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sassooda · 1 year

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Worlds Away JJK AU / Chapter 96 - Paranoia

w/c - 7,252

“He’s not getting any better…”, Shoko’s voice breaks, eyes overflowing with seemingly endless streams of sadness, “What the hell am I supposed to do?!”. The usually wide open and warm kitchen feels constricting, dreary and with the atmosphere of gloom; the only thing holding her seams together being Hiromi.

Nanami lives and breathes but he remains severely depressed almost, nor is he speaking yet. She’s tried to talking to him, even attempted to comfort with silence but the void in her chest only expands as her recognition of Kento fades. ‘Does he still love me?’, the question she isn’t sure she’s prepared to receive an answer for, ‘Did he ever have feelings for Elska before?’, another zinger that stabs her right in the lungs. She accidentally throws herself deeper into the higher-up’s arms, a byproduct of the disparaging speculations she’s left to fabricate since zero answers have been presented. Nothing is certain other than the fact that Nanami’s clearly suffering from being away from Oda. Hiromi has been supplying him with blood but the offer is taken reluctantly, Nanami never appears to enjoy it. It honestly made Nanami’s moods worse.

She thought, ‘Maybe if he fed from me…’, after noticing that his status wasn’t progressing in the way they were hoping and acted upon this theory with the aspirations of Nanami finding consolation within her but his reaction was the nearly the end of everything revolving them. She’s never seen him so aggressive or violent; he’s never tried to run from or harm her either yet today he did both and at all cost.

Hiromi continues to hug her while she sobs into his shirt, afraid to let out his true opinion and affirm the elephant in the room. His sights leave her hair and slowly follows the stairs that lead up to Shoko’s room where Kento resides. This all feels rather hopeless to him, but how could he possibly admit that to Ieiri? Thoughts such as, ‘His behavior worsens as more time passes.’ and ‘We may have made a mistake by thinking we could contain Kento now that he’s even stronger.’, act as moons that pull the intrinsic tides of emotion. He squeezes Shoko a little tighter, taking a deep breath while considering that he may have to separate them due to Nanami’s instability. Kento trashed the room during his little episode and displayed such ferocity that it left Hiromi feeling like he has no other choice, ‘He’s too dangerous, he’ll hurt her…’. He hates this due to his own affections regarding Shoko; it feels somewhat sleazy even if he’s not wrong about Nanami, ‘It’s a matter of time a this point…Kento is too far gone...’.

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‘Master…’.

Nanami rolls to his side, curling into the fetal position; eyes blazing a deep maroon. He abhors the light and tires snuffing it with shut lids like that could hide his new form.

‘Why?!’.

A sharp pain slices through Kento’s chest while he suffers a state barely above starvation. He shivers but sweats and swallows only to feel the skin of his throat cling to itself.

‘So...dry.’

Images of Elska consume his mind against his will and to his dismay the mere tease of her presence soothes his writhing existence. They swirl within his imagination and send a more luxurious heat throughout his body in waves, some of which travel to his groin.

‘Master…’.

Nanami clenches his jaw, turns his face into the pillow and releases his agony in form of a muffled cry. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be but his adhesion to the past becomes fickle with each minute that is claimed by the present. Nanami’s aware that his heart has been poisoned, his mind and body tainted as well. “Odaaaaaa…”, he growls angrily and feels relief from her name alone in the same breath. How does one retain their sanity when their helpless to it being stripped away? The loss he feels as his turned nature dominates everything he once was cannot be compared to for he’s still sensible enough to witness his former everything deteriorate. His own sense of self coagulates in the depths of murky confusion, becoming less identifiable as his humanity grimly preserves what it can against his turned nature.

He’s going to lose.

It’s undeniable.

He needs Elska. Their bond is not something that can be buried or altered; he is hers and she is his.

“Ie-i-ri…”, he shatters quietly but into millions of pieces none the less. The part of him that clings to Shoko is vanishing, buckling under this overpowering, unnatural desire for Elska.

His new parasitic life.

How could he be expected to feed from Shoko? Does Ieiri not understand how vile this existence truly is? To use her as sustenance; to literally drink her blood into himself, the idea is somehow lurid and unsavory. Another cry of torment slips past his lips while he ruminates over the horror his innocent Ieiri must have felt when he lost control. His adulation for her causes his entire body to feel as though it were seeping into the bed itself. He wouldn’t stop it from suffocating him if were. “KENTO, PLEASE! IT’S ME! STOP! Oh my...CALM DOWN! KENTO!”

The classic sound of glass shattering to indicate a domestic struggle; echoing thuds of durable décor meeting the floor in consequence of the collision between human male and turned. Nanami can still feel Hiromi’s weight against his ribs as the shaman forced him to drink. He hates feeding from Hiromi.

“Ieiri…”.

Nanami knows all too well where they likely stand in regards to him, he’s been mauling on the few emotions that he was capable of decoding in his mind when feeding from Hiromi. Torture is the best description for what it’s like to be handed the blood you need but with the molested aftertaste of vitriol. Kento’s eyes fasten shut as he relives the horrendous flavor of solicitude and estrangement, the very seasoning that always pours from Hiromi even while his emptied supportive words fill the air. ‘He...honestly...is afraid of me…’, the taste is akin to minced daemon or perhaps the exact sensation of starvation regardless so there’s never any satisfaction but rather, additional despondence. There’s always that look on his face as well. Nanami is too ashamed to make eye contact while he drinks but afterwards, his own insecurities oblige him to glance over. Hiromi always appears as though he’s ready to deliver the killing blow at any given time but what bothers Nanami the most is not the fact that Hiromi would likely strike without hesitation but rather how he’s forced to deal with how much their friendship has devolved. Kento can’t trust him and he does not trust Kento. To make matters more despicable, Nanami is positive that he could drain Hiromi of every drop and still be left dejected. There’s nothing either of these two dear friends of his can do for him to indulge the bottomless needs of a turned. Nothing.

‘Master…’.

His hands grip the sheets but his tired soul yearns for it to be Oda’s flesh. His thoughts now flood with acknowledgment of her other beloveds and he tosses and turns in the daylight until his hand covers his face. There’s no way, right? Him jumping into Elska’s circle may prove to be exponentially more obtuse than her previous additions. Can he even share her? Fuck sharing her, can he even stomach having sex with Elska? ‘Why is this happening to me?’, he laments in thought alone. He swears he does not lust for Oda yet deep in his broken heart, he senses that he will have no problem pursuing that act. ‘Gojo though...and Toji….’, Nanami knows exactly how all that works out and is further made indignant when his body reacts in a way that is entirely novel. Never before has he found their sharing dynamic appealing, but now? Whew. His entirety cringes to what he’s molding into and the stress is released in form of a loathing sigh.

“They should have let me die…”.

His sunken brown eyes drag over to a broken picture frame near the wall and erodes into a flooding river while he considers the possibility of maybe not suffering at all. ‘Could I end it?’, he sits up slowly as if the shards would scurry away if startled but he doesn’t move off of the bed, ‘Would that really solve this heartache? Can I remain somewhat human by doing so?’ ‘Will they remember me as I was?’. Despair slides Nanami off the bed, agony compels his feet to traipse but defeatism is what ultimately lowers his body to pick up a sizable fragment. It gleams when disturbed as if it was supposed to be something pretty. The chunk is as wide as his palm and thick enough to accept force without becoming further compromised. When he folds his fingers around it, the jagged edges sting his skin whenever he tightens his grasp. ‘Is it enough though?’, he fears internally while lifting the makeshift blade to his own throat, ‘Will it actually kill me?’.

‘Master…’.

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“Fucking FINALLY!”, Naoya exits Choso’s portal first, gleefully spinning while he awaits the others. The familiarity of his estate and the centrality of the day has him back in the clouds, thinking, ‘All those years of diligence are coming back around!!’. He trained his ass off all through his life to surpass his older brothers and truly earn the title he was always destined to receive. Just because he was able to engage the scalar warfare wasn’t enough proof for him, Naoya had to show that he utterly deserved to skip them as sole heir. His chest feels like its going to explode and he pictures butterflies exiting his stomach and swarming the compound, encouraging, oohs and ahhs. As the rest of his party start to appear through Choso’s technique, Naoya decides to waste little time and engages his projection to find Peaches.

Elska giggles into her palm, “I’ve never seen him so excited before!”, admiring how only time itself could slow her prince down; by the moment she manifested back into this dimension, only traces of his energy stayed behind. She readjusts the front of her cardigan and shifts a smile to Gojo but he doesn’t even notice it in all of his contemplation. Her gaze loiters on her white knight while she wonders, ‘Sati, are you really alright?’, undoubtedly feeling his continuous unease.

“I’ve certainly seen him this way.”, Choso speaks it to everyone but his eyes are on Elska who turns around, “One day I will show you the memories of that time. It was right before your arrival to our base.”.

Toji scoffs, “Ugh, I know exactly what you’re talking about…”, half laughing to himself as he recalls all the different ways the Zenin would become giddy at the mention of her name, “I’m pretty sure that fruitcake learned how to giggle because of you, doll.”. That’s when he turns to look at Elska for himself though and their eyes meet briefly before she glances away out of embarrassment. Toji sighs, ‘I guess she’s still bothered by what I did…’, only now awkwardly feeling a bit of guilt. Maybe back in the day he would’ve anticipated Elska’s disinclination towards the act but he definitely was blind-sided by her depreciation for something he thought for sure would be a home run. He reaches out for Elska but she jumps away and walks over to the closet as if she looking for clothes, all while they can all assume that what she will be wearing is not being kept in there. His heart sinks and his eyes widen, ‘Did I go too far?! Could she...end up wanting less time with me?’.

Suguru snaps his head suspiciously, having heard that thought. He looks to Elska and then back towards Toji to read his body language and discovers the despair singeing the giant’s features. ‘What the hell would Toji have done to her?!’, surely there’s a mistake. He tries not to pay it any mind since he’s left without context but it sits funny.

“What’s wrong, yolotli?”, Choso swoops in behind Elska, grazing his shoulder against the wall to wrap himself around her while she nervously sifts through outfits. He cannot help but marvel at her attempts to hide the issue for he, of course, is already aware. She completely misunderstands what occurred between her and Toji and for once, the nonsense that will spill from this cup actually leaves room for anticipation. ‘I could solve this for them…’, he jokingly tells himself, ‘But why not let them have some fun?’.

Elska blushes, not even knowing where to begin. She quickly ideates a scenario where she anxiously belts out, “My beloved secretly prefers urine..” or “Nothing much, Toji forced me to give him a golden shower.”, she cringes. How do you explain that kind of...occurrence... and not feel weird in response? She’s currently swearing that it is impossible. The first thing she thinks to do is smile as if that could possibly detour the conversation but even with her deception she can see in her hybrid’s playful eyes that he’s not buying it for even a minute. She bites her lip while thinking to him, ‘Please don’t make me say it right now!’.

“Doll, talk to me. I don’t like this.”, Toji ducks into the doorway feeling like an absolute villain. He can tell his gaze must be hefty because her eyes seem to struggle meeting it but as awkward as this may be, communication is key.

Choso feels rather spoiled by getting to see this vulnerable and insecure side of Toji Fushiguro. The giant looms but also shrinks, appearing to resemble more of a hurt wolf than anything while Elska takes her time to orient in his direction. All of this nonsense because they do not always share their true feelings, ‘A simple yet hard concept for them apparently.’. They will be able to navigate it on their own and even come to terms with why the misunderstanding happened to begin with, ‘They grow so fast!’. Toji exudes a small whine but with Choso’s imagery of the wolf, it reminds him of a whimper which makes him innocently giggle.

“Oh, so this is funny, huh?”, Toji’s emerald eyes narrow on the being who sports a humored spark that may as well have intertwined between those violet dashes. “She literally is freaking out around me and all you can do is laugh!?”, Toji’s now more hurt than ever for he’s truthfully the one freaking out.

Choso snickers under his breath, “I simply understand what the problem is, is all. It’s rather cute if I am being transparent.”. He playfully averts his eyes when Toji’s dubitation starts to surface but then Elska pulls away from him and faces her back against the ensembles to address it all.

Shyly but with a flare of annoyance, Elska stares down both of her turned and brashly asks, “Cute?”, clenching her fists, “HOW IS PEEING ON SOMEONE CUTE?!”. Pushed to the point of explosion, she begins to let them have it.

------------------------

Naoya couldn’t help but hurry back to the others after accepting the attire, ‘She’s going to look stunning!’. The flawlessly sewn Zenin blue yukata fashions mostly a professional air but Naoya had his best seamstress beautify the canvas by adding a scenery of cherry blossom branches. He can’t wait to view it in great detail but judging by the intricacies woven into the spot showing, it’ll almost be worthy enough to grace her skin.

“I’ll just...catch up!”

Naoya cackles as a result from Old Man Peaches not demonstrating the best of stamina. “If I were 30 years younger, I’d run circles around you so fast that you’d be unborn, young master.”, Naoya laughed then too but repeats the same outburst as when it happened a few minutes ago. “Old goat…”, the Zenin’s lips split with an artless smile while securing the robes in his folded elbow. ‘Hopefully Toji doesn’t put up a fight…’, pouting while he looks down at the giant’s set, ‘We had to custom make these for his big ass!’. At this point, Naoya is approaching his room from the hall but he stops dead in his tracks when he hears the tail end of an uproar; something that he’s sure is a joke. ‘What is going on here?’.

“Woah...doll...hold up…that’s not-...”.

A sharp belt of laughter erupts from Gojo and is followed by, “Tojiiii...you’re siiiiiick!”.

“My beloved...you said you wanted me to pee on you. Don’t try to back out of this now. You said it was your plan all along!”.

“I did n-wait...no! You’ve got it all wrong! Doll, let me explain first!”.

Naoya enters the room coldly and is unfortunate enough to find Getou’s stunned face first. The Titer doesn’t verbalize a damn thing but looks to the ground with wide eyes and waving hands as if to express, “I have nothing to do with this shit.”. Naoya then locks eyes with Gojo who instantly lights up and spiritedly inquires, “Hey little Naoya, did you know Toji has a piss kink?”. He feels his left eye twitching.

“What is there to explain?”, Elska bashfully twists towards a welcoming Choso, lowering her voice to say, “You should’ve talked to me about something like that first…I’m not angry my beloved I jus-...”.

“What in THE FUCK is going on in here?!”, Naoya cannot believe his ears, ‘TOJI MADE HER DO WHAT?!’. His hands harden and aim at his older cousin before he can even realize that he’s in front of them.

Choso slides from behind Elska, past Toji and finally around Naoya before setting his sights on the slightly entertained Gojo. He tilts his head to the side as Satoru’s smile fades and is replaced by a far more solemn expression.

“Is it time?”, the sinking shaman asks with little doubt in his voice while he runs a hand through his white locks. ‘Love…’, crosses his mind as his darkened blue eyes glue to the wall hiding her in the closet, already missing her. “Okay, fine.”.

Orao fidgets with his fingers behind his back and keeps his eyes to the ground until Getou, beside him walks over towards Gojo. He was wrapped up in internal slurs in regards to the turned as he does his best to be deaf. Their behavior when it comes to his beloved Elska is unfathomable.

“Just get in there, get the ceremonial stuff and then get out.”, Suguru pats Satoru’s shoulder, “I don’t know what’s going on with you precisely but I get the feeling that you have issues with your family.”. It would’ve been awkward to say that normally but everyone is unfortunately privy to the rumors and public testaments made by Satoru’s parents themselves. They were never shy about their disdain over his being born. They say Satoru was such a hostile birth that he permanently destroyed his mother’s womb, leaving her barren in hopes and reality as far as more children was concerned. There’s also the whispers of there being a second Gojo child once upon a time but Satoru did away with it. ‘I guess only they’d know the truth…’. When Gojo’s eyes say that he’s on the right path, Getou sympathizes greatly and thinks to him, ‘May you return sooner than later...”.

Gojo tucks his chin down at the floor, “Thank you…we should have a toast tonight to officially welcome you into our shenanigans!.”, blatant with the emotive response procured by Suguru’s kindness but Toji falling into the room draws their attention.

“You’re fucked, you little shit!”, Toji jumps to his feet and snatches Naoya’s whole body from the closet.

“Oh my…”, Elska’s eyes widen as Toji lifts Naoya’s entire body up and over his head, Naoya screaming, “PRINCESS!!”, as if she could help. She would never have discussed that around her prince for this very reason but it’s too late now.

Orao cracks into a smirk while witnessing the father of bastards getting body slammed into the bed and doesn’t even contain it when everyone notices. He can’t help it...they’re actually funny.

“FOR THE FUCKING RECORD!”, Toji huffs while pinning the Zenin down but addresses everyone in the room, “SHE DID NOT PEE ON ME!! I DID NOT ASK HER TO PEE ON ME! NOBODY GOT PEED ON DAMN IT!!”.

Gojo leans into Getou, howling at red-faced Naoya who’s struggling to breathe under such a mighty knee. He then whispers to Suguru, “It’s true, there wasn’t any pee, I just wanted to make Toji uncomfortable!”.

Elska exits the closet with a furrowed brow, “My beloved?”, the bewilderment laced in her voice, “What did you do to me then? How do you explain that?”.

“Doll, look…”, Toji begins while slowly letting Naoya up, “What you did was called...uhhh…”, he steels himself but blushes, “...squirting, alright? I figured towards the beginning that it was new to you but it’s really not that uncommon.”. This is a really poor time for Shoko to be alienated because her explanation would be moons better than his own. He exhales, “I see why you thought what you did but that’s the kind of shit you need to watch out from that guy over there.”, he points to Satoru but keeps his eyes on Elska, I will never be the one to ask you to something like that so doll, please stop thinking I’m some kind of creep because I’m not. I guess…”, his gaze switches to Gojo, “since you were stuck with this asshole for so long you were deprived of basic pleasures.”.

Naoya grumbles, “Fucking animals, just like I said…”, relieved but still pretty jealous. “I can’t believe you did that to my princess on my day of ascension!”, but likely the real issue was that he wasn’t the one to introduce her to it. “Keep your god damn hands off of her!!!”.

Gojo cackles to Elska’s turning gears and chimes in, “Whatever, I could’ve done it whenever but I always get too wrapped up in the moment!”. Gojo now pulls Elska into his chest and strokes her hair while taunting, “You know how I get love, once I’m inside of you…”, he ghosts his lips over her own, “All plans are thrown out because I simply lose myself in your love.”. Satoru backs away and sighs to her flushed cheeks, “However, I will extract this fountain of desire from you later, my love, daddy has some work to do.”.

‘Daddy?’, Naoya expresses his offense taken with a “Tch” but Toji scoffs and adds, “What did I tell ya, that fucker right there is the one that needs the warning label. Always trying to do some freaky shit...”.

Satoru gleams from the compliments and leans down to kiss Elska but quickly grabs a hold of Choso to prepare for a quick escape, “My love, I am probing everything tonight until you are unable to walk.”. He snickers and winks mischievously, “Maybe you can pee on me! We should do it on Naoya’s bed!”.

