on," Phil gently encouraged Dan, and started to help him hobble up the steep path to the lake.

If Dan became too weak to finish the journey, or to get himself back down, at least Phil knew that he could simply carry him. His thief wanted to be properly clean, however, and that was something Phil could definitely help him with.

By the time the two had reached to top of the lake, Dan was beginning to pant, his eyes a little wide from being so breathless. Overall, he seemed pretty okay, though, as there was no blood seeping through his bandages, and despite being winded, he seemed pretty determined to keep moving forward. Helping Dan to a standing position near the water’s edge, Phil began to help Dan strip from his blood caked trousers that had been impossible to remove earlier, and decided to leave Dan’s bandages on for now.

They’d help prevent too much water from getting into Dan’s wounds, and they could always change them when they headed back down to the cavern later.

Too afraid to leave Dan unattended on his feet, Phil first helped Dan slip into the lake by himself, the water keeping his weight density far less than on the ground, and then turned to strip himself of his own clothes, blushing slightly with the knowledge of just how fucked up he probably still looked after the near beating he’d taken from the dragon. Phil was certain his back was still caked in blood, but there hadn’t been much he could do about it until now.

His chest, on the other hand, was littered with dark purple bruises, the pale skin a mismatch of mottled black, blue, red, yellow, and green. Phil knew the sight wasn’t pretty, knew he was cut up quite a bit as well, but there was nothing about that night Phil would ever change if it meant saving Dan.

Avoiding Dan’s gaze once he was fully naked, Phil climbed into the lake water as well, and sighed at the cool feeling of the water rushing against his skin.

Dan had to take a minute to get his breath back once he was floating in the water. He squeezed his eyes shut and laid his head back, allowing his body to adjust to moving for the first time in days. Thankfully, his wounds didn't seem to be stretching, and they only ached dully when Dan moved too fast - definitely an improvement from a few days before. He settled himself into the water, relaxing, and enjoyed the sensation of the sun against his skin for the first time in what felt like too long.

Upon hearing Phil slide into the water beside him, however, Dan immediately opened his eyes to turn a smile onto him, glad to have him back at his side. That smile fell instantly fell when he took in the state of Phil, though.

His chest was littered with bruises that looked far more painful than Phil was letting on, covering his pale skin in a patchwork of marks and colours that definitely did not belong. Dan's eyes narrowed instantly at the sight, because he could see from the way Phil was avoiding his gaze and shifting that he'd been trying to hide this from Dan.

It didn’t make it any better that a swirl of blood was seeping from Phil’s back, and all Dan could do was hope that it was merely from Phil failing to clean himself up properly, and not an open wound that had not been attended too.

Phil knew it the second Dan had seen the bruising, but he kept his gaze carefully averted regardless of it all, determined to not get yelled at. Already, he was rinsing himself off carefully, realizing that even over the course of four days, he'd still managed to miss a lot of the blood stains against his skin.

Dan huffed. Anger curled in him that Phil had been hurting while Dan had been worse than useless, but he held it back, knowing that wasn't what Phil needed to hear right now. So as much as Dan wanted to chew his ear off about being responsible, instead he simply held his arms out and gave Phil a look.

"Come here. No arguing. I'm looking after you for a bit, and I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't even try it. If you so bravely carried me all the way here because of your love for me, then my love for you is going to do the miraculous and stop you from arguing with me."

Dan was persistent, as Phil had known he would be, and he closed his eyes briefly before tossing Dan a look. His thief had his arms outstretched to Phil, a look in his eye that reflected anger but also guilt that Phil wanted to wash away. He would have argued with Dan's demands if he didn't know better.

"Fine, but just - can you be careful?" Phil muttered, treading water to swim back into Dan's arms

As soon as Phil was close enough, Dan started tracing a gentle hand all across his chest, moving lightly over the pattern of bruises. It didn't look like any were going to scar, but they clearly showed that Phil had been knocked around a bit and not resting nearly enough. Equally, there was a deep cut just at the edge of his hair line, and lines on his face and bags under his eyes from where he must have been worrying about Dan rather than looking after himself, and Dan simply couldn't have that.

He drew Phil in close to him and started to rinse him off, moving carefully, taking his time to shower Phil in love. "You've been so good to me," Dan murmured in his ear. "Let me be good to you, too."

Dan was careful as he took Phil in, fingers tracing light patterns on Phil's chest, mapping out his bruising and hurts. His eyes were keen and zeroed in on everything, including the way Phil was sure his eyes drooped with exhaustion. He'd hear nothing of taking care of himself at the risk of Dan, though, and was ready to defend himself should Dan yell at him.

He didn't. Instead, he pulled Phil into his arms as he began to wash him down, using his hand to sluice water down Phil's body and to rub soft touches against his skin. He was gentle as his fingers moved over the bruising, apologetic when his hands touched the bruising on Phil's back that he couldn't see.

His words, though, well, those were what stole Phil's breath away.

