run me ragged

It was fucked, there was no other way of describing just how much he’d missed this. The mingled scent of blood and sweat in the air, the hum of adrenalin filtering through the crowd like a disease, spreading between them with each charged breath. Lounging close to the cage with sips of bourbon sliding down his throat, Mitch had grinned his way through each match that was called before his own. Most were easy to call, the first swing revealing with had the upper hand, the end a foregone conclusion within moments.

Hector, or maybe Hannya – definitely Hannya, he thought as she slithered into the cage and a girl’s name was called – had pulled a genius move. Give the old folks what they enjoyed most, a fight. Maybe most wouldn’t get their kicks out of watching the life go out of the eyes of their opponents, but they got to swagger out of the cage after, having proved that their balls were bigger. Stronger, older, cockier – especially Hannya.

Mitch shivered faintly as he watched her hold the overconfident girl on the brink of death, his eyes narrowing. Thank God she wasn’t the one he was getting in the ring with, he was pretty damn sure he could handle most people he’d seen fight so far, but Hannya wasn’t like them. There was no conscience to tickle when the girl’s brother begged for her life, just the air of satisfaction that he could feel slithering like static over his own skin. His fight was gonna be a different beast entirely. Not all shifters were built the same, some’d gone through a decade of military training, learning the sort of dirty tricks that had him bouncing on his toes with anticipation as he heard his name. This was gonna be the quickest fight of the night and then he was celebrating.

Thick fingers wiggled in the air, the grin that lit up his face freezing for just a heartbeat when something that looked like a fucking human rhino lumbered in through the door of the cage. Nerves twitched in the pit of his stomach, like someone had electrified the floor of the cage just to liven things up.

”Which one of them decided to risk it?” Mitch cackled as the compere counted them in. ”Whoever it was, they were fuckin’ brave. I wouldn’t go sleeping with a rhino, never know where you’re gonna get a horn, eh?” Truer words couldn’t have been fucking spoken.

For a few minutes it had seemed pretty balanced. Robbie the Rhino had charged at him. The bloated mass of muscle likely would’ve crushed him against the bars if he’d been a big enough fool to just stand there, but he was that fucking dumb. Side stepping, Mitch pivoted, driving his fists down, one, two, into the small of the beast’s back. As a shifter he wouldn’t have the displeasure of waking up pissing blood in the morning, but for a moment the pain would’ve been a bitch, lancing like lightning through his kidneys, down into his hips and up, up, up the length of his spine. The thing barely twitched before it lumbered to a stop. The minute it turned Mitch knew he was fucked – oh, he could call his own fight, he wasn’t that confident.

Fists the size of hams swung at him the second he steamed in again. Mitch tried to stay light, to stay out of reach, but those thick fingers locked onto his clothes, tearing seams, seeming to turn boulder fucking hard as they started to land. Gut shots that drove the air out of him, a slam to the jaw that felt like it loosened teeth – they’d definitely cut into the tender skin of the inside of his cheeks, cause he hawked up a clot of blood to spit back at the son of a bitch as he caught him around the middle and drove him back. Elbows and knees drove into what felt like concrete, doing some damage, but taking more. And his face, his fucking face…

By the time the fight was called and he was sitting on top of the thing like a king on his damn throne, he was swaying. In the end it had been the big guy’s momentum that had taken him down like a redwood when a desperate roll aside had driven that caveman forehead straight into the bars with every pound of substantial weight behind it. Throwing his hands up as it was called, Mitch roared in triumph. He felt every damn hit as he stagged out of the cage though.

Plenty of looks had been slanted his way as he swaggered home, blood still staining his beard where it had trickled from a split lip (now closed, of course). The tear that had nearly ripped his t-shirt in two revealed sweaty skin and the hard press of muscle beneath that would’ve been as dark and ominous as a stormy sky if he hadn’t felt at least one rib pop as it healed. He wobbled in the door, swinging it shut with the bat of one hand as soon as he got inside. The rest of the town might’ve still been celebrating Halloween but moments later he was sprawled face down on the bed, snoring his way through the rest of the bodily repairs.

Was this what the fuck a handover felt like?

The thumps echoed through the apartment, through his head, drawing a grunt out of him as he dragged the pillow over his head. Last time it’d been this bad there’d been a tiny faerie like body storming around the room, bitching at him for underperforming. He was a fucking God, he’d proved that last night, but she still wasn’t happy. That one never fucking was.

Sound drifted away again, then rushed back in with a shot of cold that had the fuzzy edges of the world snapping straight like someone had hit it with a damn hammer. His head shot up, air sawing in and out of his chest as he stared at – well, she was no fucking faerie anymore. As though he couldn’t put the parts he was seeing beneath the hood together, Mitch just stared as she raged, his mouth hanging open. What was wrong with him? Other than the fact that he could still do with another couple of hours?