“YOU TWAAAT!”, Naoya shouts this but the intended ears successfully avoided his reprimanding, “That fucker better get back here with his shit and SOON!!”. Naoya huffs and takes a second to collect his thoughts, ‘Everyone needs to get dressed…’.

“I’m sorry that I assumed the worst of you my beloved…”, Elska shyly rubs Toji’s arm with remorse, “I was just…”, she pauses and chuckles, “I don’t know! When it felt good and I thought it was...that...I guess I was embarrassed by myself too!”.

“Well maybe if I’d given you more of a heads up instead of playing predator, you wouldn’t have to come up with such crazy thoughts.”, Toji places his hand over hers and they share a sweetened smile that feels like it lasts for hours.

“Here!”, Naoya shoves robes into Toji, “Take this.”, and then walks over to Orao, “I also gathered you a set as well. This ceremony may not have been in your itinerary at first so I don’t want you feeling excluded.”. He hands them over and is mystified by how it seemed his trusted bodyguard was about to burst into either tears or laughter.

“My prince?”, Elska stands by uncomfortably as Naoya kicks Suguru, Toji and Orao out of the room. She thought he was being excessive at first but while she observes the way he moves, she can tell that his anxiety is through the roof. Naoya’s always been more sensitive.

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Genghis sits forward with elbows to his knees and a lot on his mind. The clay floors beneath his feet reverberate from the restless legs attached. Some pieces have decided to stray from their roles, taking on new advantageous ones instead.

“He’s changed…”, the sigh of relief that trickles out of his took 10lbs of stress instantly, “What insanity! How did this even come to be?!”.

After meeting with Sain and giving the promotion, Temujin traveled and utilized the bridge leading to Gaia. He’s tried his best to maintain regular visits but hasn’t had much luck while trying to manage his facade all the whole downfall of the planet thing. His mistake was not making time regardless.

An eerily nervous chuckle rumbles in his throat.

Although King Bengill has always been strong enough in his world to lead the turned, there was never hope of his survival once confronting Gojo. No, the King hardly matters at all other than in terms of baiting this war and possibly damaging Elska’s turned, maybe more, but Bengill is also imperative for causing the chaos needed to resurrect better leadership under his merciless Deila. Now though...after what Genghis just saw and heard with his own eyes and ears?

“This is getting out of control...”.

* * * *Temujin’s Meeting with the King* * * *

The very aura of the castle felt different and this was ascertained upon arrival. Everything seems denser, heavier even; he wonders if the colors of this world have grown dull as well for nothing lacks in terms of starkness. ‘Could it be that Bengill is giving up before we even begin?’, he ponders on this slight possibility and chews his lip while calculating how drastically that would alter his plans. Genghis was so certain that the Drayion pride would compel the King to take action to retrieve Elska, regardless of the consequences.

“You will be escorted to his majesty in shortly.”

Genghis stands and nods respectfully to the pelt and iron layered guard but proceeds to appear jittery while wading in the unknown. Bringing his wrists to behind his waist, he now rolls his weight back and forth from heel to toe, ‘Don’t abandon the morale of your people, Bengill, that looks much too like weakness…’, fearing over how a rioting population would endanger his own master, ‘How pathetic.’.

“He will see you now.”.

Stone floors have always irritated him for they decimate the joints and provide little to no insulation, ‘This drabby monolith retains it’s boring air.’. Genghis catches himself automatically looking down upon this world like he always has; its simply so regressive compared to the era in which Earth is currently in and to be honest, sophistication is not something that comes easy to turned. He laughs quietly while remembering how angry Deila became when he tried to explain smartphone technology or how scared the idea of a motor vehicle was before he used his water viewing technique to show her. ‘She definitely will fumble with adjusting…’. What an arrogant and bratty woman she is but oh how she has this way of making him lose his mind.

As they continue down the barren halls, Temujin’s lackadaisical thought process jolts with instinctual defensiveness the closer they get to the thrown room. The King’s presence has mutated but in a way that’s hard to describe. This type of energy shouldn’t be blended in a turned for it actually negates their nature in totality.

“Enter.”.

Shaking the eeriness from his shoulders off as inconspicuously as possible, the Titer holds his head down as he passes the doors. He wishes he could raise his head instantly, ‘What is that purity?’, and not be forced to enter such an ambiguous conundrum blindly but alas, one must display meekness in front of royalty.

“Temujin! My friend…”, The King announces his acknowlegdement, “Please, come.”, waving his hand, “We’ve much to speak about.”.

Genghis lifts his head hoping that the nervous sweat across his forehead will go unnoticed. His initial thought was to greet the King as always and regurgitate the spiel of his unyielding allegiance but he could not hold his tongue upon laying his eyes on Bengill and blurts a gasp instead.

“Yes...I imagine my appearance is rather shocking at first…”, the King humors out while confidently strolling down the steps towards his visitor, “One could say that I’ve been blessed with a power, something akin to someone deeply connected to this planet. I’ve come across aide like no other…”.

Temujin forgets to tighten his jaw and leaves it slacked while scouring the King’s features. Somehow, Bengill’s medium length auburn hair has grown exponentially and now carelessly drapes over his battle-decorated cloak. Deep red has always possessed the King’s irises but there are remnants of faded silver dashes that are enhanced by a miraculous light scar peering from the collar of his chest. “What in heavens did you do, sire?!”,

Bengill throws his head back and laughs haughtily, damn near incapable of holding back his exhilaration but offers Genghis to join him in sitting on the steps. He takes a second to readjust Toji’s katana on his hip but is no later sharing, “Where should I begin?! So much has happened!”. When Genghis merely laughs nervously, the King starts off with, “Well for starters, the growth of my army has exceeded expectations. I have one stroke of luck after another.”.

Temujin replies, “This is great news!”, but on the inside is paralyzed by the explanation he’s truly waiting for. What altered the King?

“We’ve spent every waking moment building up our numbers and have also discovered new areas in which the humans inhabit…”, the King grins, “Or did.”. He throws his long hair behind his shoulders, grunting to its weight and reminded to cut it, “Because of this though, our projected numbers multiplied exponentially. The humans have barely put up a fight and most quite enjoy being turned once they’re able to gain a feel for it. I should’ve done this ages ago!”. A brief silence sways past them but it ends with his sigh, “Although we’ve discovered that human children nor the elderly are not suitable for our cause. Their bodies simply can not withstand the synthesis.”.

If Genghis were a better person he may have felt nauseated by the assumption of butchered innocents but truly, very few matter enough to him at all. He braves, “Probably for the best.”, while hoping to usher the conversation along but thinks, ‘Has he been corrupted? Why are his wavelengths radiating like that?’. They’re so electrifying; as if they demand to be noticed, like they’re hinting alarm.

“It certainly is not for the best, I will take whatever fighter I can against Satoru Gojo.”. Bengill sounded harsher than he meant so after straightening his posture, he relaxes once more while the horrible truth ridicules him. “Those that cannot withstand the synthesis don’t die peacefully, Temujin, it’s a terrible way to exit this life.”.

For people such as children or the elderly who’s body rejects the transformation, their final hours are spent spewing blood from every orifice while their bodies contort hideously and reshape from the inside out. Due to the milestone of old age and its effects on the body, the elderly at least had it a little better. When their chests and stomachs progressed into aggressive bloating, the aged elasticity of the dermis and brittleness of their bones gave to the pressure building within. Cause of death, typically external hemorrhaging within minutes. The children however, suffered a great deal more and because of the opposite reasons and additional complications. Their bodies contained their wounds but because of the damage to internal organs from the increasing pressure, they would often bleed internally until they bloated into a fleshy, misshapen discolored sack. It’s something that should never have been attempted but as they say, these are times of war. Bengill has no particular interest in humans other than them conforming to his side but he’s a man that wishes to harm no babe or geriatric of any species, for any reason. His greatest regret was not questioning his own ignorance upon requesting the tests be administered.

“Sire, surely you intend to fill me on the reasoning for this supremacy you bear.”.

The King looks up, refocused in the current, “Huh? What’s this, you speak?”, and is met with Temujin’s invasive gaze. “Are you implying that I was weak before?”, snickering to the passing neutrality in the Titer’s dark eyes.

Genghis becomes antsy, “I humbly wish to understand what it is that you’ve…”, he shifts in dire discomfort, “become or have consumed. Your presence is not as it once was, sire and I only inquire because I care about your well-being.” The best lie he’s told all week.

Bengill sighs, “While on routes to scout for more subordinates, my regiment came across a deserted town that was stained in blood. We encountered days of endless rain and then monstrous heat and humidity on our path there and yet the blood looked almost fresh.”. He ignores the skepticism on the Titer’s face for he agrees that it sounds a little extraordinary, “The scent was fresh...but it was almost like an invisible dome took rise and built a roof over top. That is the only explanation I could articulate once realizing that the blood was still warm. Buildings that should have worn dust were bright, food that should have expired, edible.”.

“Sire, it sounds like to me that you maybe found a town where residents recently fled. You’ve suggested yourself, not every human wants to join these ranks.”, but on the contrary, this mysterious description has his interest.

“Fair enough.”, the King accepts this reasoning, “For I was beguiled by mirroring assumptions I save of intellect.”. Before proceeding with more, Bengill resorts to the urgency he’s hidden and asks, “How is my Elska fairing? I was informed by the Titers that serve here that there’s been great issues regarding the water viewing technique. They say that there is an energetic disturbance that is currently nullifying their ability to watch her.”.

Temujin stiffens and screams to himself, ‘WHY DID THEY DISREGARD MY ORDERS AND CONTINUE USING THAT TECHNIQUE!?’, knowing full well that the outcome of the King learning of Elska’s pregnancy or Orao’s recruitment would be unforgivable and could jeopardize everything. ‘But wait…’, he stews on what he’s been told, ‘an energetic disturbance?’. What the on any planet could cause this kind of disruption? Genghis absentmindedly glances around the room as if an answer would be tucked away in a corner somewhere.

“She umm…”, Temujin stammers while conducting a good fib, “She’s alive but I’ve been given word that she will be used to forcibly create her army as well very soon but there’s no possible way for them to match what you’ve produced.”. The King shoots him an aggrieved frown but waits none the less, “Her state is still precarious but I’ve recently done some recruiting of my own to help us in this endeavor.”.

“What do you mean when you say this?”

Temujin smiles, “I’ve inserted a spy among her turned, someone that will protect her from the more extreme perils alongside my pupil.”, he informs him slyly and with the impression of being heartfelt. “Lady Oda will only benefit from this spy for he can use his position to save her from starvation on top of numerous other possible turmoils. I believe he will be given a chance to prove his worthiness very soon as well which will earn him trust and recognition as a protector.”.

Bengill’s focus drifts from the Titer and to his own internal struggles while he imagines his beloved suffering at the hands of these notorious men. Her soft skin; is it being tactlessly groped and abused? That cynical smile; has it faded away similarly to her long-remembered spunk? Her voice; does it cry more than sing?

“Sire, please. I fear you are succeeding in psychological torture as you make me sit here and give patience to the most obvious refashioned part of you.”. Is he going to be left in the dark?

“HAHA!!!”, the King grunts and shifts his legs to stand, “The ways of servitude left you the moment you returned to your world!”, cackling loudly as he offers a hand.

Genghis digresses, “My apologies. My interest is merely peaked...”.

“Tell me, Temujin…”, Bengill turns his back to admire his family’s banner but proceeds to engage in conversation, “This pupil of yours…”.

“Yes, sire?”.

“He wouldn’t happen to be attractive would he? Describe him to me in detail.”.

‘What the fuck?!’, Genghis shouts within his mind but holds his composure, “Wh-why would you care to know such things all of the sudden?”. An affirmative chill courses down his spine while he attempts to predict the direction this conversation is headed.

The King postures himself upright as if he’s suddenly uneasy, “And now you deflect simple questions with more questions…”, he places his hand to the hilt of Toji’s sword and feigns a constricted pout.

Temujin takes a nervous step backwards, feeling like he has no other choice but to be honest.

Paranoia.

‘What if I lie to him and he’s already aware of what Suguru looks like? Why is he asking? What is he planning?!’, Genghis swallows down and darts his eyes towards the windows, ‘Maybe he’s lying about the viewing technique being blocked!’. After taking another step while choking on incoherent mumbles, Temujin trips and falls backwards. The harsh crash to the ground jarred a tiny terrified voice from within that silently whispers for him to share honestly. He could probably fight the King if this current output is all the King is capable of but that could also provoke his downfall. He is alone on this planet and cannot survive all the aggregated soldiers, there’s just no way. A likely stress-induced idea proliferates in his brain as he contemplates on bringing Sain into the fold for future meetings. He should’ve have stowed away more insurance.

Bengill studies his friend with an unusual impatience, “Describe this Titer to me, Temujin and I will share with you the knowledge of my bounty.”.

‘Fuck.’.

“Suguru is…”, Genghis scurries through his brain, suddenly struggling to put the true head into words, “Well...taller than myself but not quite as tall as you….and he has long, straight black hair but it ends here and he typically wears it up.”, pointing to his chest to provide comparison to the King’s length which is much longer.

“Tall and with long hair?”, Bengill remains stoic, “My, my...almost sounds familiar. Do go on.”. He folds his arms and nods for Temujin to hurry.

Genghis clears his throat, “Ahem...yes...perhaps.”, folding his arms as well to help disguise his fretting, “His eyes are narrow and seem almost black in some lighting, his hands are bigger than most but he also is different in the way that he presents himself with elegance.”.

“His stature?”, the question colder than any winter this world has endured.

‘This is getting weird…’, but Genghis knows he cannot bow out of this conversation, “I would argue that he is athletic.”.

“Athletic? Is that an Earth-born disease?”.

Perhaps the crippling stress of interacting with the naive King Bengill enabled him to crack or maybe it was the sheer need to have some kind of relief enter the equation but whatever caused it, Temujin cracks and burst into short-lived snickers. He attempts explaining, “No sire, not at all.”, as respectfully as he can while in the riles of laughter, “Athletic is a term from Earth used to describe someone may be physically strong and healthy.”.

The King says nothing but looks back to his banner.

Picking up on what would seem to be displeasure, Genghis throws in the towel as gracefully as he can while praying for mercy, “...I would admit that Suguru would be viewed as attractive, sire. My sincerest apologies.”.

While Temujin bows, Bengill interrogates,“Do you apologize for bedding my queen with your attractive pupil or do you wish to show remorse for how painful you’ve made this simple inquiry?”. He finds himself troubled by the manner in which his visitor has behaved this time around but can also understand the mortification that resonates from the request. That same hesitation possesses the Titer as he tumbles through yet another unobtrusive question.

“Both, I suppose, sire. I beg your forgiveness for both.”, but when their eyes finally meet again, Genghis snaps his head downward as if to not add insult to injury. He has to remember to stay within the lines of his part.

“I suppose I am greedier than your average turned for I wish to have Elska all to myself…”, Bengill diverges the mood into something else entirely, “But I am the King and I am entitled to my choice of Queen. I’m entitled to whatever is that I want.”. He lowers his tone and increases his conflict-imbued presence, “And I will have no other as she will have no other.”.

For a moment, the singular threat was enough to toss Genghis over the edge of ferocity but he restrains himself effectively with shreds of self-control. There where times where he actually felt guilty for his manipulations of so many, the King being one since he’s been nothing but kind for who knows how many years? ‘Heh…’, he thinks to himself, ‘I can’t believe I’ll be cheering on Satoru Gojo with this particular matter…’,

“Even while in my realm, graced by my sister’s will, you wear your human form, Temujin. Why is that?”.

Genghis is caught off guard by the question but is readily prepared with a sufficient answer, “I find it easier to maintain this form if I do not switch between the two. As you are aware, those from Earth are still mislead by my assumed humanity.”.

Bengill walks a wide circle around Genghis, almost as a shark would swim when something caught its eye, “Still...I wonder…”.

Each sharp clack of Bengill’s heel sends random muscles throughout Temujin’s body into small spasms, “I swear to you that I dedicate myself to this lower state in order to enhance our rate of success.”.

“Hmmm…”, the King hums intrusively as if that wasn’t a believable response, but stops and stares. “I see you as you are right now Temujin.”, Bengill takes a step closer, “I’ll be able to see you much better from now on.”.

‘What has happened to him?’, Genghis cannot ignore the creepy aura being put off by the King and stands in silence.

“I ask only because I believe that as I see you now, there is conflict within your soul.”, Bengill tilts his chin slightly upwards, “You can serve me best by organizing your life and diving deep to learn more about yourself than you’ll admit.”. The room because tense, which was not necessarily Bengill’s intention so he exhales and smiles, “Now tell me Temujin, what do you know of a clan named Memoriam?”

((Again, thank you for reading this!! I appreciate the love and interest above all. The next chapter will be out soon!!))

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Tagging: @syynnaaah @angelofthorr @itstackytime @animemenrbettr

#Jujutsu Kaisen #jjk #jjk smut #toji fushiguro #Naoya zenin #choso #satoru gojo #suguru geto #nanami kento #toji x reader #Gojo x reader #choso x reader #naoya x reader #geto x reader #elska oda #titer clan #the king

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silvaswiftcast · 9 months

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FFxivWrite2023 Prompt #10 (Free Day): Comfort Under the Stars

Characters: Silva Cataracta, Ricmorn Cataracta, and Hien Rijin

Rating: Mature

Notes: This scene takes place sometime after Shadowbringers Patch: 5.3. Words in [brackets] are in another language, in this case, it's in Doman.

Content Warnings/Additional Tags: Angst, Depression/Anxiety, PTSD, The effects of Light Poisoning, Nightmares/Night Terrors, Sleep Deprivation, Polyamory Relationship (V Relationship), M/F/M relationship.

Sleep was a hard thing to come by for Silva ever since the events on the First. The rough combination of the effects of Light poisoning and the events she saw firsthand did a number on her psyche. She could never get used to the iridescent flecks floating in her eyes, flicking as bright as the sun — even if her eyelids shut, she still saw them. It was an image that stuck with her months later. How her body constantly switched between shivering and the irritable sensation of her skin crawling. Even now, her body still struggled with regulating her temperature sometimes. She switched between freezing to death and feeling like she was the only person suffering in her own personal heat wave.

And then there were the endless nightmares — night terrors. That was the term Y’shtola gave for the horribly graphic dreams that left her screaming in her sleep. Left her fighting invisible horrors and demons that weren’t there. They were usually always the same. The faces of her friends and loved ones covered in blood, lifeless, and devoid of warmth. Their bodies were strewn about in a mangled collection of broken and torn limbs. Though all their eyes held no spark of life in them as they stared back at her, the haunted gazes pierced through her soul.

Their voices would call out to her in the darkness. Loud and deafening to her ivory horns.

You did this, Silva. This is your fault. Why couldn’t you save us? You’re the Warrior of Light. It’s your job to protect us, and you couldn’t do that. You let us die — let us suffer.

It’s all your fault.

It took Silva a long time not to be as afraid of the dreams — that she should always try to get at least a few bells of sleep each night. And find time in her already busy schedule to steal a nap on the nights she found it impossible.

Like tonight.