Nodding quietly, Phil tucked his head into Dan's neck, and let himself be cared for.

Dan's hands were big against him, comforting. For the first time in four days, Phil felt like he could relax again, and he let himself be loved by Dan, let himself fall apart. If he started to cry again for the millionth time in just a few days, well, Dan didn't say anything.

Dan held Phil close to him, relieved when he didn't get any more arguing and instead just got Phil cuddling up to him and slowly falling apart. It made Dan's chest burn, seeing Phil like this. He curled into Dan and relaxed completely, nuzzling against his chest, feeling small and vulnerable in Dan's gentle hold. Dan even felt a couple of tears drip down Phil’s cheeks and onto his skin.

Dan didn't say anything, didn't think words could be right in that moment. Instead, he kept gently rubbing Phil's skin with his hand, washing the soothing water over his skin and getting rid of the few remaining bloodstains, the marks of sweat and stress that told plainly just how rough these past few days had been on Phil. Dan moved gently over the bruises, wishing he could wash away Phil's worries and fears as easily as the dirt, longing for that happy, carefree smile that had been missing for so long.

Even when Phil was mostly clean, Dan didn't stop touching him. His caresses grew more loving, a fond stroke of his shoulder, or a gentle apologetic swipe over the worst of the bruising along his back, or a simple threading of his fingers through Phil's hair. Dan poured as much affection into the soft touches as he could, doing everything he could to show Phil exactly what he meant to Dan, more than his words could ever give.

Eventually, Dan settled again, both his arms wound tight around Phil to cradle him against Dan's chest. He pressed his face into Phil's hair, closing his eyes and breathing him in. "I missed you," Dan confessed quietly, knowing it didn't even make sense because Phil had been right there by Dan's side the whole time. But Dan had missed this -- missed being able to hold Phil close to him, to cradle him and love him and worship him just as he deserved.

The best feeling in the world was being loved by Dan. There was so much affection in his touches, so much care as he soothed Phil, and Phil never wanted to pull away, never wanted it to end. For just a moment, Dan holding him close, ghosting his hands over Phil's body in a gentle sweep and caress, Phil was able to forget all of his troubles and just let go.

"God, I missed you too," Phil replied, knowing exactly what Dan meant. Being locked up in Dan's hold, warm, strong arms embracing him, Phil had missed that. Just having Dan conscious and moving around and himself felt so good, but nothing could compare to being able to touch and love Dan the way Phil wanted too, having Dan touch and love Phil in return. His own hands massaged over Dan's body, rinsing away his worries as best as he could as well, but he remained tucked up in Dan's chest, just needing this moment of vulnerability for himself for a second.

Phil's eyes had long since drifted closed, and his ear was resting right over Dan's heartbeat, strong and steady and healthy. Dan was going to be okay. It still seemed like a miracle to Phil.

"I know I've already said it, but I'd thought I'd lost you," Phil mumbled. "I would have let myself drop..." he trailed off, knowing that wasn't what Dan wanted to hear, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Clearing his throat, Phil pressed soft kisses against the skin directly in front of him, just wanting reassurance that he could. He hadn't had this much of Dan's naked skin so close to his in days, and while he was far from tempted to do anything sexual, he did crave the freedom to touch.

Dan gripped Phil tighter when he caught the murmured words, burying his face back into Phil's hair. It hit him, then, just how close they'd come. When Dan had been hanging off that ridge, clinging onto life and the last tiny hope that Phil might actually love him, he'd never quite let the situation sink in. Phil had been much further off the edge than Dan, so much closer to death, and yet he'd crawled his way back up and lifted Dan and somehow gotten them both safely down the mountain, all without losing the dragon scale Phil had managed to cut free. Phil was the real hero here.

"Don't you dare," Dan murmured into Phil's hair, gripping as tight as he dared to with them both so fragile. "Don't you dare ever do something like that. I can't--" He broke off, shaking his head, knowing Phil didn't need angry berating or devastating confessions of how Dan couldn't imagine a life without him, no matter how true it might be. Instead, he nuzzled Phil and held him affectionately, letting his love pour through. That would have to be enough.

Love. They had a word for it now. Dan didn't need to keep hiding how much he wanted Phil, or have to bury it behind other, less adequate words. He could be completely open with Phil, as Phil was with him. He loved the way Phil was leaning into him, lived for the soft way Phil washed him clean and kissed his chest.

Phil could feel it as Dan tensed up, expected the angry words, and yet they didn't come, not in the way he'd thought they would. Dan definitely expressed his anger, his heartbreak at the very thought, but he murmured soft pleas into Phil's hair as well and cut himself off, seeming to realize the same as Phil had that this wasn't a conversation they needed. They understood each other, knew the anger they would harbor at each other should they do something so stupid, but all that mattered was that they were still alive.

And if Dan wanted to go off about Phil being an idiot, well Phil had a lot more physical proof on Dan's body to make his point clear enough.

"We made it," Dan murmured, drawing back enough to glance down at him and Phil entwined together in the water, both miraculously alive. "Phil, we did it.”