Puffing out a breath, he dragged a hand over his beard, scattering water drops. ”Feel you said, feel like you get stressed and feel like you’re dying. Use your damn words properly.” The writer had taken the simplest explanation of the word, what a fucking genius he was. Every injury that had been inflicted on him had healed rapidly, but as Lucky tore her hood back he could see half of them right there. He hunched forward, mouth hanging open dumbly as he stared at her face. A second later he cackled. ”You think that’s getting the shit kicked out of you? You oughta see the other guy.” Oh, but wait, he’d have healed up just as quicky. The only one who looked like they’d taken the non-fun sort of pounding here was her.

Piece of shit? ”Hey, hey, hey,” he growled, holding up his hands. He’d thought he was the only one bored out of his mind, sitting behind his laptop day in day out, instead of charging around some shithole of a country, bringing order to a fucked up world. ”How the fuck was I supposed to know you’d take all my lumps for me? If you knew that would happen why didn’t you speak up huh? You’ve never shut your mouth before.” He could already hear it ’hey asshole, every fucking time you get a hang nail, I do too, pamper yourself.’ She’d been buzzed in New Orleans though, hadn’t she? Flying all that way because he was partying. Mitch scooted towards the end of the bed, his fingers hovering an inch from her torso as he cursed under his breath. ”Why the fuck haven’t you even bothered wrapping them?” Like he would’ve done if he was actually capable of hurting for more than two minutes.

Tagged: LUCKY CHRISTMAS * Word Count: 1361 (soz)

He wasn’t a big enough fucking idiot to say yes to that, but, yes, he obviously was. Having caught the scent of a chance to regain a little former glory, he hadn’t hesitated to put his name down for the fight. He’d seen his competition at the club, hadn’t thought anybody there had a chance of hitting him, let alone pounding him until his bones had ached. A little pride sang in its place now, despite the sharp words still spilling from her lips. He had held his own, hadn’t been dragged out of the cage like some of the others. Idiot or not, he’d fucking killed it in there. Which meant Lucky was now gonna kill him out here.

”Like you’ve ever cared about being fucking PC before,” he snorted, his lips pulling into a sneer. With her it was like a vocal dagger every damn time. If there was a filter somewhere in that thick skull of hers – maybe not as thick as he’d thought given the state of her now – Lucky never chose to engage it.

Ruddy brows hitched at her, his sneer twisting just a little sharper like he’d do just what she asked. Oh, she could take a swing, but in just a couple of heartbeats whatever damage she managed to inflict on him would’ve healed and she’d have been the one howling, just like he imagined she had last night. Remembering the sledgehammer blow of that thing’s fist into his ribs had him grunting again. He could’ve mapped out each blow on his own skin, but of course, he didn’t need to with the evidence of it shining rainbow bright above him.

Mitch sighed, digging his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He had seen what this fucked up connection between them had done, had experimented a little after too. Last night’s opportunity had sent excitement shooting lightning bolt fast through him though, the sizzle of overconfidence burning away any common sense he might’ve had. ”Nails are one thing, a beating’s another. Hey! Get the fuck off!” His voice snapped out, one hand shooting up to grab her wrist as she seemed to try and drive his head back.

”Have you? It’s always one thing or another to fucking bitch at me about.” He’d have said it was just like having his dad bitching in his ear again, but this was worse. Mitch huffed out a breath, pushing her hand aside – carefully. ”It wasn’t like the last time, although you weren’t complaining about it then, were you?” Then she’d been happy to jump into the fray and, well, they’d barely touched him in that fight. A shifter against a bunch of drunk assholes wasn’t the same as one shifter against another. ”It was a Halloween thing, a fight club.” Something anyone with an ounce of sense should’ve avoided, but he’d lost his somewhere in the last few months.

Jr had always been a proponent of admitting to your mistakes – not that the fucking hypocrite ever had – and this was one. He’d bruised as a kid, the super healing not cutting in until puberty had arrived and everything had changed, but even then they’d never been like this. Dark clouds scudding over her ribs, blooming on her face. ”Cotton candy and rainbows, what the fuck do you think?” Mitch muttered. His hand dropped to her waist, not wanting to settle too heavily against her ribs as he stood. ”An ace bandage. Just for a couple of days, ‘til it’s a little easier to breathe.” Docs didn’t recommend you wrapped them tight enough you could barely move these days. It was about being able to breathe and cough as normally as possible, even if you felt like your chest was being ripped apart every time you did.

Pushing to his feet, he nudged her towards the bathroom with that hand on her hip. Once they were in there he bent and rummaged in the cabinet beneath the sink. It wasn’t like he’d ever needed the kit himself, but if you didn’t know to be prepared after a decade in the military then you were a fucking moron. ”They the only thing you think you’ve broken? How’s the face?” Mitch asked, squinting at her as he stood. Would she try and rip his face off if he felt his way across the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes? Probably. He’d do it anyway though, just to be sure he hadn’t ended up breaking a woman’s face just because he’d looked forward to stopping someone doing the same to his.

Tagged: LUCKY CHRISTMAS * Word Count: 764