Somehow, the dancer managed to sleep through most of the night without too much trouble for almost two weeks straight. Something she hadn’t done since she, Ricmorn, and the others first arrived to the Rak’tika Greatwood. Something she thought was impossible for her to do ever again. Perhaps it was a sign that things were looking up for the Au Ra at last.

But for whatever reason, Silva couldn’t fall asleep tonight. And rather than spending the next who knows how many bells staring up at the ceiling and rolling around in the sheets, fighting to get comfortable and possibly disturbing the two men sharing a bed with her, she decided to get up instead.

It was stupid. So unbelievably stupid — Silva knew that. The silliness of it made her want to pull her hair out.

But she knew when not to push herself so hard. This was one of those instances where she needed to give herself some grace. She was still healing from her trauma, and that was something that couldn’t be rushed. For everything she’s been through in her short life, it was understandable that her healing had no approximate timeline.

It didn’t mean she could stop herself from being upset about it.

Frustrated with herself over something so ridiculous, there was only one place she could go to this late at night in the Doman Enclave to try to clear her mind: the private garden behind Kienkan.

The garden Hien kindly asked her to create for him during the reconstruction of the Enclave. The one he helped her build when his important duties allowed it. The one where the two Domans laughed, talked, cried, and danced together away from prying eyes — where they let their intense feelings for one another grow and blossom into what it was today.

This was her sanctuary — her peace. Surrounded by beautiful blooming plum trees and flowers, listening to the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs as the starry heavens above twinkled above her head. This place has heard all her secrets, worries, and fears. She’s watered some of the plant life around her with an ocean of tears — her tears.

Silva wasn’t sure how long she sat on the ground in complete silence until her horns alerted her to the soft sound of a door sliding open. She looked over to the source of the sound to find Hien standing a few fulms away, one of her favorite blankets bundled up in his arms. He gave her a warm, understanding smile when their eyes met.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, coming to join her.

She nodded, defeated. “Too much on my mind.” And when a watery laugh escaped her, his peridot orbs softened. “And here I thought I was doing so well. So much for that.”

Her horns picked up on his quiet sigh as he knelt beside her, wrapping the warm blanket around her shoulders. “Given everything you’ve been through and the hard work you’ve put in to process all of this, I think you’re doing fine. You’re being too hard on yourself, [wildflower,]” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the small patch of ivory scales in the middle of her brow. The young lord shifted to sit beside his beloved, one arm wrapping around her lithe frame while his other hand found hers to lace his fingers through. “We both know that this is something you cannot brute force your way through to the other side. It’s okay — it’ll be okay.”

A hesitant smile graced her lips as she squeezed his hand. “You always know what to say when I need to hear it, [my heart.]”

“And have you not done the same for me when I needed comfort since we’ve known one another?”

Silva snorted, the point of her tail twitching. But he was right. This was something they’ve done often with one another — building each other up when the time called for it.

And… it always worked.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she questioned. The way his eyes glimmered in the moonlight at her question was the only answer she needed. He pressed another kiss to the top of her head when she sighed, guilt curling in her belly. “Shit— I’m sorry, Hien. I know you have a busy day tomorrow and—”

“It’s alright, I promise, Silva,” he told her. “I can handle being a little more tired in my meetings. Making sure you’re okay will always be important to me.”

“Besides,” chimed in another voice, “he’s not the only person who woke up to find the middle of our bed cold and empty.”

Silva turned to find Ricmorn standing where Hien had only moments ago, holding a tray with a steaming teapot and three matching teacups. She rolled her eyes when he and the young lord chuckled as he approached them, but it was hard not to laugh a little along with him.

“Perhaps you’ll wake both of us up next time you find sleep evades you, yes?” the white mage suggested, pouring her a cup of her favorite tea and handing it to her.

She gave him her thanks for the tea, savoring the warmth seeping into her palm, before answering. “Yes, yes — I’ll wake you both up.”

“Good.”

#FFxivWrite2023 #FFxivWrite #FFxivWrite Challenge #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv #silva writes

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red-riding-wood · 2 years

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Heroes - Chapter 4

Chpt. 1 , Masterlist , Chpt. 5

Pairing: Sgt. Elias Grodin x Female OC (Alexis Ryder)

Fandoms: Platoon (1986), Cherry (2021)

WARNINGS: I'm just going to put down a blanket for the entire book/all chapters: graphic depictions of violence and gore, torture, explicit sexual content, attempted sexual assault, language, marijuana use

It had been two weeks since I’d been captured and tortured by the al-Qaeda. I was back in Kandahar, the main base of operations for the U.S. army in Afghanistan and also where I’d gone through basic.

Though I didn’t remember much of what had happened during our escape, I did know that the NCOs in our platoon had rushed us to the LZ as quickly as possible. They’d lost a lot of men and supplies, and a few captured or in combat bore serious wounds. I had been one of the luckier ones, though I’d still spent my time in the med-bay. My wrists and ankles still bore ugly red marks, though the pain was gone, and they were fading with time. Same with the bruises; they’d mostly cleared.

The burn of the hot iron was permanent, however. It hadn’t completely healed, either, still stung, especially if I brushed against it. But it wasn’t anything to go home over, or stay cooped up with the nurses. I’d been prescribed some painkillers and I put a cold press on it whenever I caught the chance in the barracks.

I’d been temporarily assigned to one of the security patrols in Kandahar, along with Taylor and a few other guys from my platoon who only bore minor injuries. Others, like Elias and Barnes, and the medics, had been deployed again, though we expected their return at any minute now.

Even though I was no longer on the battlefield, Kandahar didn’t feel any less of one. Given its more central location in the country, its heat was even drier than the alpines, making us sweat through our layers of uniform and FLAK. And the buildings were dotted with endless windows, impossible to keep tabs on, impossible to know if they’d give shelter to a sniper. And every car that rolled by I anticipated to have an IED; often, we’d have to stop them before they drove by densely-populated areas. Since bin Laden had been assassinated in the spring, politicians had predicted a drop in domestic terrorism, but it never seemed to subside in this place.

And in truth, the people scared me, too. Ever since being captured, I couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy around every pair of dark eyes I saw flash beneath a niqab.

“Ay, welcome back, Cherry!” Crawford – one of Elias’ men, tall guy with a heavy Californian accent and bleached curls before he’d been buzzed – called out as the recently-deployed soldiers made their way down one of the dusty roads.

I sought out my friend beneath the glaring sun, and grinned at him, waving.

“They’re back?” Taylor asked me, coming up around my right shoulder. I’d been lucky enough to have been assigned to the same unit as him during my stay here, without Bunny or the rest of Barnes’ goons, and we’d gotten to know each other fairly well. We’d even talked plenty about books.

“Looks like it,” I said, and stepped forward as Cherry approached, but hesitated, because his attention was on Crawford. The two fist-bumped, and Crawford pretended to tussle his hair through his helmet.

I didn’t know Crawford very well. He seemed nice enough, but he’d only just taken up a position in our unit yesterday; he’d been one of the guys who’d suffered more than a flesh wound when he’d been captured. A bandage was still wrapped around the finger he’d lost.

After several moments, my heart sank a bit and I turned back to Taylor, but he was fixated on the returning soldiers, on Elias, who wore a lopsided smile as he talked with a couple of his troops, and on Barnes, whose gaze sliced fiercely through the dust-ridden air around him. O’Neill, who’d claimed to have broken his leg, jogged up to him and began chatting his ear off.

My gaze couldn’t help but travel back to Two Alpha’s sergeant, at his smile that never seemed to lose its cheer. Like Cherry, we’d exchanged so few words since the capture. Both had been busy with their duties. And I still found it wise to keep my distance, despite still wanting to ask those questions that I’d thought of back in that al-Qaeda camp.

“Hey, Alex, you comin’ to the Underworld tonight?” Cherry’s voice snapped me from my observations, and I turned to my friend, the twinge of a smile pulling at my mouth as I realized that I hadn’t been forgotten.

“What’s that?” I asked, and Taylor and I exchanged confused looks.

“You haven’t heard of the Underworld?” Cherry said, shaking his head. “Man, you guys in B Squad really have it rough.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and cast a look around before lowering his tone. “Elias gets a bunch of the guys together at base, in one of the abandoned buildings by the barracks. Last time, when you two were in med-bay, we got so blazed. It was fuckin’ great. You should totally come tonight.”

My stomach stirred from something in his words. I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an excitement, or perhaps both, but I shook my head.

“I don’t know, Cherry…” I said. Though I missed spending time with my friend, had even grown slightly envious of his new friends in Two Alpha, the last thing I wanted was to get caught sneaking off to get high by one of the NCOs – least of all Barnes, or O’Neill.

“You’re coming,” he told me. “You too, Taylor.” He gave the man a jostle on the shoulder.

I eyed Cherry. Despite returning from another deployment, he seemed happier, more free. I wondered if it really was all that better in Two Alpha, or if it was just the weed talking.

“C’mon, Ryder, can’t be that bad,” Taylor said to me.

“Alright,” I agreed, finally.

“Let’s go, move it along!” Sergeant Wallace, our CO, urged Cherry and the others past.

My friend and I exchanged brief goodbyes, and I cast him another wave. As the rest of the soldiers walked by, a bright blue gaze caught mine, and my breath hitched in my chest, but not far behind strode Barnes, and I turned my back, lips parting to strike up a conversation with Taylor.

Any words that I could’ve come up with, however, froze on my tongue, and I squinted, eyeing the Afghanis that were gathering into a huddle in the square about forty yards from us.

“Hey, I think something fishy’s going on over there,” I told Taylor, nudging him to turn.

He did, and when his gaze met mine again, his eyes had widened to nearly twice their size. “Do you think we should do something?” he said.

I glanced over at Wallace, biting my lip, and called, “Sergeant Wallace, sir, we might have a situation! Check your six.”

I’d gotten his attention well enough, and he spun around, his shoulder tensing as he readied his rifle.

It wasn’t long until he’d assessed the situation and began barking orders, and my heart increased its palpitation and my veins began to buzz with adrenaline knowing we could have terrorists on our hands.

“Everyone, weapons hot. I want you four, left flank, now! You six, on me. You five, clear the civvies through the alley on your four o’clock.” The officer then pulled a radio from his vest, and said, “HQ, HQ. This is Wally. We need an engineer, three klicks north on Falcon, Zone Red. Over.”

Engineers were usually called in to assist with IEDs, which meant we very well could’ve had a suicide bomber or the like on our hands.

Taylor, Crawford, and one of the other guys and I flanked left, weapons hot. Once in position, we aimed our rifles at the group – which, at a glance, consisted of Afghan men and women alike.

As Wallace settled into his position with his men, and the three he’d ordered to clear the civvies were doing their work, coaxing along a few confused children, Wallace shouted at the group of now slightly-disgruntled targets.

“Hands in the air! Back away, slowly!”

I held my rifle with more conviction now; my finger didn’t twitch where it was held above the trigger, and my elbow didn’t tremble with the same uncertainty, the same weakness as it had on my first deployment. I was, for all intents and purposes, ready to kill if commanded.

“Crawford! Taylor! Back up about five meters! You’re in the blast zone, dammit!”

The four of us shuffled back, correcting our position, and rose our rifles again almost in unison to the strange gathering.

The men and women didn’t move, merely darting their gazes around at the soldiers that were pointing roughly fifteen or so rifles at their heads.

Wallace increased his volume now as he shouted, “This is your final warning! Back up, touch the fucking sky! Or you will be executed!”

My heart beat a little faster in my chest, but my finger stayed unflinching, firm, above my trigger.

Still, they didn’t move.

“C’mon,” I heard Taylor mutter under his breath. “Move, you idiots.”

Wallace cast us a glance, and nodded.

That was our queue.

Fifteen guns discharged at once, the shots like uneven drumbeats in the loudest symphony on earth. Screaming followed suit, and the tangos scattered; some tripped over black robes, others were paralyzed with shock, but none got away. Not even the children, who had only been revealed when the crowd had dispersed.

The bodies all hit the ground in a matter of seconds – men, women, and children alike.

“Cease fire!” Our sergeant shouted, and I brought my gun back to my chest, smoke curling from its barrel and weaving into the air over the image of our neutralized targets, all now lying still against the sandy pavement and dirt roads.

Behind them, the nearest building had been peppered with bullets, windows shot out of rectangular frames and even two men who I don’t think that been involved at all were slumped against the outer walls.

Wallace was using his radio again, yelling for engineers, but one had already arrived, jogging up between our soldiers. I watched with Crawford and Taylor as he had a conversation with our patrol leader, and they began suiting him in an EOD – or a “blast suit”, as it was also commonly called.

Taylor shuffled his feet beside me, and murmured, “There were kids out there, man.”

“I know,” I replied, still feeling numb to it all. The weight of what we’d just done hadn’t really had the time to sink in yet. I was still trigger-ready, counting the beating of my heart every time it struck my ribcage.

We all waited with bated breath as the engineer took a hike out to the bodies, slowly, lumbering over in that blocky blast suit. He began to examine each of the bodies, and Crawford decided to speak up in our quad.

“I got a bad feelin’ about this, man,” the Californian said.

I was trying to ignore my bad feeling, my festering weight that was threatening to culminate into something malignant in my gut.

Finally, the engineer called back that he couldn’t find any explosives, and Wallace told us four to advance, check the bodies for any other weapons.

Flies were already swarming the dead meat, and from each body, a revolting cocktail of blood and lymphatic fluid had collected on the earth beneath them, draining from limp, ragdoll shapes.

I had to check the pockets of one of the kids – a young boy, his dark eyes hollow and abyssal – and I swallowed, swallowed whatever emotion came bubbling up to my throat.

We did the right thing, I told myself. They were terrorists.

I noticed Taylor bring his mouth to his sleeve out of the corner of my eye.

Next, I checked the pockets of a man, and when I stared into his eyes, though equally as empty, it brought me momentarily back to that torture room, and whatever humanity I had felt seconds before for the boy was vanquished.

Only two of the bodies had contained weapons, which we seized, and as I walked from the carnage, I took one last look around at the citizens that were hesitantly emerging from their markets or their shops, fear glazing their eyes as they whispered to one another.

And then, like a bullet from a barrel, a woman shot across the square, her mouth agape to unleash a mournful wail to the eerily-silent air of the city, and three guns – Wallace's included – shot her down without a moment of hesitation. She fell, blood spurting from a kneecap, her skull, and chest all at once, about ten meters from us.

“Fall back!” Wallace commanded, and the four of us left the slaughter behind us, though there was a tension in the air between each of us that was so palpable, I felt as if I were almost suffocating on it.

---

Captain Harris’ office was bursting at its gills with sweating, filthy, off-duty soldiers who’d been in Wallace's patrol earlier. He’d called us in for a debrief, which was unusual for a captain, but I allotted it to him being in charge of Bravo Company’s second platoon, of which the majority of these soldiers – including myself – were a member of.

I’d never met the captain – hadn’t had to, because even though I’d fucked up making my bunk, or organizing my footlocker plenty of times, I’d never been one of the unlucky ones who’d had to pay a visit for insubordinate actions.

Harris nearly resembled Barnes, if you gave him another fifteen or twenty years, a receding hairline, and fewer scars, though his gaze didn’t have the same intensity to it. Instead, it possessed an almost sullen quality, like he just wanted to go home.

“I’ve gathered you here about what happened today,” he said, pacing back and forth in what little room he still had between his desk and the door. I was crammed in between Taylor and Crawford, and the stench of their sweat mingled with my own was enough for me to take shorter breaths.

“The terrorist action that you thought you’d neutralized was actually a gathering of civilians.” He stopped pacing, leaned back against his desk. “I’m not angry with any of ya – I wanted to let you know that every one of you made the right call. From Wallace's report, it sounds like they were a threat. And you all took care of that threat.”

That weight in my gut now sank in, and I didn’t hold it back, not even when it twisted my innards as I imagined the hollowness of the boy’s eyes, the misshapen limbs of his corpse.

“Now, it’s important to our cause here that we keep quiet about this. That’s why I wanted to speak with all of ya. Word gets out about this, any one of you could be taken to court, and I need you guys on the field. Most of you…” His gaze swept over myself, Crawford, Taylor, and some of the others from the platoon. “… are shippin’ out tomorrow to go kick some Taliban ass. And we can’t stand to lose good soldiers to an innocent mistake.”

I averted my gaze to the floor, bile rising to my tongue. Though Wallace had made the call to fire, I’d been the one to alert him to the crowd. But a court-martial, in this moment, wasn’t what I feared. What I feared was something less tangible, something inside myself that tore and gnawed at my guts. Something I’d seen in Barnes, in Bunny. Something that made me a little less human than when I’d enlisted.

---

I peeled my elbows off of the ceramic of the toilet, rolling my head back with a few laboured huffs of air. The stale air reeked of shit and my own vomit, and my stomach lurched again, but I swallowed it back. I staggered, onto shaking knees, and made my way to the sink. Thankfully, the bathroom was vacant, no one here to witness the misery I had stooped to.

Once I’d washed my hands, I let my knuckles rest against the countertop, slicked wet with water and cheap soap, and I let my gaze travel to the mirror in front of me. It was smudged, cracked, and had been vandalized with what I hoped was just period blood, but past its sordid imperfections, I glimpsed myself.

And man, I looked like hell.

Messy, tangled blonde locks clung to my sweat-slicked cheekbones, which had sunken in ever-so-slightly after surviving off of MREs – or rather, lack of; I’d missed many meals thanks to Bunny and Junior, and all the men in Barnes’ squad who thought I could stand to lose just a pound or two to outline my hips a little sharper beneath my uniform, and who thought that they could put the calories to better use than I could.

But it wasn’t my dishevelled, even sickly appearance that startled me, that raptured something in my chest, but my gaze – pale green, once soft and pleasant, kind and maybe even innocent, now hardened, piercing, maybe even feral.

And then images of the day’s events flooded my mind, danced with pain across those green irises. Images of a woman, drawing her robes closer to her cowering body, her eyes, bright with fear, catching mine as she shrunk away and blocked her son’s body with her own. Images of corpses, laying in a mass across the bloodied earth, flies swarming the air thick with smoke and guilt. Another woman, running for the corpse of her son or daughter or husband and lamenting her cries from lungs punctured and filled full of lead.

I’d told myself I’d done the right thing, just like when I’d shot those Afghans back in the woods, pinned the blame on Barnes and his words.

“If you start justifyin’ the blood on your hands because of what Barnes says, you ain’t gonna like what you see the next time you look in a mirror,” Elias had told me that night, and I swallowed another rush of bile in my throat as I stared into my eyes and realized that I didn’t like what I saw – in fact, I loathed it.

And for once, I asked myself, not if I was tough enough, not if I was enough like my father, not if I was enough like Barnes, but if what I was doing here was even just – was even human.