"We made it," Phil agreed, laughing shortly. He could feel that damn lump in his throat again, but this time it was relief and pain all wrapped up in. He and Dan were safe. They were alive. They'd completed their mission, and now all that was left was to get home, where Phil fully intended to wrap Dan up and never let him go.

Dan smiled softly. “We did. We're both here, and we're both alive, and I plan to spend the rest of forever proving to you just how much I love you. But I swear, I will slap you if you ever think of hurting yourself again."

Phil snorted as he pressed his face into Dan's chest harder. "You're one to talk," he muttered, still wishing he could slap Dan right now, but not wanting to hurt him; the last thing Phil ever wanted to do was hurt Dan. "But I like the sound of forever," Phil admitted, and sighed as he let the tears fall once more, because they might actually have forever, now. The worst thing Phil had had ever had to do was nearly done, and when he got home, he might just get everything he'd ever wanted, so long as… so long as he reached out and took it.

No more being afraid. Phil was going to fight for his right to be happy, and in love.

"It's different with me," Dan mumbled, "I'm not you." He didn't quite know how to explain what he meant, couldn't quite put into words just how wrong it was to imagine Phil getting hurt. Phil wasn't made of glass, Dan knew that, he knew Phil could and would protect himself. It was more that Dan just didn't want Phil in any kind of negative situation. He'd protect Phil, spend the rest of his life making sure Phil was surrounded by good and happy things like he deserved.

“When we get home,” Phil murmured softly against the shell of Dan’s ear, happy they could just sit and drift along together here in the water, “I am never letting you go. Before long, you’re going to get so sick of me,” he added, laughing, “But I don’t care. I plan to spend the rest of my life with you, following you everywhere… no matter what anyone else says.”

Dan had to hide a smile as Phil described holding onto him and following him around forever. He could feel himself dimpling, knew his eyes were crinkling up in that way he hated, so he ducked his head and hid. He couldn't quite keep the smile out of his voice, though. "A pest, you are, Phil Lester."

It was just so impossibly good to imagine a future with Phil -- a future that had always been so tentative and uncertain, but was now spreading out before them in such wonderful possibility.

Dan shivered at the thought. He pressed Phil against him, looked down to where Phil was curled against his chest, and couldn't stop himself from beaming. Although still obviously exhausted, Phil's eyes matched the warmth in Dan's, and Dan could look into them forever.

Phil had seen a lot of his favorite smile tonight, and yet he couldn't quite get enough of it. When Dan's eyes crinkled up, his dimple flaring far deeper than normal, it made Phil grin as well, and he laughed as Dan hid his face in Phil's hair all over again.

As cheesy as it sounded, when they looked at each other, Phil felt like everything was going to be okay.

"I'm going to have to practise being Daniel Howell," Dan murmured. "And that makeover you mentioned might be necessary. I have no plans to let you back into that palace on your own." His grin shifted then as he nuzzled into Phil, nipping gently at his ear. "As soon as we can, though, I'm taking you out travelling. There's so much you need to see, so much of the world you can't experience as a Prince. You can be free, Phil, if you travel with me. At least some of the time."

Eyes brightening, Phil pulled back some so his eyes were on par with Dan's once more. "Does that mean you'll stay in the palace with me sometimes?" Phil asked, "When I have to be there?" He'd been afraid to bring the subject up at all in case Dan rejected him.

Dan had reassured Phil he would come to palace events with Phil, but Dan had a far nicer home for himself out in the desert. The problem was how long a travel it was between their worlds, and it had worried Phil he wouldn't get to see Dan as often as he would have liked.

"Because I'd really like it if you were at my side more often than not, and I fear I won't always be able to just run away with you, as much as I want," he explained, quickly, not wanting Dan to think that Phil didn’t very much so want to do just that. The way Dan touched him though, the things his words seemed to partially imply, made Phil’s cheeks flush. "I want to be free with you, Dan. I promise no one is going to stop me from travelling with you for long."

Phil flushing was not something that Dan was going to get tired of seeing any time soon. He loved the way Phil's pale skin darkened, turning the brightest shade of red, and he looked up at Dan with such love and warmth and affection that Dan was completely floored. His heart was so full, then -- so full of Phil and the hope of a future together.

He contemplated Phil's words carefully, thinking about time in the Castle with the royals and Phil. It would be hard to hide his true identity and leave his home and well known pathways for a while, but Dan already knew he didn't want to leave Phil's side. He'd always known Phil would still have a part in his world, as much as Dan wanted to whisk him away forever.

So Dan released a heavy sigh and nodded. "I've said before, and I'll say again, I'd do anything to be with you, Phil Lester. Even if it means following you into the Royal Palace." Dan's nose wrinkled a bit. "Though -- does that mean I have to behave myself? Can I steal anything while I'm there?" He looked down at Phil with amusement glittering in his eyes. "And let's get one thing straight - I'm never bowing to you in public, my Prince."

He lay his head against Phil's again, just wanting him close, reminding himself that Phil was here and his and always would be. Any thoughts or worries about a future paled into insignificance at having Phil here, with him, by his side. Dan knew he'd go through anything, cope with anything, if only he could keep Phil by his side.

"Honestly, I'd stay with you anywhere you asked me to," Dan promised lowly. "And if I can get you to myself out in the desert, even just some of the time -- I'd do anything, fight anything, stay anywhere. Plus, I quite liked your bed, if I'm honest."

Phil was grinning. The prospect of actually getting to keep Dan close was entirely too exciting for Phil, whether Dan wrinkled his nose at the palace or not. He laughed though, finding it endearingly cute, and rubbed his nose against Dan's. The water around them lapped gently at their sides as they trod water together, and Phil moved his arms to wind around Dan's shoulders.

"You know, most people would die for a chance inside the palace," Phil teased, "Case in point, the Duke."

His eyes crinkled up a bit with his next smile, because he was just so happy that someone, finally, had proven that they wanted Phil for so much more than just his riches and his title, and he never wanted to give that pleasure back up.

Rolling his eyes fondly, Phil let out a sigh. "Steal what you will, Dan, but know that if you take the wrong thing, I might just have to force you to give it back. Bowing to your Prince, on the other hand - well, I'll just let any other potential suitors slander you for that," he teased, and pressed in close for another soft kiss. Dan's mouth was soft and yielding to him. As much as Phil missed it when Dan teased him, took control, he quite liked this as well.

When they pulled away, Dan was quick to rest back against Phil, and Phil let his head fall back over Dan's heart. He clung to his thief because he could, because he wanted to, and because Dan was offering to give Phil the world.

"If you'll promise to be around to spend the nights with me, so I don't have to be lonely, I'll never question where you've been all day," Phil murmured softly. "And then we can take advantage of my big old bed until I have a chance to disappear with you to your desert. How does that sound?" Phil asked, voice a low purr as he nuzzled his way up into Dan's neck, placing a gentle, teasing kiss there that was the promise for more -- just not today, not now. "That way you can avoid all the boring, petty drama being a Prince brings. Though I'm sure there will be plenty of functions, and plenty of nights my family invites you for dinner as well."

Phil sighed, drawing back from Dan's hold, forcing his thief to look up at him.

"I want you to be happy. We'll figure it out. The idea of you doing anything for me is heartwarming, but I won't force you to stay somewhere you don't like every night. I'm hoping it won't come to that. I'd very much so like to get away again for some time when we aren't on a dangerous mission.

Dan listened quietly to the picture Phil was painting - a picture of them together, a future, weaving their two worlds together. It wouldn't be perfect, not when they were so disparate, but the important thing was it was possible. Dan would do anything, put up with travelling, take nights in the palace and go to as many functions as he might have to to keep Phil's world safe for Phil, and equally he'd go to any lengths to bring Phil into Dan's world, too. It didn't matter how difficult it might be, or how much he'd have to fight -- if he knew he could go back to Phil every night, Dan would do literally anything.

"I think we can make this work," he agreed with Phil, his tone beginning to take on a modicum of excitement. "I can stay the nights with you in the Palace. Every night, any night. I don't ever plan to leave you alone. And when we can, I'll steal you away from your duties and take you out travelling, show you the true extent of your kingdom. We'll have to dress you down a bit, but I'm good at travelling unseen."

"It seems only fair I'd have to dress down if you have to dress up for me," Phil agreed, flushing immediately as he realized how that sounded, and shaking his head when Dan's eyes echoed mirth back at him. Before Dan could say anything on the matter, Phil leaned in and kissed him again, drawing their lips together in another sweet kiss. Dan was quick to reciprocate it, and they both sighed at the feeling of being able to do that as much as they wanted.

Dan played with Phil's hair gently, nuzzling against him. He treasured every time he got to hold Phil in his arms, every kiss Phil placed to his lips. It made a nice change for Dan to submit to Phil for once, but he was feeling a little weak still, so allowed the change in dynamic. He'd have plenty of time to have his way with Phil in the future.

Dan's fingers in Phil's hair caused him to relax, though, as he pulled back from Dan with a radiant smile of his own. The sun was just going down behind them. It had taken a long time for Dan to wake up today, and a long time for them to climb up to the lake. Phil wondered to himself if it was such a good idea to start their journey again soon, and tried to push back the constant fear in his chest that he wouldn't make it to Cornelia in time.

He would. He knew he would. They'd retrieved the scale much faster than they'd anticipated. They could afford this little delay for a little bit longer if it meant it was safer for Dan to travel again.

"I don't like this talk of other suitors, though," Dan growled into Phil's ear, tightening his grip a little possessively around his back. He ran the hand that wasn't in Phil's hair down Phil's back, tracing careful arcs around his bruises. "When word spreads of what happened to the Duke, I'm hoping most will see that you are very much taken, my Prince." Dan's forehead creased a bit, though, and he hesitated, unwilling to let Phil see one of his final insecurities.