#fanfiction #elias grodin #platoon #platoon 1986 #my writing #sgt. elias #oc: alexis #there's smut in this story i'm just not saying where because spoilers but you've been warned #heroes

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kaeyazuha · 2 years

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𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

❝ I was wondering if I could request Diluc, Childe, Kaeya, Zhongli, and Thoma comforting the reader who struggles with nightmares and has a particularly bad one that leaves them shaken up. The nightmare could be about loss maybe? ❞

; Hey there, love! I’m so sorry- in my haste I accidentally wrote for Xiao instead of Thoma (don’t ask how) so I ended up writing both, and I made the dreams more vague (not about loss specifically) so I really messed up-- I hope it’s okay regardless, I’m so sorry! (っ °Д °;)っ

; 5/16/22

; Fluff/Comfort

; CW: sharing a bed, nightmares, mentions/descriptions of monsters, light gore/violence, etc., physical touch

𝗗𝗶𝗹𝘂𝗰 𝗥𝗮𝗴𝗻𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗿

✧ Diluc is a man of strength, willpower, success, and power. Those who see the bags under his eyes assume he’s simply overworking as businessmen do; however, what they don’t see is how those eyes are often bloodshot and teary as his body’s drenched in a cold sweat day after day. The Darknight Hero both protects Mondstadt and himself, saving him from having to suffer through the nightmares he sees every time his eyes close. Though because of this, he’s not that good at comforting you after a nightmare, especially not a particularly bad one. However, after all of his time spent with you, and after all of the buried thoughts he pretended not to have about someone comforting him during those times nobody did, he ends up lulling you back to sleep with a smile on your face anyway.

✧ After years of nightmares and being frightened awake by the sound of the rain pattering against the window, he became a light sleeper. The moment you start tossing and turning, gripping onto the blankets with a sleep-ridden yet pained expression, he’s sitting up and gently pulling you back to the real world with hushed whispers and light touches. Calloused thumbs stroke away your tears and caress your cheeks while he hushes your panicked cries soothingly. If you weren’t so blindsided by the horrors that projected over your eyes just moments ago, you’d want to tease him for acting like a lovesick teenager. But you couldn’t find it in you; not now, not when he held you like he was afraid of letting go, not when he could care less about the endless tears and muffled cries soiling his silk night attire, not when he held you so close to him with the promise of forever cradled in the hands that caressed your skin.

✧ He has a very soothing presence when he’s not trying to scare people; like a warm campfire on a cold night, the glowing embers dancing in the smoke and creating little fireflies amidst inky black, the warmth emanating from the burning wood acting as a blanket and shield from the cold. If you’d like, he’d silently listen to you recount your nightmare after helping you grab a glass of water- “You need to stay hydrated after crying like that…” he’d remind calmly. If you’d rather just go back to sleep after being so cruelly pulled from it, then Diluc would hold you to his chest in silence, allowing the night sky and the quiet sound of crickets, summer wind, and the thrum of his heartbeat lull you back to sleep. This time, the images that greet you aren’t horrific or miserable, but lighthearted and sweet. Even in your dreams, he stands there with his hand extended to you and the sincerest of smiles on his face.

- ✧ -

The sheets felt burning hot under your hands, the uncomfortable heat almost suffocating as you gasped for air. You frantically sorted your hands through the blanket, searching amidst the darkness for the face you were always so excited to wake up to, the scarlet eyes filled with light- anything, anything to fix what you just saw behind closed eyes. It hurt, it burned-- even without a fear of the dark or monsters in the unknown, you found yourself looking over your shoulder over and over again while trying to muffle the cries escaping bitten lips.

“Mmn…Dearest?” Diluc groggily spoke, sitting up and blindly waving his hand around until he reached the lamp switch, flicking it on and then gasping when you practically flung yourself at him. Please, you begged, ‘m sorry, you cried, and you burrowed yourself as far as you could into his shirt.

His hands found you, one hand rubbing over your back and the other cupping the back of your head. “It’s okay, I’m here now.” He leaned closer, messy locks of hair draped over his shoulders and tickling yours and he smiled while brushing away your tears. “You’re safe now.” With that, you only cried harder, gripped his shirt tighter, hid yourself in his shoulder further, and he held you ever closer. “That was but a dream, my dear.” He murmured for only you to hear despite being in an empty room, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your wetted cheek. “You’re here, with me, and we’re alright.”

It’s not alright, you wanted to yell, but couldn’t find the words to do so. Every sound you could make became trapped in a bubble lodged in your throat, and all that came out was silent, choked cries. It must hurt, you’d think while subconsciously digging your fingernails into his back, clawing at whatever you could to keep you grounded. Yet, he didn’t seem to mind at all. He simply held one of your hands in his own and held it tight, and never did he let go until your sobs died down into small hiccups.

“...’m sorry.” Why were you apologizing? How long has it been? Everything was blurry after being dragged out of sleep by the ankles and feeling your emotions leak out from your eyes like water from a faucet. You almost felt absent from the world after waking up; colors and sounds being about as vivid as a speckle of white paint atop a blank canvas, and time seeming almost nonexistent.

He seemed to wonder the same question, pulling away with almost an offended look while cupping your cheeks in his hands. “Don’t apologize. You had every right to be upset after a nightmare like that…” And only after those words did you piece together that through your frantic rambles, you’d explained (or tried to, at least) the nightmare that plagued you. “I’m simply sorry that I couldn’t prevent the dream from happening in the first place…” Diluc sighed, biting down lightly on his lower lip and letting out a small laugh when you huffed, easing it out from between his teeth. “Sorry.” He mused. “Are you feeling better, at least?”

You hummed, wiping at your eyes and inwardly cringing at the sticky feeling of your cold sweat and dried tears. “...I think so, yes.” Another pause, and then your head whipped towards the grand clock just across from the bed, and you gasped. “Diluc it’s four in the morning! You need to rest!” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the calm, almost sarcastic response he gave just after.

“I’m sure Adelinde can handle things if I sleep in an hour or two and,” He averted his gaze and guided your head to rest on his shoulder. “You’re my first priority now and always. Please, don’t belittle your struggles or hide them from me. The very same way you take care of me in times like this, allow me to do the same.” You smiled at that, and he relaxed for the first time that night. “Let’s try this again, yes? There’s still time until the morning.” He fell backwards until his back collided with the plush sheets, and his hands extended outwards to you in an inviting plea.

With the sudden lack of adrenaline, you couldn’t help but practically collapse in his arms. You found your fingertips still digging lightly into his shirt, and your hands still trembling; but when you rested your head on his chest and relished in the sound of his heartbeat and the sight of his sleepy smile, you decided yes-

Let’s try this again.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗲 '𝗧𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗮'

✧ As a child, Tartaglia was often plagued by nightmares. Frightening beasts from his father’s tales, his family being broken apart, even the vivid feeling of just falling endlessly often woke him up with a cry. He was used to being comforted and lulled back to sleep by his parents and older siblings and thanks to this, was well-prepared for your frightened gasp and the timid way you shook him awake. He was ready to give you the kindest smile he could muster while half asleep. He was in his element as he held you to his chest and coaxed your cries out from bitten lips, rocking you back and forth within his hold. It was almost surprising, just how gentle the ruthless harbinger could be. But it was more than welcomed, especially when he slowly replaced your nightmare with images and stories more beautiful than a sunset over rippling water, or snowflakes dancing amidst ivory skies.

✧ Despite the groggy lilt to his voice, and the hazy film over crystalline blue eyes, he still appears so beautiful as you stare up at him through teary eyes. He’d give you a moment, just holding you in his arms and humming an old Snezhnayan lullaby while allowing your muffled cries to fill the silence. Childe opts to let you guide what happens from here; allowing you to either speak your mind about what happened, or fall back asleep in the comfort of his arms. He makes no move to force words out of you or demand what happened when you closed your eyes, but the way his fingers dance along the curve or your back and the soft plush of your cheeks tells you all the words he’d say if he were more than half-awake.

✧ To be honest, unless you start a conversation, he’s mostly silent. Every once in a while, the smallest of whispers would grace your ears with sweet nothings. But for the most part, his quiet hums and the sound of his hands brushing over your back fills the silence. In the morning, he’d check with you to make sure you’re alright with it, and then he’d ask you about your dream. Now that you’ve slept on it and hopefully feel better about it, he hopes you can tell him about your nightmare in a way that doesn’t hurt you. Then he’d do everything in his power to keep the same thing from happening again- he hates seeing you so frightened, it scares him just as much. And so, the following night, you’ll feel him hold you just a bit tighter to him.

- ✧ -

You ran, as far as you could and as fast as possible. At one point you stumbled, wincing at the pain but persevering nonetheless. Tears streaked down your cheeks and your heart pounded in your ears, the wind permeated the sound of the night sky and you could barely make out a voice in the frenzy of your panicked gasps and muffled cries.

“....n”

“Y….”

“Y….n”

“(Y/n)!!”

You wanted to scream back, you did, but you didn’t have the chance to until you were jostled so hard you almost screamed earthquake instead of childe. At the sight of his panicked yet sleep-ridden expression, you looked around the room and found that the only thing real about everything you just saw was your erratic heartbeat and the tears dripping down your skin.

“There, there~. C’mere, love.” The bed shifted when he scooted closer, wrapping his arms around you and chuckling when you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck. “Want to tell me what happened?” You shook your head, the thought of having to relive that again being too much in the moment. He hummed, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple and then leaning back to leave one more kiss over your forehead. “That’s okay, don’t force yourself.” It hurt, you wanted to say, but found yourself pausing when the pain from just a moment ago started to ease even a little bit. His hands traveled up and down your back and arms, his cheek pressed to the side of your head and crystalline blue eyes fluttered closed while he hummed a familiar tune.

Eventually, you recognized it to be an old lullaby; a favorite when he was younger. You smiled at that, recalling how fondly he looked when he recalled that song, and told you how it reminded him of you. Gentle, like your kind gaze. Calming, like your presence. Lovely, like your eyes. And so, so very dear to him, just like you. The sleepy gravel in his voice added a deep tone to his melody, one that coaxed your eyes to slowly flutter and eventually close, and he smiled at that. Childe swayed you in his arms slowly and lightly, relishing in the way you relaxed into his touch. Your grip on his shirt started to ease into a light hold instead of a death grip, your pounding heart slowed into a smooth rhythm, and the tears that dried onto your cheeks began to fade away into nothingness.

“Feeling better, sweetheart?” Childe mused happily, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to tell me what happened right now, but,” He cupped your cheek. “I expect a full report in the morning, sergeant.” You laughed at his faux serious tone, voice still watery and throat dry, but you couldn’t help but smile when he looked at you like that. Like…like you hung the stars he stared at so dreamily, like you were the sunlight that caressed his frostbitten skin.

Your fingers danced along his arm, tracing the freckles you could barely see in the dark room. “Yes, sir.” You saluted playfully, and he hummed, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

Childe tapped his cheek as if he were in thought, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of his sapphire eyes practically gleaming under the brilliant blue tint of the moonlight. “Are you good enough to sleep? Or should I tell you a bedtime story? I know Teucer’s favorit-”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you very much--” You held a hand up, pressing a finger to his lips and cringing dramatically when he nipped it. “...Really though, thank you.” He raised an eyebrow, dragging you down into the sheets again with him.

“For what, being a good lover?”

“You know what.” You sighed, but he ignored it and simply smiled at you, albeit sleepily.

“I do. It’s my honor, angel.” Scarred fingers caressed your back, up and down in soothing shapes. “Rest well now, m’kay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“...I love you.”

𝗞𝗮𝗲𝘆𝗮 𝗔𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗵

✧ As a man who has his peaceful nights poisoned with nightmares almost daily, Kaeya’s is very well-acquainted with nightmares and what to do with them. Frightful images of his past, the sneer of his father as he left for the last time, the terror in his brother’s eyes that night, the thundering clouds and pouring rain, there wasn’t a single day that passed without those midnight eyes being filled with bitter tears. Thanks to this, he’s become a light sleeper-- if he sleeps at all, that is. The moment you jolt upright- cold sweat running down your spine in chilling droplets- and gasp out his name, he’s right there cupping your cheeks and reassuring you the world is alright so long as you are breathing.

✧ Kaeya’s the type to mourn with those he cares for. Your pain is his pain, and every tear you shed brings another to his eyes. If it takes the both of you crying your eyes out for the overwhelming sense of dread you feel to be replaced with tranquility and comfort, he’d happily oblige. But, if you’d prefer not to talk about it, he instead has you recount your favorite memories with him! If you can’t, being too tired yet anxious all at once, he’d start reminiscing for you. That time he heroically saved you from a band of treasure hoarders (to which you huffily reminded him it was the other way around). Or the day he took you out on an extremely romantic date (you sighed and reminded him that it was to make up for his antics the previous day) and then on and on, until you started to laugh at the absurdity of his stories. Then, and only then, did you see him truly relax.

✧ After the matter, his first priority is getting you back to sleep. While he’d absolutely love to just lay in bed with you and talk about nothing and everything, watching you laugh for hours on end, he does value his and your beauty sleep. He’d lay back down with you, wrapping your arms around his torso before nuzzling against your warm body and kissing the top of your head. A moment of silence made room for the words he spoke just after. It almost startled you, how his clear and baritone voice cut through the quiet air. Why do you look surprised? He never did tell you what his favorite memory was, did he?

- ✧ -

You felt empty. Not frightened, not agonized, just…empty. You stared at the graves with hollow eyes, heated tears dripping down your face and onto the solid stone in a fluid motion. Then, it all started to spiral. Faces, events, time, everything melded together into one amalgamation that made your head spin rapidly-- you cupped your hands over your ears, gasping and choking on air as everything hit you at once. No, no, don’t go, I’m sorry- sorry- no, come back, come ba-

“Angel~.” Despite his gentle, coaxing tone, you felt like you were just torn away from sleep kicking and screaming. Kaeya hummed, taking in your disheveled appearance and sighing sadly before leaning back, taking your hand in his and lightly tracing his finger over it. “Darling, can you look at me?” You didn’t want to, for the fear of his disappointed expression was too much to bear. Kaeya clicked his tongue, cupping your cheek and tilting your head upwards before kissing your forehead, his messy hair tickling your skin and bringing the smallest of smiles to your face.

“There they are~.” He cooed, voice laden with sleep and leftover grogginess from whatever dream or nightmare he tore himself away from. “What’s going on, love?” Your eyes watered once more, the sights and memories flooding back into your tired mind and he lightly tapped your cheek. “Ah ah- focus, if that’s alright. Don’t think too much, just…” His fingers trailed down your shoulder and to your hand, where he held it gingerly and traced along the different lines. “Do you remember that expedition we were sent on together? Our very first mission, where you thought I was a recruit?”

Through tears, you scoffed and rolled your eyes at the memory- how he pretended to be a rookie just to watch you try and teach him, watching the other actual rookies look at him absolutely bewildered. Though, it was cute, how earnestly he listened to your teachings despite knowing everything. “Aww, you do remember~. And people say my charm is fake.” Kaeya mused, leaning against the headboard. “I remember when Jean assigned you to me, and I couldn’t help but ask for your name…then she told me to get it myself, and you know how that went. Archons, I was so nervous, I might as well have been a rookie.”

You laughed, swatting his arm playfully and relishing in his soft laughter. “You didn’t look nervous!” Resting your head on his shoulder, you held his arm between yours for comfort. “I kept thinking you looked too calm for the situation, I’m surprised I didn’t see that it was all a ruse…though, it was cute.” He gasped lightly, placing a hand over his heart dramatically before reaching over to wipe at a stray tear gliding down your cheek.

“Oh? So you did notice, yet you didn’t say anything? Now, why is that?” His eyes, fully unveiled under the night sky, glinted in the light and you swore you could count the stars within them.

“...I liked talking to you, and I figured it was a strange question to ask.” Honestly, you were too entranced to really think about it. The way he smiled so sweetly, yet knowingly always left you breathless. The way his smug aura relaxed around you and felt more genuine, more sweet, always brought a smile to your face. And now, with his bedhead and sleepy eyes, you laughed happily despite the sweat and tears clinging to your skin.

“Feeling better, sweetheart?” Kaeya’s hands felt warm to the touch when they cupped your cheeks, his thumbs swiping under your eyes and then over your cheekbones soothingly. At the sight of your tired nod, he hummed and pulled you into his chest once more. He held you close, closer, until he could rest his chin atop your head and cuddle you against his torso. “...Then let’s see if we can get that pretty head of yours some more rest, yeah? I’m right here, I’ll make sure you dream nothing but sweet dreams tonight.”

Too tired to really respond, you nodded and held his hand tight in yours- holding it to your chest like a child would cradle a stuffed animal, he wanted to coo at the sight. Yet he didn’t, finding favor in watching your expression slowly shift into one of peacefulness with a gaze of pure adoration.

“Rest well, my dear (Y/n).”

𝗭𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗶 '𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘅'

✧ As a man of memory, his mind often takes the reigns the moment he closes his eyes. Archons don’t need sleep, but with him growing accustomed to mortal life, Zhongli tries to indulge in all the pleasures of man. Sadly though, his first night of rest led to memories and thoughts he sealed underground with many gods and demons decided to resurface, plaguing him one by one and subjecting him to live his worst nightmares. As a result, it’s rare to see him rest, and he’s not very good at dealing with those emotions. You’re the exception, as usual. The moment you jump out of bed with a broken gasp and shaky legs, he’d ease you back into bed while quietly questioning you. ‘What happened, my dear?” “Are you alright?” “What can I do?”

✧ Zhongli has an overwhelmingly comforting presence. Just being near him is like being wrapped in a warm blanket doused in the scent of lavender and glaze lilies, his voice sounds like velvet and his eyes the color of fresh honey. Even if you don’t feel like recounting the frightening images you saw in your dreams, you can feel the stress and fear starting to melt away as his hands hold onto yours. Despite how much he just loves to talk, he prefers to stay mostly silent during these moments. The faraway sound of the stars dancing amidst inky skies and evening winds brushing over the walls do most of the talking for him.

✧ As you start to drift back to sleep, then does Zhongli start to speak. Quietly, softly, he uttered the words under his breath so as to not disturb your drooping eyes. Tales of joy from the past, his favorite memories of the both of you, beautifully-described images of your favorite places, anything and everything you love. His hope is that these words would etch themselves into the storyline of your next dream, and send you off to sleep with a smile on your face. Only then would he allow his eyes to close, his fingers to enclose around yours, and hopefully drift off as well with a matching smile.

- ✧ -

The room was black, and your skin felt like an old candy wrapper left on a rain-slick street. Dirt clung to your hands, droplets of sweat glided down your arms; stray remnants of regrets and decisions you wish you didn’t make clung to your skin and refused to let go even as you frantically tried to wash away your sins, only to realize the water was scarlet red, and carried the scent of metal. You screamed, you cried, and you squeezed your eyes tight in hopes of seeing anything more than the taunting smile of your horrors--

“(Y/n).” Instead, you harshly awoke to the concerned frown of your dearest Zhongli. Gods, he looked like a mess. Wisps of hair flew astray, golden eyes squinted under the barely-there light of the moon, and he looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. You paled, frantically grabbing at your arms and torso- shocked to find a lack of red, the absence of dirt and grime, the only evidence of your pains being the sheen of your sweat slicking your skin. “My dear, are you alright?” Zhongli questioned earnestly, cupping your cheek and patting down your forehead with a cloth he kept near the bed.