But it was an issue that would need ironing out, eventually.

Phil shivered as Dan drew him from his thoughts with a low growl that startled and confused Phil for all of a few seconds, and then a startled laugh dragged from his lips. "My love," Phil whispered back, "Have I not proven myself trustworthy with other suitors?" he asked, nuzzling at Dan and playfully biting that bottom of Dan's ear. His own hands followed Dan's movements, but against the top of Dan's back as Phil didn't want to draw away. "We must be careful of what word travels of the Duke. It may yet be better to leave him to the wolves, though I won't complain if the people who would try and steal me knew of your dagger throwing prowess and feared you, my thief."

Dan grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone who needs to know how good I am at throwing weapons will know. I’m not exactly about to leave you open to just anybody.”

Dan paused for a moment, though, narrowing his eyes as he followed that thought through. "There is something though, my Prince," Dan confessed quietly. "I -- I know absolutely nothing of your world. If I do go to functions -- as I'd love to be by your side -- I won't have a clue what to do, or what the formalities are. I'm not so used to entering the palace through the front door." He snickered a little, hiding his insecurity behind his usual arrogance. "The rafters, though - the rafters and I are old friends."

Perking up in confusion at Dan's quiet, fearful confession, Phil pulled back and tilted his head at Dan. "Daniel, to my people you are a mere commoner. Lack of knowledge will be accepted and forgiven for at least a year's time. You've got plenty of time to learn the social graces of the royals. Please don't fret. I'll always take care of you," he murmured back, and kissed Dan's cheek for good measure.

"Besides, I'm sure you and the rafters will be getting plenty reacquainted any chance they get, knowing you," he teased.

Dan couldn't help but snicker at Phil's reassurance. "Yes, well, it's hardly my fault that your rafters are so appealing." He drew Phil back a little, just enough to smirk at him. "Besides, I don't think you'll be complaining next time I entertain you when you're bored out of your mind during another of those terrible speeches."

He did sober a little at Phil's explanation, though. It was true that he'd pass as a commoner, but Dan was going to have to get used to being Daniel Howell, to being seen in public again. He'd become so used to hiding his face that it was going to be a significant change for him.

Dan couldn't help but lean into Phil again, giving him another gentle kiss. He was enjoying these soft touches, so much more relaxed than they'd had before. For the first time, it felt like they truly had time to enjoy each other, even though Dan knew they still had to get back to the castle.

He said as much, leaning into Phil through the blissfully warm water.

"I know we need to get back to your family and all, but I'd be lying if I said I was in a hurry to leave." He sighed softly, caressing Phil's skin everywhere he could reach, playing with his hair and tapping against his hip. "I feel like I haven't seen you properly in ages. If we had time, I'd spend hours proving just how much I love you and why no suitor will ever match up to me." He sighed again, tracing his fingers up from Phil's hip to his stomach. "Not that I truly believe you'd go with anyone else. As you've said, you've done quite enough to prove yourself to me."

Phil's expression fell a bit at the reminder of his family, which he knew was a ridiculous reaction to have, but it was hard to think on them with all that happened, and Dan wounded in Phil’s arms. Over the course of the past few days, Phil had written and scripted three letters for his family to send with the Raven as soon as they reached the river once again. He'd been careful what he'd revealed, though, in case the wrong person got hold of them; he’d promised them he was on his his way home, and that he’d handled everything, but he didn’t breathe a word about the dragon scale or Dan’s injuries, knowing his family would understand his sentiment of hope, and wanting no one to know of their current handicap in Dan’s wounds.

"I'd much rather be here with you as well," Phil murmured, "Or in our tree, or in your home... I treasure the time we get alone. But you're right. We have a mission to complete," he admitted, and sighed as he dragged Dan in, moving to float on his back a bit more. He stared up into warm brown eyes, and wished that Dan was well enough to do as he said he would.

"And as much as I'd love to have you show me just how much you love me, you don't have to prove yourself to me. I know you're the best person for me. You just have to accept that I'm not letting you go."

The memory of the last few times they'd sex flashed in Phil's mind. He missed the way he got to feel Dan under him, over him, all around him. He missed just being so close and intimate, though this was nearly as good.

Sighing as their little bubble seemed to pop, Phil finally pulled away. "Are you ready?" he asked, gesturing to the edge of the lake.

Dan was loath to leave the little lake, but he knew he'd carry the memory of it with him forever, so he nodded his willingness to leave with Phil.

Having gotten the chance to have Phil there with him acting so soft and gentle had reminded Dan just how good his life had become -- he'd never thought he'd have this. Someone who loved him so much, enough to delay and pause to take care of him. Dan was left with no doubt how much Phil loved him.

At Dan's nod of approval, Phil took both of Dan's hands in his and began to paddle backwards, dragging them both to the edge of the lake where they'd managed to float away from. He climbed over the edge first, before offering Dan his body once more to cling to as Phil pulled him out like a child. Dan groaned a little as his stiff side was stretched, but the bandages were still not red with blood, which was better news than Phil could have hoped for.

The poultice was working, then. Dan’s wounds, last Phil had seen them last night, appeared to be healing quite remarkably well, and fast, for how deep they’d been only four days earlier.

Phil tried not to think about what was in the herbs. Perhaps the village had other gifts from the witch that Dan and Phil were using, but this was the only hope Phil had left. He’d just have to believe that nothing bad was going to come of this.

Once both men were free from the water, Phil helped them to dry off with Dan’s soiled trousers, and then encouraged his thief to borrow Phil’s for the trek back down from the lake. Trying his bed to be unashamed of his own naked body, Phil helped Dan back down the mountain path, which was far easier going than going up had been, with their bloodied clothes bundled up in Dan’s arms to prevent the excitement of any nearby animals.

Still, Phil could see that moving downwards was jostling Dan’s side more than going up had been, and that he was grimacing in far more pain, but he said nothing. Dan was determined to get back down on his own, and Phil just had to let him.

The minute they were back in their cave, however, Phil was quick to force Dan back into bed, ignoring his offer to help with dinner, and threw their ruined clothing in the fire to encourage it to continue to burn. He had dinner to make now, after all.

Dan’s side was quite a bit sorer now he'd moved around a bit, so Dan didn't argue when Phil insisted he get straight back into bed rather than helping Phil get dinner going. Dan accepted his fate readily enough and lay back in the furs, closing his eyes and focusing on calming his breathing back down. The scratches in his sides had bled a bit, he could feel it, and they were aching constantly, sending little thrums of pain through his veins. He let out a breath, gritting his teeth.

After shuffling through their now nearly empty packs, Phil found a change of clothes, pulled them on, and got started on dinner. It was an easy affair, mostly water with a bit of deer fat to flavor it up, and some meat for texture and protein. Their rations were getting a bit low, but Phil thought they could still make it at least a little bit longer, which was all he could truly hope for.

Once the meal was finished, he served up two bowls, and carried one over to Dan.

Phil reappearing with food cheered Dan up a bit, and he accepted a bowl of broth greedily, slurping away again. He was serious about Phil's cooking - now Dan knew how good he was, he was determined to make Phil cook for him more often. It might just be because had Dan never had someone else cooking for him, though, but that’s what made it so special.

They ate in silence, with Phil tossing Dan constant fond looks, but also worried ones. He could see Dan's bandages had a spotting of blood now; it wasn't much, but it was something, and surely it wasn't good to have Dan wrapped up in pond water? He'd have to change them, soon, even if they didn’t have much supply left. The next time Dan had a little bit of spotting, they could hold off, but Phil was adamant Dan wouldn't remain stuck with lake filled bandages around his torso.

He was just going to retrieve another roll of bandages when Dan spoke up, and Phil glanced behind him.

"So, tomorrow," Dan started, again reluctant to think about having to leave this place. They had a few more places to go before they got back to the palace, though, and Dan was glad to think he'd have a bit more time with Phil. Selfish, because his family needed to dragon scale as soon as possible, but Dan had always been a selfish person.

"I think I'm well enough to travel, at least a little." Dan set his bowl aside and glanced up into Phil's eyes. "Probably to get to the river. I imagine you want to send word to your family?”

"I want you to be safe," Phil corrected him, crawling back over and beginning to undo the bandages currently wrapped around Dan. "I want you to be healthy and okay. I don't want you to overexert yourself. Yes, of course I'd like to send word to my family, but I don't want to push you too far," he explained, staring at Dan's chest as he worked slowly over him.

"If you promise you think you're up to traveling again, I'll allow it. But you have to tell me when you can't move anymore. Being back at the river as soon as possible would be good, sure, but not at the risk of your safety,” Phil insisted.

Still, he couldn’t deny how good it would be to finally return to the forest, and not just because that was closer to him. “I can find us our tree again, and you can stay safe in there while I collect the materials I need. Without the Duke, it will be both easier and harder to build a bridge."

Dan couldn't help but roll his eyes a little at Phil's constant fussing over him. As adorable as it was to see him acting like a mother hen over Dan's wounds, Dan itched to be moving again, hating having to lie around helplessly while Phil did everything for him. It made Dan feel useless, and worse than that, it meant he couldn't reach out and grab for Phil whenever he wanted to touch him.

So maybe Dan was clingy. No one but Phil needed to know that.

"For the last time, Phil, I am fine," Dan grumbled, obediently holding his arms out when Phil went to change his bandages. He kept his eyes trained on Phil's face, refusing to wince as his wounds were exposed once more, instead studying the varying colour in Phil's eyes to distract himself. They glinted slightly green today, offset by the white tunic that he'd apparently stolen from Dan's wardrobe again.

"I promise I'm ok to travel," Dan kept his tone just short of a whine, "And I'm as eager as you are to be back at our tree. If it will set your mind at ease, I promise to stop if I'm getting too tired. I think I'll be fine, though. My head is much clearer today."