“Yes, yes, I-” Your chest heaved with every careful breath, fingers still trembling under your iron grip on the sheets. “-It was just a nightmare, I think, oh archons-” Too frightened to see the irony in your statement, you clung to his shirt and fought to catch your breath, finding solace in the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat. He hummed softly, cupping the back of your head and stroking your hair while rocking you side to side in his arms. Zhongli bit back the urge to recount a tale of old times, knowing that’s what soothed him- but right now, he focused on you. He focused on the way you quivered in his embrace, the faraway look in your eyes that broke his heart, your raspy gasps and broken cries, and he could only stare at you with a kind stare that apologized a thousand times over for the horrors you beheld just moments ago.

“You’re alright now, beloved. You’re safe, I won’t let anything happen to you.” He held you closer, and you whispered out a thank you before he started speaking again, voice laced with determination. “Not now, not ever again. You’ve been so very brave, but now please, allow me to share your burden.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, and you felt his hand guide your head to tilt upwards and face his kind expression. Golden eyes the color of honey practically oozed warmth and you couldn’t help but lose yourself in the pools of amber until he pulled you back to reality, a kiss to your forehead snapping you out of the mini-daydream. He pulled you over to rest in his lap, your right shoulder pressed to his chest and your left protected from the cold night air by his hand.

“What do you mean?” You inquired curiously, finding it much easier to breathe now.

“I’d like you to tell me about the thoughts that plague you, if this dream held significant meaning. If not, and it was just a fright, then you can tell me about it if you’d like. Or,” He rested his chin atop your head. “I can tell you a story that I’m sure will bore you to sleep-” You laughed at that, not missing the mischievous glint in his eyes. “-and I’ll watch over you to ensure you rest peacefully. There’s still ample time before the sun rises once more, so take your time.”

“Can you…just hold me? You can tell me a story if you want, I think I’m okay now either way.” You wrapped your arms around his torso and snuggled against his chest, allowing your eyes to flutter closed and finding yourself pleasantly surprised when you weren’t frightened out of your skin from the newfound darkness.

“Oh? Well then,” He kissed your temple. “I’ll tell you my favorite story, it’s a rather simplistic yet meaningful one.”

“How about the story of how we met?”

𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗮 '𝗞𝗮𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗼 𝗙𝗶𝘅𝗲𝗿'

✧ Thoma’s dedicated his life to the service of others. Taking care of their every need is his livelihood and honor, and he’s become well accustomed to being completely aware of everyone’s tiny cues and notions. Though, he’s very good with nightmares specifically. After being awoken by a horrified scream or a frightened gasp from one of the Kamisato’s after their mother’s passing, finding them sitting up in a cold sweat with tears streaming down their eyes, he’s trained himself to become exactly what they need after a nightmare. When he finds you in the same state, he switches from ‘sleepy boyfriend’ to ‘concerned parent’ within the span of two seconds.

✧ He quickly reminds himself that you’re not a mission nor are you a Kamisato, but his dearest lover. With that revelation, he calms down and pulls you into his chest before humming a soft lullaby from his childhood. If you feel like talking, he urges you to let everything out and listens intently. Even through bleary eyes, you could see his focused expression as if you were the finest work of art and he were a connoisseur. Thoma has a very warm and bright presence, like the first rays of sunlight or the blooming of a sunflower, and you find yourself easily lost in his light. He drops everything to take care of you, and it’s obvious in the way he fans you gently to cool your overheated body, in the way he dabs away your sweat with his sleeve, how he quickly fetches a bottle of water for you, even in the simple kiss he presses to your temple.

✧ If you let him, he’d lightly massage your tensed shoulders as you spoke. As quickly as you started, you find sleep starting to overtake your overwhelmed senses. He’d help you lean into his chest while he continues to hum a few of his favorite tunes; and as his hands glide along your shoulders and back, he replaces the horrors behind your eyes with visions of comfort and tranquility. Or at least, he does his best. After you fall asleep, he’d stay awake just a bit longer to ensure you slept peacefully. If he sees the slightest sign of another nightmare, he whispers gentle coaxes and sweet nothings into your ear until he sees that soft, sleepy smile on your face once more.

- ✧ -

The last time you felt so afraid felt far away, it felt miniscule in the face of the horrors you beheld in this moment. Wide, blinking eyes stared through your soul and almost past your figure, yet you could tell they trained on you. They watched you. They saw every movement and every twitch of your eyes, every small step back, every stuttered breath, and the slow blinking seemed to taunt just how quickly your heart raced within the confines of your chest. One step forward, you took one step back. It moved faster, you took off running.

Running,

Faster,

FASTER

And you ran clear until your legs gave out, not once did you hear more than the roaring of your blood in your ears or the wind rushing past you- but you fell, you fell and you couldn’t move, you couldn’t look back. And so as the ground shook with heavy footsteps, you simply closed your eyes tight- tighter, until you awoke with a shout of your name and the concerned stare from emerald-green eyes. “Ah, there you are! I was worried I lost you for a bit,” He sighed in relief, dabbing at your cheek. “With you looking so pale, I nearly had a heart attack.”

You paused, focused on the feel of his warm hands over the cold sweat on your skin, on the sweet expression that rested over a tired face, and you cried. Thoma gasped at the feel of your arms slung around his torso, but he chuckled soon after while wrapping his own arms around you and giving you a light squeeze. One that let you know he was there, one that carried the silent reassurance of safety. “I’m sorry, I should’ve come to bed sooner- I know you’ve had a rough couple of days.” You shook your head against his chest to tell him it was alright, and he hummed in response. “No need to reply, just…let me fill the silence for a bit. I know I wouldn’t want to sit in the dark after whatever you just saw.”

Despite his words, a moment of silence passed. Comfortable silence, the beat of his heart and the quiet thrum of the rain outside brought a light smile to your face. Though, you jumped at the feeling of his hands suddenly resting on your shoulders. “Oh! Sorry, sorry, I should’ve warned you.” Thoma apologized hastily, patting your shoulders before starting to massage them gently. “Is…this okay?”

“Yeah, thank you…feels nice.” You hummed, turning your head to press a kiss to his wrist before resting on his chest again. Your body relaxed in his hold, still sleepy from being torn out of rest so violently. With a yawn and a soft murmur, you found yourself allowing your eyes to close under the watchful care of your beloved. “Keep talking, please.” You mumbled, to which he chuckled at before humming in thought.

“Well then, I suppose I could tell you the story of the fox in the dandelion sea. I know that was a favorite story of mine as a child…” Thoma’s voice carried a tone of nostalgia, like he was looking back at his homeland with a fond gaze and a full heart. You smiled at the mental picture of his surprised expression and delighted gasp when you handed him a bouquet of windwheel asters, which you later found to be his favorite flower when you noticed them a week later in a decorative vase. Despite being in a new land, those flowers remained so vibrant and healthy. The reason became clear; Thoma’s sweet words of reassurance every time he fed or watered them, his upbeat humming and singing while cleaning around the floors, the way he smiled so brightly when those flowers never wilted-- a real ray of sunshine, the boy was.

With this thought, and the distant sound of Thoma recalling his favorite story (each line he recited carried a soft tone that only coaxed you further), you slowly fell asleep once more. This time, it wasn’t a frightening beast or horror from the past that greeted you. Rather, a vast field of dandelions, and a cheerful fox running around the fluffy wisps- you couldn’t help but notice how those emerald eyes seemed so similar…

𝗫𝗶𝗮𝗼 '𝗔𝗹𝗮𝘁𝘂𝘀'

✧ Xiao doesn’t sleep; he finds it offensive to allow himself such pleasure and tranquility when he bears the sins of Liyue on his back. Instead, he has nightmares with his eyes wide open. Over and over again, the sight of his fellow yaksha’s faces twisted in agony. The sound of their broken screams and pleas for mercy. The smell of their blood spilled over each other’s skin like paint spilled over a canvas. The wider he opened his eyes, the more he tried to take in the scent of Liyue’s winds, the further he ran and ran away from it all, the tighter those memories held him by the throat. And so, he can only feel sorrow when he sees your sleep-ridden yet wide eyes filled with tears you didn’t know you shed, and he can only feel apologetic when he finds himself lost for words after you called his name so desperately.

✧ He’d silently brush away your tears and hold your cheeks within his scarred palms as if you were a flower petal and he were a board of nails, you almost want to slap him for treating you so delicately. After taking a breather, he’d bring you into a tight hug (one that hid his face from you, heaven forbid you saw the anguish on his face) and quietly murmur the only words of comfort he could offer- “It’s okay, I’m here now.” Finding the words trapped in his throat after choking those ones out, he simply rocks you back and forth within his arms while allowing the words he was too afraid to speak flow from his touch.

✧ His left hand traced over your back, “Don’t be scared.” His right hand protectively cradled the back of your head, “I’ll keep you safe.” His torso pressed against yours and his heartbeat synced with yours, “I’m here for you.” The tufts of his hair tickled your cheeks, “Please don’t cry.” His eyelashes fluttered against your skin as he blinked back tears of his own, “It’s okay.” And you’d feel tears well in your eyes once more from how gently he held you. This was different than moments ago. Before, he was afraid. Now, he was kind. Xiao still walks on eggshells with you, but in moments like these, he sucks in a deep breath and bears the pain of running over the sharp edges in order to meet you on the other side.

- ✧ -

You’d never seen a more gruesome sight. The lush grass that covered the mountainscape wilted under the dizzying smell of metal, scarlet red dyed the green grass a color that made you want to scream. The atmosphere, once so light and airy, now felt heavy under the echoing, bloodcurdling screams that reverberated throughout the open skies. Overwhelmed from the sight, you tripped and stumbled- only to wince as a sharp edge dug into your leg. You looked down, finding what caused your fall: a broken mask, the edge of it (what appeared to be a horn) held the blood it stole from your skin. A pause, you recognized this. A brilliant green painted over the mask, one that resembled a demon’s. Fanged teeth, sharp horns, a menacing aura- though not as menacing when it was broken in half. At the realization of where you’d seen this before, carried around in the hands of a lonesome yaksha, you screamed. You cried, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care when a single droplet of blood dripped from the horn onto your leg- then everything grew hazy.

You cried out, the only name you could think of in your sleep-ridden haze-- but a startled gasp replaced your words when glowing eyes greeted you within a cloud of dark smoke. Your heart leapt to your throat, but rather quickly did you relax and let the tears that welled up drip down your cheeks.

“Xiao.” You whispered, feeling your bed dip under his weight- and you couldn’t help but extend your arms to him, hoping that maybe, just maybe he’d be okay with it…please?

“...It’s alright, I’m here.” He hummed, slowly (fearfully) bringing you into his arms. Wisps of glowy, emerald strands danced around his pale cheeks as he pressed a tentative kiss to your tear-stricken skin. His hands felt warm as they glided over your back and shoulders as they trembled with every cry. Your head felt cloudy, like you had just woken up from hours of sleep when in reality it’d only been a half hour, and you tried to ignore the way sleep still ebbed at your eyes that stung with tears. When you rested your head on his shoulder, you couldn’t help but tense at the smell of blood once more-- and you pulled away without thinking, only to see his pained and wildly distraught expression.

“Xia-?”

“I’m sorry.” You wanted to ask what for, but he held up a hand as to ask for a moment to think. Throughout this, he still held one of your hands securely in his. His thumb stroked over the back of your hand, the scarred and calloused skin still felt so gentle, as if he were holding precious glass in his hands. “...I’m no good at this. I want to help, I just- don’t know how. But, I’ll keep you safe. No matter what, I can and will do that, and I will not fail. The both of us will be alright.” He cupped your cheek with his other hand, the most earnest of expressions resting on his face, and you smiled at the sight. Yes, he’ll be okay, you silently reassured yourself. His mask rested on the bed beside you from where he hurriedly tore it off, still completely intact and clean of all grime and blood.

His clothing, though dirtied, carried no blood that was his. Your fingers, which no longer trembled, trailed over his hands; you couldn’t help but marvel at how dainty they appeared despite the years of constant toiling. “No, please, you’ve been perfect.” Came your warm response, the softest of smiles on your face at the sight of him looking around like a lost puppy. Almost immediately did the boy clad in armor smile like a fool in love, which he was (though he’d never admit it) and he carefully pulled you back into the sanctuary of his arms.

“...I’m glad.” The silence filled the air for a while, moonlight casting a beautiful glow over your figures and he held you ever closer. “Rest now, flower.” You wanted to laugh at the ridiculously sweet nickname he reserved for you, but the sight of his soft gaze shut you up immediately.

“I’ll keep you safe, and ensure your dreams are nothing but pleasant.”

“So long as you are mine, and I am yours, I’ll always protect you.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚✧˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Word Count: 6809

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚✧˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

- Ky♡♡

𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧; 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺 𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝘁𝗼 𝗷𝗼𝗶𝗻!

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@storytravelled ; @irethepotato ; @paradise-creator ; @lordbugs ; @straymoon96 ; @hoshikistarlette ; @lianglee11 ; @sup-zfam ; @myaaki ; @roriver ; @rizakari ; @httpshaolvr ; @leena-shii ; @kaerui-kaisen ; @akaiyuki

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sugar-petals · 3 years

Text

SuperM: Their Orgasm Faces

a/n. i’ve written the same scenario for bts and thought this is perfect for these guys as well 💦

warnings ⚠️ multiple rounds, masturbation, loud sex, crying

➸ Taemin Constant little trembles. Puffy lips and a huge back arch. Softly moving hips that know exactly what they’re doing, reacting to your every touch. Balmy moans for the gods, they’re such a giant turn-on. His face looks so soft and relaxes into the pleasure without restraint. And my god, the hair. It’s like an old Italian painting. The voice is just as indulging — all those little “ha...” noises he makes. So lush and super breathy. Long story short: He looks perfect in the unlikely case someone forgot. What more can I tell you. He’s broadcasted it to the entire world at this point. In fact, isn’t Taemin’s entire cinematic work a silk and satin-laced compilation of o-faces? Even his haters can’t deny that. He has the perfect variety, perfect sensuality. Never out of place, never too feeble nor too much. He doesn’t just show that to you in bed, he truly owns it. Taemin’s orgasms are really drawn out, it’s the most amazing spectacle. So much to see: And you never know when the first one ends and the second one starts. He’s that erotic and completely swayed by you. If there’s one person completely in tune with his arousal and amps it up to the maximum, and takes you higher yourself with him, that’s Lee Taemin. He cums more beautifully than anyone you’ve ever seen. Fuck, it feels like you have to write him a ten-page thank you letter for being able to witness that. One word suffices: he’s fantastic.

➸ Taeyong You won’t believe it. He is so handsome, but he tries to hide his face. Or buries his hands in his hair, and twists himself to the side. Sometimes, into a pillow. Othertimes, a blanket or a sleeve. Taeyong doesn’t like his pleasure being seen. He’s not just shy; he’s reserved, delicately cautious. He’d rather have his hair fall into his face and conceal all the sweet emotions that surface. His lips are tightly shut and more often than not, he looks away. Even when he’s by himself getting off to the thought of you, he can’t keep his head up. It’s a shame, but you also figure it’s because he gifts himself to you to be very protected, not judged or consumed. Taeyong needs your guidance and strength. That’s why you hug him and let his face rest in the crook of your neck, and it becomes his favorite spot to lean into when he’s coming. Taeyong is more reassured this way. His eyebrows raise and he’s giving you the most heavenly whimpers. It overwhelms him every time. But that’s the place where he can finally moan it out. His voice is so gorgeous, and desperate, and full of gratitude towards you. When he really trusts you, he’s — god — actually grunting in his deep voice and sometimes meets your eye fleetingly. Or sucks in air and holds it before his whole body erupts. Oh my god. Those thighs are gonna go through an entire earthquake. Truth be told: NCT didn’t lie when they sang about a volcano, did they.

➸ Jongin Come on. The main dancer who has his face all up in a camera every stage, making people worldwide bust a nut by just raising a corner of the mouth. If there’s one person with the best, most intense facial expressions? It’s Kai all the way. Just throw the OSCAR right at him. Matter of fact, we all know he is the king of being absolutely stunning in bed. Jongin always looks like he wants to take you in completely, his entire upper body goes forward. His eyes are deep and glistening, but not fully mysterious. First and foremost they’re hundred percent passion just as you’d expect from him. The brows, the fucking brows! The lips, mumbling, and the jaw is in motion even if you wouldn’t pay attention to it at first. And by contrast, he looks more in love than anyone else. Can we appreciate how romantic Kai’s vibe is? How does he do it? He yearns and calls you babe, the entire face feels twitching and shaky. As if he was suffering from being so enamoured, but it feels so good to him. Every new thrust makes his expression change a bit. How he’s allowing himself to feel you literally paints a living story on his features. Toward the middle and the end of his climax, Kai looks so vulnerable and lost in the pleasure that you gave him or he gave himself. It’s almost like he is underwater. If you ever look into those dreamy eyes... Kai’s orgasm face will put an actual spell on you. Have a guess. The spell is called: Make you even hornier and throw your fucking head back from all that good stuff.

➸ Mark Yeah, uh-oh. The bomb is going off right here. It feels like Mark didn’t fuck for literal months every time even if you had sex the other day. His jaw is hanging open throughout. The eyes wide. Lips shivering, only a little. A bit of saliva is pooling just there. Then, his head falls forward. Hair in his eyes, brows clenched toward the middle. He looks like he can’t believe it, he’s helpless to the power it has over him. His orgasm darts through his body like a thunderbolt. You got it, sex with Mark is exactly that, so electric. It arrives fast and it’s over fast. And it’s massive, catches him off guard so often. A big, sweeping “Ah—h!” that carries him away like a tidal wave. Who’s the living super car in SuperM? That’s Mark Lee who goes through his climax like he’s watching a train speed by. What can he do but curse himself and moan. Something is possessing this poor man. His face looks like he has to keep up with his own damn reflexes. Can you imagine how hard his body is going to clutch if he just cums in one go? And if he tries to kiss you during that? What the fuck Mark! He just never calms down, does he. Or wait — fast forward... oh wonder: He falls asleep only minutes after. His face: now completely angelic. Mark really put all his heart and mind and cum into this one orgasm. This guy has dedication and it shows. He always delivers you one hell of a show. Rumor has it you have a couple videos of it on your phone.

➸ Baekhyun Clenches his teeth so hard. The first you’ll hear is a loud and whiny “nnh!” in the buildup. And that’s when you know he can’t go back. The entire neck seems under pressure. He stares. Gasps for air. The breathing, raw as fuck. Up and down goes that chest all the way against you. In fact, he breathes the fastest in the group. His face gets so heated. All those veins come out. This guy’s blood flow is a new level. Releasing tons of stress and energy. His eyes are squeezed shut as soon as it begins because it’s so strong and relieving, it’s borderline painful. He couldn’t speak for the first five seconds even if he tried. Only the second wave brings out a stifled chain of moans that he surrenders to. On some days, he even starts crying from relief. It takes minutes upon minutes until he cools off entirely. Baekhyun is so orgasmic, he’s all splayed out on the bed afterwards or deeply engrossed in your embrace for endless cuddles. I’m telling you. Should you ever get a second orgasm out of him, he’s gonna be reduced to a puddle. A shaking, sobbing mess that can’t stop wailing. There’s only begging for more in these eyes. It goes without saying that you need the most sound-proof room there ever was because he is at the top of his voice. Baekhyun being loud for you is a natural staple. PS: Mark my words. Should you get him to a third orgasm, he’s gonna be screaming without a pause and his fucking tongue is hanging out.

➸ Yukhei As if he can ever stop wiggling his brows at you. Did you expect he just lets loose and rolls his eye back? No, no. He keeps looking right at you until the end. Full Xuxi confidence and charisma at play. Lots of nicknames coming at you, he’s gonna say them all. That level of eye contact is gonna get you going big time. You know how large and wonderful his eyes are, like a doe’s. Lucas hardly closes them unless it comes to getting blowjobs. Where he’s gonna look at you very intensely most of the time anyway. Lucas tries to not let the sensations overcome him so he remains present with you. He never really seems like he indulges all the way like Taemin or Kai would. The whole thing is pretty suspicious because he doesn’t fully ease into your interplay of movements. Guess why... at any point, he’s invested in making you cum and keeps on pulling out his magic tricks until you’re getting there. He’s gonna use those big fucking hands (he knows you love ‘em) and goes on and on until he has you there. Yukhei’s personality is all over the place, but he has steely concentration during sex. Not to mention the technique. He’s even gonna go for pushing his hair back as a killing part. No mediocre, he’s doing the most. After all: Lucas cums the best if he just saw you losing it or you’re on the way. Synchronizing your orgasms is difficult, but he puts all his focus into achieving just that. Yukhei is an expert in how close you are after a while, and even starts letting himself fall back into the sheets below you when you release together.

➸ Ten Perfectly understated. Lids heavy, lips opened just a bit. Elegant, almost, and chesty in tone. He’s the connoisseur. My god. It’s the most gentlemanly someone could ever cum. His forehead is so sweaty as is his hair and back, because if Ten fucks he does it properly, but still. He’s so calm. He could be in your arms for more than half an hour and be fully composed. The focus and self-control is just phenomenal. Completely in the moment, not missing a heartbeat. Which is such a hard thing to do but it’s effortless with him. Ten knows the value of moderation and tension. He’s not keeping his groans in for the whole time and only moans when he comes. Not at all. It’s a different story with him. It all builds up perfectly and comes out freely whenever. He’s actually pretty close to singing, his voice accompanies his breathing in ideal sync. So melodic. Ten is all smitten by you. Nothing is kept in. He looks at you so fondly, he enjoys himself so much. So, it becomes a beautiful loving serenade. His face doesn’t make any sudden or extreme contortions either. The expression moves and changes very slowly, is very easy on the eye. Every minute with him is fulfilling. Ten is all wrapped up in the mood and the groove like it’s business. Prepare to lose your fucking mind, these are new levels of feeling good. Not one awkward moment, just making love. Oh my god are you lucky.

art: The Great Wave off Kanagawa (1829-33) — by Hokusai

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Text

For You

Warnings: vampire, feeding blood, IV, drawing blood, forced drugging, passing out/collapse, blood loss, delirious state of consciousness, hallucination, death thoughts, fever, starvation, pills, forced medication

There was no strength left in their body. No strength to run, no strength to fight, and absolutely no strength to take care of them.

Villain laid on the cool, wooden floor of their bedroom, too weak to do much more than periodically twitch their fingers. Their eyes drifted closed every once in a while, only to open when they remembered that Hero was starving in the bes above them.

Villain rolled over onto their stomach, the motion causing the world to contort and waver into a dizzying pallette of pastel colors. They breathed deeply, gathering their arms underneath them before heaving themself up and into a sitting position.

After about five minutes of sitting there with their eyes squeezed shut, trying not to sway from their taxing position, Villain reached forward and grabbed the IV off the night stand.

"V-villain," Hero murmured. Villain cast them a long glance. Their nemesis was hardly conscious on the bed, starved and heavily drugged. Villain gulped. They didn't want to keep them sedated like this, but they would try to kill Villain otherwise.

"Sorry," Villain slurred, their voice was as fragile as Hero's.

"Mmn," Hero groaned and slightly opened their mouth, awaiting the meal. Villain gave a small nod that nearly caused them to fall back onto the ground. They put a tube into Hero's mouth then inserted the needle into their own wrist.

Within a second, the delirious and greedy vampire started to gulp frantically. Villain's bottom lip trembled as they felt their limited blood supply diminish.

After only thirty seconds, Villain began to feel incredibly light-headed and contemplated whether or not to stop Hero's feeding. But one look at the desperate face made Villain decided on the former- just a minute longer.

"Hmph," Villain gasped as they slumped forward onto the bed, their consciousness wavering. With shaky hands, they clutched the needled and deftly drew it out of their vein before falling completely unconscious.

Villain drifted between sleep and wakefulness for a while, still collapsed on Hero's bed. During their brief stints of consciousness they woule remind themselves of Hero's next dose, but couldn't bring their depleted body to do so.

They feel vaguely feel the awakening Hero stirring under their body. Villain pushed themselves backwards, planning on standing fully up and going about their day, but their body had other plans. They fell back, hitting their back against the ground as the world was submerged in a dark shade of ebony.

"Villain! Open up!"

Villain moaned and tried to peel their eyes open, but they were too heavy.

The voice- it was a voice, they were sure- came again, "Villain. You need help, open the door!"

Villain didn't need help, they were sure of it. Hero did- Hero needed to eat and Villain was able to take care of them. For them.

"For you," Villain whispered, almost like the faintest breeze.

Their fingers curled into the hard ground. They were aware of the floor's cool features, but oddly it felt warm. Too warm.

Villain forced their eyes open and saw a trickle of blood coming out of their veins from where the IV was still attached. They were so certaib that they removed it and seeing it felt like a rock was dropped into their stomach.

Villain tried to reach over and pull it out, but failed, letting out a strangled sob as they tried to call upon their healing powers. Using them made them completely exhausted, but it kept them and Hero alive.

Villain, after a few agonizing seconds of calling their power, finally felt a comforting tingling through their fingers as their body created some blood. It was low in oxygen and lacked all the necessary and vital functions that blood cells carried out, but it did a decent job at feeding Hero.

Villain sighed in relief as the new warmth spread throughout their body, drawing them back into sleep...

Villain woke rather unpleasantly. They were only aware of the heat gathering in their head and the fact that they were cold- oh so cold. They moved their hands about, testing their environment, but was quite confused at the outcome. Wet. They were wet and cold.

Villain cracked open an eye and looked around. White walls with small shelves that held various bottles. Looking down, they saw tiny glaciers floating around a small expanse of artic water.

Suddenly, they tensed, scared and completely convinced that they were indeed trapped in a frigid ocean.

"Shh," came a voice, foggy and distant as if Villain's ears were underwater. Maybe they were, Villain couldn't tell for panic consumed them.

So Villain continued their struggles even as ropes wrapped around their head pulling them against hard surface. A boat. They were going to be crushed by a boat. They kicked and resisted the ropes that tied them so tightly against the imminet danger.

"Let me go!" Villain yelled, pushing away. The ropes let go, cut away by the knives that threatened to slit Villain's throat.

The term "knives" was literal. There wasn't just one silver dagger, but five, all working to free Villain before they decided to end the suffering person themself.

Those knives grabbed Villain's bare chest, right above their heart as they were pulled right back against the boat.

"Villain. You need to calm down. You have a fever, you are safe, okay? So is Hero. Do you hear me? Hero is being taken care of."

Hero... taken care up... Villain allowed their tired body to slump deep into the cold waves as they waited for one to take them to their grave.

But the merciless ropes and knives held them up, keeping them from drowning. Soft tendrils drifted through their hair and for a moment fear enveloped Villain at the thought of a mysterious plant suffocating them.

But, once they decided that the tendrils were kind, they leaned into the gesture, closing their bloodshot eyes as darkness closed around them...

Villain woke up, dazed and confused. They struggled under the thin sheet that covered their pale body, but was too weak to push it off.

Looking around, they noticed that they were in a foreign- possibly dangerous environment. The memories of the night before were foggy like they were swallowed, threwn up, then swallowed again.

But they did remember Hero, sick and starved on Villain's bed.

"Ah your awake," came a tired voice. Villain's gaze shot to the person sitting next to them. It took a moment but...

Supervillain.

Villain flinched and tried to run away, only to get tangled and stuck on the floor. Carpet, not wood.

They weren't in their house.

Villain squirmed, terrified of the all too familiar face. The face that brought tears of pain to many. The face that was probably here to punish Villain for taking care of a hero.

But Supervillain only walked to the other side of the bed, scooped the weak villain up, and laid them prone on the bed.

"Are you too warm?" Supervillain asked, placing their cold hand upon Villain's burning forehead. The cold hand that was going to be the death of Villain...

"Still running a fever..." Supervillain murmured and turned around. Villain barely had time to register the words before they were faced with a small, evil-looking, torture device.

Oh boy did it look simple and the possibilities were endless of what it would do. Villain imagine maybe it had a hidden needle and they would be drugged. They also wondered if it contained a knife- knives were threatening them before, why not do it now?

But nothing prepared them for the way Supervillain clutched Villain's jaw, forcing it open and sticking the device under their tongue.

Nothing prepared them for the lack of pain other that a sharp pinch. Their eyes began to flutter closed. After all, Supervillain wasn't torturing them...

A loud beeeep brought them back around. They stared deep into Supervillain's concerned eyes.

"I'm going to get you some medicine. Okay?" Supervillain laid a hand on Villain's head. "Try to stay awake for me."

Villain swallowed and nodded, small and helpless. Weak and fragile like a thin glass just waiting to break at the slightest touch.

But, despite Supervillain's request, Villain began to doze off only to awake when they felt like they were falling. They kept on forgetting what their half-consious self was dreaming or thinking about after those falls.

"Dang it Villain," Supervillain groaned when they entered the room and saw their colleague's eyes half-rolled into their head as they stared at the ceiling without any real object or reason.

"Come here," Supervillain cooed and gently cupped Villain's chin, opening it, and slipped the medicine into their mouth. They hoped that the sick villain still had some instinctual reflexes as they dumped some water down their throat. Supervillain then went to work on rubbing Villain's throat until they swallowed, taking the tylenol nto their stomach.

"Good job," Supervillain praised. They wiped Villain's sweating brow with a wet cloth while their patient drifted off to sleep. Supervillain did nothing to stop it.

Hero was struggling against the restraints as henchmen pried their mouth open.

"Gosh!" One of them squealed when Hero nipped at their hand. "They got rabies or something? They are wacko."

"They are a vampire you dim-wit," another henchman growled. That same henchman took Hero's mouth with some pliers and held it open long enough for the other to slipped some tablets into their mouth.

The hero swallowed and hissed.

"Okay. Supervillain told me that those will keep their vampire side at bay until they gain some weight," Henchman1, the one got bit said, wiping their nose with their hand.

Hero continued snarling until they exhausted themselves, slipping into sleep. Henchman2, the other, stood up and started to pace.

"Knock that off," Henchman1 snapped, standing up themselves. "You are taking first watch."

"No. You," Henchman2 shoved their friend. "I am not sitting with a freaking vampire. Did you see Villain? Part of me wonders if they were mind controlled."

"I thoroughly assure you that they weren't," Henchman1 rolled their eyes and slipped away from Henchman2. They opened the cell door and left.

Henchman2 walked over to Hero where they laid on a cot, unmoving. But, as if the presence of another was like a stimuli, the hero woke up.

Their eyes this time were not filled with desperate starvation or anger, but of worry.

"Where's Villain?" They asked, looking around. "They are not thinking. It's dangerous... it's..." they trailed off, their gaze meeting Henchman2's. "Are they dead?" They chirped.

"No, but sick and unconscious," Henchman2 replied, relaying the last update. That was about five minutes ago.

"They need my saliva," Hero continued. "To quicken the healing process. I cannot stimulate blood production, but I can share my healing."

"Villain has a healing factor as well and it doesn't seem to work."

"Because they are beyond exhaustion. Pair that will blood loss and starvation themselves, their chances of surviving are low. They need my saliva."

"How do I know this isn't a trick. A way to eat more?"

"I am human now. I need actual food. When the vampire takes over is when I can only consume blood," Hero glanced down at their bony wrists. "Blood satisfies like candy, but it is far from nutrious, but I thank Villain. Truly."

Henchamn2 smiled despite their best effort to remain nonchalant.

"I'm glad you do."

~ not going to edit, so I apologize for any mistakes

#villain whumpee #hero whumpee #hero whumper #? i guess #vampire #drugged #feverish villain #feverish whumpee #hallucination #unconscious whumpee #passing out #supervillain caretaker #blood tw #blood drawing #force fed #hero x villain

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pennyserenade · 3 years

Text

TINY DANCER

tags: javier peña x female oc, javier peña, rockstar!au, fluff rating: t ( teen ) (for now) warnings: language, alcohol word count: 1.6k+ summary: a band of young men from laredo, texas are on the verge of rock’n’roll stardom and anita rodríguez is the woman who follows them into it. a story of rock’n’roll and all the fluff that follows notes: this is very self indulgent and heavily inspired by the movie almost famous, as well as whatever fleetwood mac had going on, and the book daisy jones & the six. as you can tell, this is a genre of fiction i favor heavily, and i’m more than happy to make this everyone’s problem. thank you for baring with me

Summer time has never tasted so sweet on the tongues of these impassioned young men from Laredo, Texas, she bets. Perspiration covers their foreheads as they stand under the much too bright colored lights, and the crowd before them cheers them on with an eagerness that belongs only to those who really loved music. And they respond like men who really love music—all smiles and grins and heavy panting from giving their young bodies away to it. One might even say their souls.

Even from behind the curtain, she can feel the wave of electricity that rolls off of them. It is a beautiful thing to hear after suffering under the heavy blanket of Texas heat for her own performance.

They had liked her alright, responded about as warmly as they could for an opening act they hadn’t really known, but they turn these young men into Gods. She feels it tight in her stomach, that everlasting and endless excitement reserved for falling in love, not with people, but with moments. Even if it’s all for not, this little musical and spiritual journey she has partaken on, she will at least have been there for the moment these men had exhaled themselves into true and complete stardom.

Not bad for a band called El Fuego, she thinks.

“My God they’re something, aren’t they, Anita?”

Her sister holds aside the curtain to make room for herself. “The one in the really tight jeans was talking to me during your performance. He’s beautiful, I swear it. Just godly.”

Anita smiles. “You can’t fall in love with rockstars, baby sister, it’s unethical and impractical. Have your years with me taught you nothing?”

“Yeah, but those rockstars were a dime of dozen and tight jeans looks like sex out there,” she whines. Anita scans over the men, trying to decipher whom she might mean. That’s when she catches Tight Jeans’ eyes. She gives him a grin and without missing a beat, he gives her a charming wink. A wink reserved for a man on top of the world.

“What’s his name?” Anita asks.

“Javier Peña,” she responds. “He’s just gorgeous isn’t he? They all are.”

All Anita can do is grin as she continues to watch the rest of their performance.

****

This isn’t her first rodeo. This isn’t even her second or third or fourth. In fact, she’s lost track of the times she’s been led back to hotel rooms with a slew of people she doesn’t know, swept dangerously up in the shared euphoria that is the after show comedown.

In her hand she holds her second drink of the night. It’s a concoction she’d mixed for herself, made up of too much juice and too much alcohol, but she deserves it, she reckons. She’s opened for a damn good band and she’s a pretty damn good singer most of the time, and that Javier guy has been looking at her all night, despite the group of women that surround him. He has a good way of being present with them and present with her, too, genuine grins and attention for all to spare. Like the charming and humble lead guitarist he is, he strums idly at an acoustic guitar while he speaks with the women.

She’s been standing in the same place for too long, drinking the same second drink, listening to the beginning of songs he starts before he falters off into the next one. Even over the light hum of chatter and the radio nearby, she can focus on him. She watches his fingers as they strum—watches the way he doesn’t need to look down at them to keep them steady and trained. He’s a professional musician, through and through, even if he may just be some guy from Laredo to most individuals in the world. His manager had been so brave to wager that they were going to hit nationwide success by next week when one of their songs got radio air. She asked if she could keep opening for them, when they got big. All he did was grin. She likes to think it’s a yes.

“Hello.”

Coming back to earth, Anita finds Tight Pants in front of her. Not starling close, but enough to elicit something ghastly in her.

He smells of leather and good cigarettes, and her baby sister was right, he does look like sex. He’s all lean muscle, and though the perspiration has gone from his forehead, she bets if he were to lean in close and press his lips to hers, she might be tempted to taste the residue of it in what would become haste and passionate kissing.

“Hello,” she responds.

“I’m Javi, from Laredo.”

He extends his rather large hand for her to take, and she does. She wonders if this is the approach he uses with a lot of women. He’s good looking enough to be dangerous, but then again, she’s smart enough to understand where the line between fun and serious ends and begins with these men. She’s a rockstar too, privy to sex and drugs just like the lot of them, even if she is just a one man band.

She puts her hand in his and he gives her a firm shake. “Anita,” she says, then inspired by the liquid courage in her, she adds, “From somewhere warm, but hopefully headed some place better.”

He gives her a laugh and she finds that unfortunately, it’s the sort that makes one’s own lips tug upwards.

“You sounded good tonight. Did you write that song?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You sounded good too. I mean, you probably know that already, but.” She smiles. “Who writes for you?”

“Graham.”

“Graham’s the...”

“Lead singer. Dirty blonde over there talking to your—“ He looks at her. “Sister?”

She nods. “Yeah. She said she had talked to you earlier.”

“Yeah. We talked about your someplace warm. California, is it?”

“Cali indeed.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, Javi, I’m sure you’re about to.”

His dimple appears for her. He looks at her like she wishes he wouldn’t, because it makes her badly want to stick to his side for the rest of the night. And on his lips.

Even more unfortunate for her, he rummages in his pockets and pulls out a packet of those good cigarettes that make up his aroma. He opens it and takes one out for himself, sticking it between his lips, before offering her one.

“You smoke?”

She takes one. “Sometimes,” she nods. “Are we allowed to, in here?”

Javi shrugs his shoulders as he lights his. “Dunno,” he responds. She leans forward so he can light hers too. “Suppose we should go sit on the balcony on the off chance that this is the one hotel in America that doesn’t allow it?”

****

“You know Me and Bobby McGee, Laredo?” she nods down to his guitar.

The air outside is just cool enough to be comfortable in, so, despite that their cigarettes have long been stamped out and the party inside awaits them, they stay on the patio, rooted to the furniture. He hasn’t made any moves on her, a fact which takes her by surprise, and so they’ve lulled into a comfortable ebb and flow of natural conversation.

He tweaks his fingers on the neck of the guitar before he begins to strum the strings of it . His hair, overgrown in a way that suits a man of his occupation, cascades over his forehead as his brow becomes pinched from focus. In an instant, from his fingers comes the tune of her desire. He looks up at her, grinning, once he gets into the flow of it.

“¿Hablas español?” he asks, over his guitar.