Phil could understand that Dan was getting irritated and restless, but it didn't mean Phil was any more willing to take any chances with him. He wanted to keep Dan in bed longer if he could, but he'd already promised just one more day, and Dan had given it to him. He'd proven himself by being out and about for a good part of the afternoon, so really, Phil had no choice but to trust him and do as he said.

Not that he was actually all that happy about it.

His hand's worked tirelessly as he went about drying Dan's skin of, trying not to wince at the scary wounds on Dan's left side as he moved in to paint them with poultice once again. Dan winced a bit, his body tensing, and Phil didn't blame him. He just hoped the poultice was still doing its job of taking some of the pain away and helping to heal and keep out infection.

"If you say you're good to travel, I'll believe you," Phil finally muttered in response, eyes flicking up to Dan's. He wanted to stop being so protective, but he couldn't, not when Dan had literally jumped in front of a dragon for Phil like the idiot he was.

Dan couldn't resist reaching out to trace a finger down the side of Phil's face, despite knowing it must be distracting. He just wanted to touch.

Phil felt his heart stutter a bit when Dan reached out to gently trace a finger down his face though, and he tried to focus back on the task at hand, but it was difficult with Dan touching him. It was always hard to focus when Dan was touching him.

After a moment, Dan smirked a little, meeting Phil's gaze with a teasing glint to his eye. "I'm looking forward to seeing a proper bridge. Let's see how much was the Duke's incompetence, and how much was you just not being able to meet my standards, hm?" He chuckled, and patted Phil's cheek once before letting him go.

Phil’s gaze snapped back to Dan in no time at those words,, furious as he glared at his thief.

"Hey! I promised you I could make a bridge, didn't I? Whether it was crap or not, it got us across, didn't it?" Phil couldn't help being cross at the teasing. Some part of him knew that Dan had only even started it because he was bitter the entire bridge building had been done with the Duke far too close for Dan's comfort, but it was beginning to truly upset Phil. "I can meet your standards fine," he huffed, turning his gaze away again.

Despite his frustration, his fingers remained gentle as he rubbed in the poultice, finally pulling away to grab at the bandages again.

"I'll show you a goddamn bridge," he muttered to himself.

Dan threw his head back and laughed, unable to stop himself at Phil's disgruntled tone. He knew Phil was getting tired of the bridge teasing, but it was gold to Dan. He liked being able to dig a little, to give Phil a push, knowing he'd push back just as much. It showed a kind of tenderness to Dan, a knowledge that they knew each other well enough to poke fun and withstand words not meant to hurt.

Dan's laughter broke through the agitation, and before Phil knew it, he was grinning as well, staring up at Dan with a deep fondness in his eyes. No matter what Dan said to him, no matter how he teased, Phil didn't think he could ever truly be mad at him, at least not for very long. Dan, when you got past the layer of him that was hard and unforgiving, was actually a very gentle soul. Who really, really enjoyed teasing and messing with Phil.

It was a good change, though. Phil was sick of those who tipped around him, refusing to tell Phil how they truly felt or what that I actually thought.

Dan would make a good advisor, now that Phil thought about it, but he shook his head. His thief was merely that - I thief. Not because he wasn't capable of more, but because that's what he wanted, that's what he enjoyed. Dan needed his freedom as much as Phil did, and an advisor didn't have that. Instead, Dan could be Phil's personal advisor, and he smiled at the thought, glancing up when Dan pressed his hand against Phil's cheek again.

When Dan calmed down a bit, he reached out to touch Phil's cheek again, softly this time. "I know, I know. I'm sure you build excellent bridges, my Phil." Dan's tone was filled with fond gentleness, and he leaned his head closer, itching to kiss Phil again. Unfortunately, his side twinged again so he was forced to sit back, hiding another wince.

"Besides, I wouldn't have a clue how to get through the forest without you there," Dan murmured, wanting to heal some of the wounds he'd given Phil. "I honestly had no idea trees like our tree even existed. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid of such a tight space if you weren't there. It's so different to my desert."

Phil was winding the bandages back in place now, and with the poultice setting in, Dan was able to relax a little. He leaned his head back against the cave wall and closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh. "Honestly, you're so good to me, Phil. I can't even remember the last time someone took care of me, yet here you are, fussing like a mother hen. I want to hate it, but I kind of really don't."

"It's good to know I can still teach you a thing or two," Phil admitted, sniffing primly, the effect ruined by his smile. "I must admit though, I enjoy you needing to rely on me for a change. Whether you like it or not, I think I'm always going to fuss, but you've really no right to say anything when you're just as bad. What was it that happened the first time we walked your desert? I nearly walked into a vat of quicksand, and your first instinct was to tackle me to the ground and then check for injuries," he teased, looking up and realizing that Dan was staring at his lips a with a little disgruntled frown.