“Un poquito, but not much,” she tells him. “Why?”

“No reason,” he dismisses, “Can you sing Me and Bobby McGee?”

“Sí.”

He laughs. “Well, put on a show then.”

***

She sobers up halfway between the sun tucking itself into the sky and the sun peeking back out from the horizon, but she can’t remember when. They’d played a lot of songs and her throat feels hoarse, but she can’t recall any one song that had felt particularly clear. It all sort of blended together up until this moment.

Javi lays, back rested against the chair, looking tired. His guitar now rests beside him, quiet, and he stares out at the city below them.

There’s a soft hum of normal people doing normal things below them; the horn of an eager taxi driver, the breaks of a bus, the chatter of patrons going in and out of the hotel.

They sit in the comfort of this city’s morning routine while she smokes his last good cigarette. “I was never much for staying up all night,” she tells him, passing it over to him.

He takes it between his lips and nods. “I was never much for sleeping all night.”

“And why’s that?”

He shrugs, exhaling the smoke. “Don’t know. Sometimes the past haunts me, sometimes it’s just too fuckin’ hot, sometimes it’s the company.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I must admit, I didn't peg you as the get-to-know-me-in-the-early-morning type. Thought you’d be content just charming me with your guitar for the rest of eternity.”

“Well,” he passes the cigarette back to her, pushing his digits against her own in the process. “I’m not, really, but we’ve talked about our favorite songs all night and you’re our opener for the rest of this tour, so why not?”

She takes a drag off the cigarette. “I’m not the opener for the rest of the tour.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she shakes her head. “This was a favor, I think. A very kind one.”

He looks out in front of him, falling into silence. Thinking. Then he says, “I think I’m in the position to call in some favors right now if you’d liked to be. The opener, I mean.”

She lets the smoke out from the side of her mouth, which has risen up into a wide grin. “Javier from Laredo, I think I could kiss you right now.”

He takes the cigarette back from her fingers, offering her his own grin. “I think I’d like that,” Javi says, tone soft. Genuine.

She swings her legs over the side of her lawn chair, and holds herself up just far enough to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. He turns though, not entirely on purpose, she thinks, and their noses brush against one another. She rises from her seat when he leans down and fills the space between them, resting against his own chair as his lips move against her own.

No tongue, though. He pulls back after a few seconds, brown eyes full of warmth. She’s surprised by the amount of control he has over himself. Surprised that he wants to use it, too.

“I better go check on my sister,” she breathes out, resting her hand over his chest.

“Okay,” he nods. “I’ll see you in the next city, Anita.”

“Yeah,” she smiles.

“Look for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she promises.

She likes this man and his tight jeans, she’s decided. Likes him a lot.

EVERYTHING : @astroboots , @frannyzooey , @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @melaniermblt , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @honestly-shite , @over300books , @elegantduckturtle, @pbeatriz , @pretty-brown-eyess , @brcwneyes , @chronic-nosebleed

JAVI : @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @disgruntledspacedad , @melaniermblt , @walt-breslin , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @hb8301 , @penajavier , @darnitdraco , @over300books , @dobbyjen , @paperbag33 , @rebel-fanfare , @p3dr0pasca1lov3r247

TINY DANCER : @itssmashedavo (just because i thought this might interest you)

#javier peña x female oc #javier pena x female oc #narocs fic #narcos #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal fanfic #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #javier peña #javier pena

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splendidly-secret-sick-fics · 3 years

Note

Ooo! What about Kuroo feeling really unwell during training camp while training with Bokuto, Akaashi, Tsukki, Hinata and Lev? He's probably felt bad for a while, but just suffered through. So when everything becomes too much, a panicking Hinata runs to get Kenma... and you can decide the rest.

Only if you're comfortable with writing it though! Have a nice day!

Leaders Don’t Cry: a Kuroo sickfic

Pairing: sick Kuroo, caretakers Kenma, Tsukki, Bokuto, Akaashi, kinda Hinata & Lev

Word Count: 4,266

Warnings: vomit, swearing, slight emetophobia, and sad Kuroo :(

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Thanks for the request friend :) I’ve only ever written Kuroo & Kenma as side characters, so this was kinda fun!!

I’m not super super happy with the overall product, but that’s alright. I do feel like maybe it’s not super cohesive? Idk. Let me know!! I look forward to improving my characterization of Kuroo and Kenma.

———————————————————-

Kuroo was a Leader. He was someone that others looked up to. Someone you could depend on.

Leaders were extroverts though, and Kuroo had to admit he did his best Recharging alone in his room or the quiet company of the Kenma. That’s an Introvert Thing, apparently. Even when he was young, too many people or too much social interaction drained him. Another Introvert Thing.

When he met Kenma and started playing volleyball, it seemed he naturally outgrew his Introvert Model, shedding his shy, intimidated outer-self. It was easily replaced with the Extrovert Model.

Now, Kuroo liked being surrounded by his team and his friends and he liked meeting new people. That’s an Extrovert Thing. So Kuroo was an Extrovert.

(“That makes you an Introverted Extrovert, Kuro,” Kenma told him one day. Kuroo didn’t understand how that could possibly be a thing.)

As an Extrovert, it was only natural that he became the captain of his volleyball team his third year. It was only natural that he was the Bridge between Karasuno and the Tokyo powerhouse schools.

(Kenma claimed, when the two of them were alone at least, that it was really his friendship with Chibi-Chan and their coaches that did that. Kuroo refused to concede this point.)

As the Leader and Bridge, it was again only natural that not only his team, but also other teams’ players were drawn to his wisdom and sparkling personality.

(“You forced yourself on them,” Kenma sighed.)

And that’s how he, Kuroo Tetsuro, Certified Extroverted Leader, came to be in Gym Three, long after their main practice ended with two of Karasuno’s first years, Bokuto, Akaashi, and Lev.

And that’s also how he ended up in the Worst Possible Situation.

It went down like this.

They were at another training camp with the Fukurodani Group and Regular Guests, Karasuno High. It was a short one, thrown together quickly because of the long weekend.

After much convincing (read: coercion) from him and Bokuto, Tsukishima Kei agreed to join them again for blocking practice. They pushed because Kuroo couldn’t stand to watch this kid’s talent waste away and Bokuto was personally offended that Tsukki still didn’t seem to enjoy volleyball.

It should have come as no surprise that Karasuno’s Hinata Shoyo joined in again, determined to redeem himself from his previous loss at the last camp.

And then because Haiba Lev decided that Chibi-chan and him were rivals, he joined in too.

(Akaashi claimed he had no choice but to join. It was either endless practice or endless Dejected Bokuto. Kuroo thinks he’s just masochistic.)

Their first night was awesome. He saw a fire ignited in Tsukki and got to smash Bokuto’s spikes back in his face. Plus, his ego was boosted because the three first years were all wowed by his skill.

Tonight, however, was not great. If he was honest with himself, things were bad from the second he woke up, and promptly wanted to curl back into his futon.

His head hurt and his body ached. The sounds of his team waking up and getting ready for the day set his nerves on edge the second he heard them. He felt overcrowded and overstimulated and he wasn’t even out of bed yet.

It had all the signs of a Recharge Alone Day, but it was the last full day of a training camp in which he was supposed to be a Leader. So, he pushed that all aside and got up to go lead.

As the day progressed, Kuroo gave more and more thought to Kenma’s “Introverted Extrovert” theory. He still loved his team and wanted to be around them. He did want to participate in the games and hang out with the other teams.

He also so so very badly wanted to sit in the dark for the next several hours.

Kuroo’s headache only grew more insistent as the day went on, likely due to the sounds of squeaking shoes, bouncing volleyballs, and the too warm summer heat. He got increasingly more fidgety and nervous all day and it made him uncomfortable in his own skin. That, added to the already ever-present soreness of his limbs only served to make him more miserable.

But he was the Captain, so he shoved those feelings down, ignored his headache, and tried to act as normal as possible. For the most part, his plan worked and no one bothered him about what might be wrong. Kenma was the only one that eyed him suspiciously every time his Extrovert facade slipped a little. At the end of the regular practice, his best friend approached him slowly.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet as usual.

“Kenma! What’s up, dude?” Kuroo forced, trying to maintain his usual Extrovert Mode.

“Cut the crap, Kuro,” Kenma sighed, blunt and exhausted as usual.

“Kenma, what are you—“

“Are you sick?”

The question caught Kuroo off guard. Was he sick? He thought it was just an Introvert Day that he had to push through. Maybe Kenma had a point though? It wasn’t like he normally felt this drained during a training camp. That usually came after the camp ended.

“No,” he eventually replied and waved his hand, “nah. Just tired. I think practicing with the guys at night took more of my energy than usual.” That must be it. He didn’t usually have to put out that much energy after practice. Lev, Hinata, and Bokuto were all True Extroverts, after all. Unlike Kuroo, who just molded himself into one. It made sense.

Kenma studied him with wide eyes before relenting and saying “Don’t push yourself, Kuro.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. I am a little tired though so maybe I’ll forgo evening prac—“

“Kuroo-san!” Hinata ran up to them, “are we practicing again today?? I want you to show me that cool wha-BAM block again!!” He jumped up and slammed his hands down, most likely trying to imitate exactly what he was trying to convey. All the loud explanation did was call attention back to his headache.

“Shoyo, Kuro was actually just saying that he was—“

“On my way to look for you Chib-chan!” Kuroo interrupted. Kenma narrowed his eyes at him, but Kuroo couldn’t deny the little red headed twerp.

“Let’s go grab something to eat and then we’ll round up the others.”

Hinata looked at him with those stupid starry eyes and nodded before running off to pester Tsukishima. Kuroo deflated some.

“Kuro. It’s okay to take breaks. I know you think that this is what you should be doing as Captain, but it’s alright to say no sometimes,” Kenma said.

“I know, Kenma,” Kuroo smiled gently, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his gut, “Thank you for looking out, but I’m fine! It’s only one more day. Tomorrow afternoon once everyone’s gone, I’ll just hang out in my room. You can come over if you want and play that new game I bought.”

Kenma studied him again before letting out a long-suffering exhale.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

After they ate, the six of them met up in Gym Three for another three on three. On the outside, things were going well. On the inside, Kuroo’s head was quickly descending into chaos.

He pretended that Bokuto, Lev and Hinata weren’t too loud. He pretended that he had enough energy to show them the same move seven times. He pretended he was enjoying this.

All the while, his headache slowly transitioned into a migraine, his limbs got heavier, and his dinner swirled in his stomach nauseatingly. It took maximum effort to stay awake, let alone play a three on three with three of the most energetic people he’d ever met before.

It all came to a head when his feet slammed down after blocking one of Bokuto’s cross shots. The power behind those normally made him stumble upon landing, but this time it sent a sharp pain shooting through his head and stars dance in his vision. He couldn’t regain his footing, and he stumbled onto his ass.

“Kuroo-san?” Akaashi asked when he didn’t get back up. He couldn’t get back up. The stars were still there and he couldn’t really find his feet.

“Y-yeah?” he stuttered.

“Hey, hey, hey, Kuroo, you alright my man?” Bokuto’s voice boomed and he winced before he could stop himself.

“Kuroo-san? What’s wrong?” Akaashi was kneeling beside him now. He could tell by the proximity of his voice.

“Just a a little...dizzy,” he forced a laugh, trying to play it off. He squeezed his eyes shut and brought a hand up to squeeze at his temples. What the hell was happening?

“Kuroo-san! Do you want some water?” Hinata’s voice rang and clanged in his head. He groaned.

“Kuroo-san, don’t die!!” Lev’s voice pounded. He grimaced.

“Would you idiots keep it down?” Tsukishima, beautiful, quiet Tsukishima commanded.

“Hey, Stupid we’re just trying to help!” Hinata screeched.

“And clearly he’s got a headache, you massive dolt. Keep your volume down,” Tsukki snapped back. Kuroo would thank him if the room would stop spinning.

Suddenly, a hand was on his forehead.

“You’ve got a fever,” Akaashi stated.

Oh. Well, Kenma was right after all. He was sick. The confirmation snapped something into place and all of his emotions, his control, whooshed out of him in one fell swoop. All the symptoms he ignored all day came to the very front of his mind and all he could think about was how miserable he felt.

“Oh,” he choked around the abrupt knot in his throat. He blinked his eyes open and turned to look at Akaashi. The setter was serious as ever, but there was a small frown on his lips and tiny furrow to his brows.

“Bokuto-san, can you bring me your warm up jacket?”

Bokuto nodded and quickly, but thankfully quietly, brought their jackets over and Akaashi draped it around Kuroo’s shoulders.

“Kuroo-san, do you want to lie down?” he soothed.

“Akaashi, I don’t feel good,” he muttered. There was a burning in his eyes and a quiver to his lips that he really wished would go away.

“I know. We’ll get you to your room, but first, I need you to get yourself together some.”

“I don’t...I don’t feel good,” he said, an all too evident shake in his voice. This is not what Leaders do. But he felt so terrible, there was nothing he could do to prevent this sudden onslaught of emotions. Before he knew it, warm tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.

“Kuroo-san!” Hinata screeched. Tsukishima smacked him upside the head. He glared and rubbed the back of his head.

“Kuroo-san,” he tried again, quieter this time, “don’t cry, please. It’s okay!”

Kuroo couldn’t help it. He appreciated Hinata’s attempts at comfort, but he was so drained and he was so sick and he couldn’t help it.

“Kuroo, what can we do to help, man?” Bokuto asked gently, much to his and Akaashi’s (flustered and very evident) surprise. He sat down by Kuroo and rubbed a hand soothingly up and down his back. It helped for a second, but then it just made his skin crawl and his stomach turn.

“I I don’t...I don’t know,” he whimpered pitifully, “I don’t feel good.” He exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest. The downward spiral of both his physical and mental condition brought him further and further into his own self-incurred misery. He needed someone else to be the leader. Anyone.

“Ahhhh, Kuroo-san.” Hinata flailed.

“What about Kenma?” Lev whisper-yelled. Hinata’s spine straightened sharply.

“Good idea, Lev! I know where he is. I’ll go get him!” Hinata proclaimed and ran out.

“Kuroo, what doesn’t feel good?” Bokuto asked.

Kuroo inhaled shakily.

“Head.. my head hurts. And I’m sore and uh and my st-stomach,” he responded through panting breaths.

“There’s a stomach bug that just hit a couple of the player’s on Shinzen’s team,” Tsukishima supplied helpfully.

“Sounds like you might’ve picked that up, Kuroo-san.” Akaashi clicked his tongue.

This was news to him. It must’ve just happened because usually the captains kept each other up to date on those kinds of things as soon as they could. If that was true, that would explain why it came on so quickly. He was fine yesterday. Even just a few hours ago, he was nothing but a little groggy. Now it felt like he got hit by a bus.

If it was a stomach bug, that meant….

“No, no,” he panicked, “no I don’t want that.” He wrapped his hands around his swirling stomach.

“Kuroo, calm down. It’s alright. You’re gonna make it worse,” Bokuto said. Kuroo shook his aching head.

“No I hate throwing up, Bo,” he whimpered and dropped his head to look at his shaking hands.

“Oh…” Akaashi breathed, “do you feel like you might?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. Because he didn’t want to. He absolutely did not want to puke. Not in front of these first years. That might ruin all of his credibility as an upperclassmen, let alone the Captain of a powerhouse school.

Geez, what a pitiful and pathetic display he was putting on. He was supposed to be someone these kids looked up to, and now they were helping him.

“Here,” Tsukishima said, handing Akaashi and Bokuto a bucket from the supply room. Kuroo eyed it distastefully.

“It’s just in case, Kuroo-san!” Lev tried. But the more Kuroo got worked up in spite of himself, the more he realized that wasn’t true. His current emotional state wreaked havoc on his head, which in turn twisted his gut.

Several minutes passed and Kuroo took the time to collect himself so that he could get it together enough to go to his room. At least there he could be miserable and pathetic alone.

While he was able to get himself to stop crying, the come down from the sudden rush of emotions only made his other symptoms that much more prevalent.

Kuroo groaned miserably, “where’s Kenma?”

“Hinata-kun has gone to get him. He’ll be back soon hopefully.”

“Akaashi, I don’t feel good,” he whined and curled tighter in on himself.

“I know,” Akaashi said.

“Feels… bad…” he swallowed thickly.

“Kuroo…” Tsukishima warned. He shook his head.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. Something heaved in his stomach and he pulled his shoulders up to his ears and brought the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Y’guys should go,” he said around the pool of saliva in his mouth and the heaviness of his jaw. Who he was talking to at this point, he wasn’t sure. He just knew that being around him right now was only asking to catch this. He also knew he was about to puke and he really wanted to try and maintain some of his dignity.

“Too late for that, numbskull. We’ve been around you for days. If we’re gonna catch it, we’re gonna catch it. Might as well make sure you don’t die,” Tsukishima said. Kuroo, behind his mounting nausea and hazy brain, was touched by his salty kouhai’s attempt at comfort.

“I think he meant he doesn’t want you to see him spew, Tsukkidude,” Bokuto murmured. His hand was still on Kuroo’s back and while it was more comforting than bothersome now, it also served to swirl things around in his stomach and brain. He nodded lethargically.

“Kuroo-san, if you could, uh— please, just, um...wait...for Kenma-san, I think it would make you feel, uh, better. To have him here, that is. Instead of...uh...me,” Akaashi stammered. Kuroo heard the nervousness in his voice and felt bad. There wasn’t much he could do to stave off the inevitable though.

“You squeamish, ‘Kaashi?” Bokuto asked.

“Uhhhh,” Akaashi hesitated, high pitched, “maybe a little.”

“Bo,” Kuroo panted, punctuated by a sick hiccup.

“I gotcha, buddy. Bucket’s right here,” Bokuto reassured and placed the bucket in his lap. “You can leave guys, I got this.” He said to the other three.

“Yeah...I’m gonna take you up on that,” Lev said uneasily. “Sorry Kuroo-san.” He bowed and then sprinted out of the gym. Tsukishima looked more hesitant, but ultimately bowed and left as well.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto said right as Kuroo spit into the bucket. The sounds of their conversation faded in and out with the rest of Kuroo’s surroundings. All he could fully register was the lump of something nasty moving up his chest. All he could see was the blinding red color of the bucket.

A few airy burps that grated his throat passed through his parted lips. He whimpered.

“It’s alright, Kuroo,” Bokuto’s voice filtered through the haze. He gagged.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. Each heave, gag and hiccup that plagued him for the next several moments.

Where was Kenma?

Kuroo coughed, hiccupped, and a small stream of vomit trailed out of his mouth. It wasn’t enough. It still hurt. He wheezed.

“Hey, Kuroo-san, try to take deep breaths,” Akaashi’s shaky voice commanded.

“Can’t,” he gasped, coughing up more bile.

Fuck he wanted this to be over.

Cough, gasp, puke. The painful, horrific cycle repeated for several tense minutes. It didn’t relieve any of his discomfort.

Bokuto patted his back and tried to offer comforting words. Akaashi wouldn’t look at Kuroo, but he was there, another steady presence to offer some grounding to Kuroo.