"I had to protect you, it was totally different," Dan sniffed. "Knocking you over seemed like the best way to make sure you couldn't fight with me. You do that a lot, you know." There was a slight whine to his tone, but Dan was too busy tracking Phil's lips to pay much attention.

"You like that I fight with you," Phil teased, holding himself just far enough away that Dan couldn't' kiss him  himself, but close enough that Dan could feel the tension between them. "Perhaps it's not fair when it comes to life or death situations, I admit, but I think you like that I challenge you," he continued, eyes flickering between Dan's eyes and his mouth, his own lips parted for show.

Dan would never admit to the fact that he was pouting in that moment. He wasn't used to having to sit back and wait for what he wanted, always the kind of person who took first and asked questions later. Now, though, he was sitting powerless against a wall with Phil leaning over him with a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A mouth that Dan would really quite like to kiss, thank you very much.

Smirk growing, and realizing he had the upper hand for once, Phil leaned in. "Do you want a kiss, my thief?"

Dan pouted further when Phil teased him. Dan was itching to just lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, to grab Phil and force him to pay proper attention to Dan, but he couldn't move without pulling on his newly bandaged wounds and ruining all of Phil's hard work. He leaned as far forward as he could, and looked up at Phil under his lashes, trying to look as appealing as he could. "You know as well as I do what I want, my Phil."

Phil should have known that Dan would fight dirty, however, as seconds later Dan had moved forward as much as possible, head lowered as he looked up at Phil from under dark lashes, words a careful tease.

With a small growl, Phil leaned in without another word and took Dan’s lips in a passionate kiss. He’d missed being able to do this as he nipped at Dan’s bottom lip and pressed his tongue past his lips, hands moving to lightly press around Dan’s hips, tight on the right side, and light on the left, just to anchor Dan in place.

Dan was giving as good as he got, kissing back just as fiercely, and tilting his head a bit to the side to get Phil closer to him. On that same token, however, Dan was far more pliant under Phil than he ever usually was, and it felt so good having that trust in his hands.

Phil had all of Dan, from his heart, to his mind.

It took a few moments for Phil to pull away, having missed being able to kiss Dan so much, and he was red in the face when he did. Dan, on the other hand, was equally as breathless as Phil, despite the fact that he was smirking at the way Phil looked dazed and a little too blissed out.

Groaning, Phil shook his head. "You're a menace," he said. "It's hardly my fault I can't control myself when I’m around you."

Phil had fully intended to make Dan beg for that kiss, but seeing Dan look at him like that, with eyes so gorgeous and dark, well. He hadn't been able to help himself. His sex drive might have been a little bit... over active. Phil refused to get up to anything while Dan was injured, though, so he better not even try.

Dan was grinning triumphantly, quite unable to help himself. He raised his brows at Phil, acting cocky because he knew he'd gotten exactly what he wanted. It was nice to be pliant under Phil for once, and Dan was starting to wonder what it would be like to let Phil take complete control over their nighttime activities. He was enjoying himself too much not to explore that thought more now, so he dared to push a little further. "I think you like me challenging you just as much, my Prince. Seems like I can get you to comply easily enough."

He leaned his head back against the wall, more tired than he'd like to admit. Dan could feel the desire to be close to Phil as alive and well as ever, but the dull throb in his side was testament enough to why they couldn't take this any further for now. Instead, he reached out for Phil again, well aware that he was acting like a needy child.

"Come cuddle with me," Dan demanded. He knew he'd sleep soon, and he didn't like the thought of leaving Phil awake and alone to wallow. At least if he was holding Phil, he could bring him some modicum of comfort while he slept.

Mind still a little muddled with desire, Phil was unable to form a reply to Dan's words, because they were true. Phil did like that Dan challenged him back. The biggest issue was how easily Phil tended to comply to Dan, verses how easily Dan compiled to Phil. Obviously, when it came right down to it, Phil could stand his ground easily enough, but he seemed to have no self control when it came to giving Dan exactly what he wanted.

It took Dan leaning his head back against the wall he was propped up against, eyes fluttering as he reached out for Phil with begging arms, to shake off the part of him the desired more, and Phil very easily did as Dan had asked. Carefully, he laid Dan back onto the furs again, and climbed into his hold. Dan was on laying on his back, and Phil had his head rested over Dan's chest on the right side, one hand pressed against Dan's stomach. Dan's right arm was wrapped around Phil's shoulder, but his fingers played with Phil's side where his tunic had scrunched up.

"Sleep, my love,” Phil murmured. “You need your rest. I'll wake you in the morning to start our travels once more."

Dan sighed contentedly, drawing Phil in as close as he could. He pressed his face back into his favourite place in Phil's hair, and closed his eyes, revelling in the way Phil's body felt against him, wanting nothing more than to caress him. He played with the little bit of bare skin he could reach under Phil's tunic, gently tapping out a rhythm there that fell slower as he fell into sleep.

#phanfiction #iwritephanthings #snowbunnylester #phan fantasy au #phanfic #steal my heart