“Kuroo- san! I found Kenma!” Hinata’s voice cut through his misery. “He was in the shower. I’m sorry it took so long!”

“Kuro,” Kenma said, voice calm, blunt, comforting. He took Akaashi’s place at his side, his Snorlax slippers and ratty sweatpants taking up Kuroo’s peripheral.

“I don’ feel good,” Kuroo told him around the bile coating his mouth. Kenma put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“I gathered that,” he said with amusement, “it’s okay. Just relax.”

Kuroo shook his head. Relaxing meant letting this happen. He did not want it to happen.

“Tetsu, don’t be an ass,” Kenma sighed, exasperated.

“Kenma,” he whimpered. The hand on his shoulder squeezed again.

“How long has he been like this?” Kenma directed at someone else in the room.

“About 15 minutes,” Akaashi’s shaky voice answered.

“Shit, Tetsuro, why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Kenma asked. Kuroo shook his head slowly.

“Didn’ re’lize,” he slurred. His stomach cramped and his inhaled sharply through his teeth and gripped tightly at his shirt. As soon as the cramp passed, he gagged, his body jolting forward.

“Uh, I’m gonna—I’m gonna go,” Hinata stuttered out and then Kuroo heard his tiny feet run from the gym.

“Can you two go get Nobuyuki and Yaku from the Nekoma quarters? I’m sure Lev is looking for them, but he’s an idiot,” Kenma demanded of Akaashi and Bokuto, the inflection behind his voice commanding and unwavering. It comforted Kuroo in ways he didn’t understand.

Despite how it appeared to onlookers, Kenma was alway the one taking care of Kuroo. More than Kuroo took care of him, anyway. The setter always knew exactly what Kuroo needed before he even said anything. He was passive most of the time, content to let things be, but stubborn and steadfast when he needed to be. Which was something that Kuroo was grateful for, too prone to letting his emotions take over. Kenma was a sturdy support for Kuroo when he was at his weakest.

“They’re gone, Testsu. Relax and let it happen. It’s just you and me,” Kenma told him. He put his forehead on the top of Kuroo’s matted, sweaty hair. The parts of Kenma’s hair that touched Kuroo were wet and cold. It felt nice.

The uncharacteristic gentle action from Kenma made something in Kuroo’s chest twinge and he whimpered, fresh tears dropping into the bucket.

Kuroo could be himself with Kenma. He didn’t need to be the Captain or a Leader or an Extrovert or even an Introverted Extrovert. He could just be Kuroo.

“Just us, Tetsu,” Kenma said and pulled his head back.

Kuroo inhaled slowly, deeply and exhaled, trying to relax his shoulders and back. It didn’t take much more for his stomach to finally find relief.

A gurgling hiccup brought up a small stream of bile and he coughed. Another hiccup brought a little more. Then finally, he belched, wet and heady, and heaved, a much stronger torrent of disgusting vomit moving up his chest and out of his mouth.

“There ya go,” Kenma sighed. He moved Kuroo’s unruly hair, made more disgusting by the sheen of sweat covering his forehead, back and away from his face. Kuroo lurched forward with a gag, bringing up more of his dinner.

“Holy shit, Kuro, that’s some fever. I’m sorry you’ve felt so bad all day,” Kenma whispered. Kuroo shook his head, spitting out the nasty taste in his mouth, trying to find his breath before the next round.

He didn’t get much of a chance before he heaved again.

“God,” he slurred between wretches.

“It’s alright. Calm down,” Kenma instructed.

He puked twice more before his stomach settled for the time being.

“Kenma...please…” he whispered, gesturing for him to move the bucket away.

“Here,” Kenma handed him a water, “drink this first. Rinse out your mouth.” Kuroo did as he was told and spit into the bucket. Kenma took it away after that and Kuroo thanked him quietly. He inhaled, bringing his head up and looking at Kenma for the first time since the setter got there.

Kenma’s eyebrows were furrowed ever so slightly, a subtle pout on his lips. He brushed Kuroo’s bangs back again.

“Thanks, Kenma,” he smiled weakly. Kenma clicked his tongue.

“You’re an idiot,” he sighed. It lacked any of its usual blunt edge.

“Kuroo!!” Kai called out, running into the gym. They were both wearing medical masks, a couple more in their hands.

“Hey,” he said sheepishly, a hand on the back of his neck.

“I knew something was wrong. You really are such a dumbass,” Yaku said, a hand on his hip and an eyebrow raised. He was as blunt as usual.

“Thanks, Yaku. You’re as gentle as ever.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t help it when you decide to push yourself to this point,” he said, turning his face away. “Idiot,” he added as an afterthought. Kuroo couldn’t see his cheeks behind his mask, but his ears were red.

“You alright Kenma? Here,” Kai asked and handed Kenma a mask. Kenma shook his head.

“Too late for that,” he sighed.

“Yeah, but several of Shinzen and Fukurodani’s players have gone down with the same thing as our fearless leader here. We’re trying to contain it so it doesn’t spread more,” Kai explained.

“Yeah. Exactly. You wear one too, Kuroo,” Yaku insisted. Kuroo didn’t like the idea of having his mouth covered, but he also didn’t like the idea of spreading this wretched fate to others.

Kenma and Kuroo took the masks and then Yaku pulled some meds out of the bag on his shoulder and handed them to him. Kuroo’s lip curled, but Kenma pinched his elbow and he relented. They hit his stomach with a hollow thud.

Kai held a hand out to help Kuroo up. As soon as he stood, his knees buckled and black spots danced in his vision. Kai quickly caught him around his waist and threw Kuroo’s arm around his shoulder.

“Try not to pass out until we get back to the quarantine room. It’d make things difficult,” Yaku said. Kuroo would’ve rolled his eyes if he had the energy.

Together, they made it back to the classrooms (repurposed as sleeping quarters for the camp). There was a room for people who already puked and one for anyone experiencing symptoms. Kuroo was shocked to find Akaashi there, leaning over a trash can, Bokuto rubbing his back, as well as several Shinzen players, a couple Ubugawa players, and the setter from Karasuno.

Hinata was there as well, sitting beside Kageyama with his arms crossed and a disgruntled look on his face.

Yaku set up a new futon for Kuroo and Kai helped him settle into it. He immediately curled up on his side, exhaling in relief.

They asked if he needed anything, promised to bring him a change of clothes, and left. Kenma saw them out but then came back and plopped himself down beside Kuroo.

“You can go, Kenma,” he said, looking up at him with one eye open. Kenma shrugged.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” he said plainly. Like it wasn’t embarrassing at all. Kuroo smiled to himself.

“What’s with Chibi-Chan?” He asked in lieu of a response. Kenma snickered.

“His team sent him here when Kageyama came down with the bug. Apparently their “secret relationship” isn’t so secret.”

Kuroo chuckled. That was probably why Akaashi and Bokuto were both here as well.

“You know,” Kenma said.

“Hmm,” Kuroo replied sleepily.

“No one thinks you’re less of a Leader just because you’re sick. It happens to everyone. Doesn’t mean you’re not still someone other people look up to,” Kenma said quietly, matter-of-fact.

“Mmm.. you’re right,” he muttered back. He was. Kuroo knew that. He appreciated the reminder though.

“Go to sleep, Tetsu,” Kenma said and stretched his legs out beside Kuroo. He ran his fingers through Kuroo’s hair. Sleep called to him and his eyes slowly closed.

He woke up several times before the next morning, because of other people puking, because he needed to puke and once when Kenma puked, swearing Kuroo out for getting him sick.

He apologized profusely and pulled Kenma’s hair back with the hair tie he kept on his wrist.

Kuroo was a Leader. Someone other people liked and looked up to.

Sometimes Leaders needed someone to lean on too, he supposed. Thank goodness he had Kenma.

#haikyuu sickfic #my fics #sick kuroo #caretaker kenma #caretaker Akaashi #caretaker Bokuto #caretaker Tsukishima #caretaker Hinata #caretaker Lev #kinda sorta #they tried okay?#tw vomit #haikyuu #kuroo tetsurō #kenma kozume #emeto warning #emeto #fever

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sunmoonandeddie · 4 years

Text

pandemic overload

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 2,136

summary: You need an escape from everything, and Bucky is more than happy to give it to you.

warnings: SO MUCH FLUFF. Bad words. Bucky does think a naughty thing or two lol

a/n: Thank you so much to @marylizabetha for this commission!!!! I had so much fun with it, and honestly it was nice to get to write about escaping all of this nonsense for a little bit!!!!

He saw it when he came home from grocery shopping. The quiver of your bottom lip. He’d only been gone for about two hours—shopping for groceries for a super soldier can take a while, after all—but even so, it had made you anxious. Everything about the last seven months or so made you anxious. And he couldn’t blame you. People were dying and it was just… frustrating how so many people didn’t seem to care. At all.

Bucky had been the only one to leave the town house you two shared in that entire time, unless you counted the times you’d sit out on the front stoop and work on a Sudoku puzzle. But that was a decision you had made very early on. He was a super soldier that couldn’t get sick. You were just a normal human.

It didn’t mean that you weren’t scared for him every time he walked outside.

Thankfully, it hadn’t taken much to convince you to stay home, even though you had to quit your job. It wasn’t exactly the most… important thing in the world. It wasn’t even in your field of interest. Just a pit stop until you could put your degree to use.

But it looked like that wouldn’t be happening for a little while longer.

Technically, with how much money Bucky made from being a non-active Avenger on top of back pay from being a prisoner of war for seventy years or so and also being on an elite strike force during World War II, you would never have to work a day in your life if you didn’t want. And, to be perfectly honest, a big part of you was seriously considering it. It was nice to be able to sit around and do whatever you wanted to do. You and Bucky helped each other with all the chores and such, but then you had an otherwise empty day to fill. You’d taken up knitting and learning to play piano and yes, you did join in on that trend of people learning how to make sourdough bread from scratch. You two had also gotten to up the amount of time you spent trying to make a positive change in the world, and you’d taken Bucky to his first twenty-first century protest. Not a single cop had dared to fuck with you or anyone else with the former Winter Soldier by your side.

The perks of having a super intimidating boyfriend, right?

It would be completely perfect if it wasn’t for the fact that you had to stay because otherwise you might get sick.

But you were actually considering choosing to just… continue not working once all of it was over. You and Bucky could do anything you wanted to do. You could travel the world, maybe eventually adopt a few kids… The possibilities were endless, especially since your boyfriend had surprised you by paying off all your student loans in one fell swoop.

Yeah, that… that had brought on more than a few tears.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile over at you as he put away the groceries, calling out everything to you. You were sitting up on the counter, pretty as a picture, with your legs swinging back and forth as you put in everything he’d bought to that fancy app on your phone that took everything you had in your fridge and gave you a list of recipes you could make from it.

Last week the two of you had gotten your favorite recipe so far, grilled mahi mahi tacos with a sweet pineapple salsa that served a bit of a kick at the end.

Fish so nice, they named it twice.

Bucky’s pandemic hobby had become cooking. A lot of the time, you two just ordered food in, which was a horrible habit. But you couldn’t help it. You both were so busy and neither of you really had the energy or patience to cook most of the time.

But spending everyday at home meant that Bucky finally had time to learn how to do something other than boil food, and he was actually pretty good at it.

“Baby doll, let’s go on a date.”

You looked up from your phone in surprise. “A… A date? Bucky Bear… I hate to break it to you, but… We can’t exactly go anywhere,” you said with a weak laugh. As good as it was to be able to sit at home and work on your hobbies, you were often overwhelmed with the thoughts about how so many people were suffering because of how selfish others were.

He put the last bell pepper away in the fridge before moving to stand between your legs, his hands running over your thighs. “Now that’s not true, sweetheart,” he said as he pressed sweet kisses along your jawline. “I wanna take you somewhere special, okay? We haven’t gotten to dress up in a long time… So how about you get your cute ass in the shower and get yourself all dolled up, yeah? I wanna treat my girl.”

Ugh. He always knew exactly what to say to make you melt.

“Okay,” you giggled, nuzzling your nose against his. But you took your own sweet time getting off the counter, choosing instead to wrap your legs around him and pull him in for an impromptu makeout session.

What can you say? Your man was hot as fuck and a good ass kisser.

“I love you,” he mumbled, his hands roaming down your sides to your ass. He gave a playful squeeze before slowly breaking the kiss, letting it linger far longer than what would be considered necessary. “But you have to go shower and get ready, baby girl. I gotta jump in one, too. I wanna be nice and fresh for my girl. Now go on.”

A purse of your lower lip. “You don’t wanna join me?”

“Now, that’s not what I said, you little minx,” he said, tickling your sides and sending you into a fit of giggles. “But if I get in with you, we aren’t gonna make it out for a long, long time. And then you won’t get your surprise.”

“Fine, fine,” you groaned, pushing against his chest so you could slide off the counter. “Bossy.” You shot him a wink as you headed upstairs, and he can’t help but stare at your ass.

God bless the quarantine weight you’d gained.

Granted, he always loved your body—if you like the girl, you’re gonna like her body, after all—but he was still a hot-blooded man with a thing for grabbing you and loving every inch of you.

He quickly put together a basket of food, various meats and cheeses and little things like olives, and set a blanket on top of it before running upstairs to grab a shower in the guest bath. He knew the perfect place to take you to escape the city and the suffocating threat of the pandemic.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going or not, Sarge?” You asked as you appeared in the doorway.

He looked up from where he sat at the kitchen island, and the breath was knocked straight from his lungs. Thank god he’d already stowed the basket and blanket away in the trunk, because he would’ve completely forgotten at the sight of you. “Holy shit, sugar…,” he whispered as he got up. He moved towards you, strong hands grabbing your hips and pulling you into a kiss. He knew he had to be careful about grabbing your face, not wanting to mess up the makeup you’d just put on for the first time in months. But you’d also learned not to wear a lip product that would smear on your first date, so you both had rules about makeup now.

The fabric of your yellow sundress rested against your skin so gently, and he would be ashamed to admit that for just a second, he was jealous of a piece of clothing. He wanted to be that close to you always, wanted to feel your skin and draw little shapes over your heart.

Maybe he’d strip it off of you the second he got you to the spot, just so he could rest his head in the valley of your breasts and listen to the steady beating of your heart. You knew that he could hear it even just standing beside you, but you wouldn’t call him out on it.

TLC played on the radio the entire drive, his hand on your thigh except for when he needed to shift gears. Out of all the decades of music you were working to catch him up on, the nineties were your favorite.

Not that he’d ever disagree. No. Not when he got to watch you with one arm out the window, your hand making waves in the wind as you sang at the top of your lungs.

Just being out of the house for less than an hour was doing you so much good.

“Bucky, you aren’t going to kill me, right?” You asked with a laugh as he parked the car in a small lot at the entrance of a trail. “Because I really figured you would’ve done that by now, you know.”

“Nah, baby,” he said as he popped the trunk, smirking at the surprised look on your face at the sight of the basket. The trunk closed with a slam as he tossed you the blanket, moving to your side and holding your free hand in his before leading you down the trail. “If I wanted to murder you, I’d have done it by now. Besides, you’re too pretty to kill. I’d miss looking at you everyday.”

“You’re an absolute cheese ball,” you laughed, nudging his hip with yours. Not that it actually did anything.

Ah, the disadvantages you had when it came to play fighting with your super soldier boyfriend. Poor you.

The trail was absolutely stunning, full of wildlife and color. The shade the trees provided was a nice reprieve to the mid-August heat, the sunlight filtering through the leaves to dapple against your cheeks.

It was about a fifteen minute walk to the Wallkill River, and you heard the rush of the water long before you get there.

“We aren’t going swimming right?” You asked, eyeing him skeptically. “Because I just washed my hair.”

“No,” he said, amusement lacing his tone. “We’re not swimming. Just having a late lunch.” He sets down the basket and takes the blanket from you, laying it out on the small clearing on the bank. He took his time setting up the charcuterie board, the bottle of wine, and the two pillows that he stuffed in the basket for you two to rest against. “There. Now it’s perfect,” he said as he held his hand out to you to help you sit down on the blanket. “Worthy of my princess.”

A familiar roll of your eyes as he pressed sweet kisses to your cheeks, just like he did anytime he doted on you. He only ever called you princess when he got all lovey dovey like this.

Not that you’d ever complain.

“So what’s all this for?” You asked. Unable to stop your fit of giggles, you teetered to the side as the force of his cheek kisses grew and he made more and more obnoxious noises with it, his metal hand hooked around your waist. “Bucky Bear…”

“Okay, okay,” he relented, leaving one last, noisy kiss to your cheek before sitting up straight. He didn’t answer you right away, choosing instead to grab the wine and pop it open, pouring you each a glass. He was always the designated driver, since alcohol didn’t affect him. He was silent until you had your glass in hand, and he raised his in a toast. “I want to celebrate us, and more specifically, you. The past seven or so months haven’t been easy, but you’ve been a champ through it all. And also, I think we’ve done pretty damn well on living together and being around each other almost 24/7, considering that we only moved in together in November,” he said. His startling blue eyes were so soft as he stared at you. “I just love you so much, and I truly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Oh, my god,” you said, your eyes glassy as you shook your head. “Bucky, you can’t say things like that when I just did my makeup! You’re going to make me cry!” But you didn’t mind the tears as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, your glasses clinking together. “I love you, too. And there’s no one else I’d rather go through this with.”

“Together,” he said, his nose nudging against yours.

“Together,” you agreed.

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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viking-raider · 3 years

Text

The Belle and the Bane - Intro

Summary: How the legend of the Bane began and your simple life.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/You

Word Count: 2,611

Rating: Fantasy!AU, Mentions of death, Illness, Language, Angst, Curses

Inspiration: The beauty and the beast, among other things.

Author’s Note: Thanks to @wondersofdreaming for brainstorming this with me, hammering out the details! Tell me what you think!

Once upon a time, in an ancient land, there was a small village of three hundred dreary and poor inhabitants. In this small village of Mintwillow, there was a legend of dark and sinful proportions; the legend went like this.

Living in a neglected castle, a handful of leagues from the village, placed perilously on the edge of a cliff, with the roaring and roiling waves of an ocean below, crashing against the rock face and eroding it away, was who the village called, the Bane. He had been the fourth of five children, all brothers, who had all lived happily and harmoniously with their loving and pampering parents. The family was the most prosperous family within nearly sixty leagues of the village, which, at the time, was just as prosperous and bustling, riding the wave of their success.

But, then, disaster struck.

A horrible illness washed over the county, striking the inhabitants of Mintwillow the hardest. The Bane's family, despite their wealth and good standing, also became victims of the disease. Every last one of them became sick with it; bedridden and raving, bodies throbbing, as if all of their bones were shattering, and sweating so profusely from their fevers, that their mattresses were soaked through, and took turns in getting sick. Their servants, also sick themselves, did their best to care for their beloved masters, but it was all for not. First, the mistress of the castle died of the illness, followed by the youngest son and the third oldest. The father and oldest went two days later, but the second oldest and second youngest held out for a fortnight. On the night of the fourteenth day, even after a glitter of hope of becoming well again, the second oldest perished, leaving only the second youngest alive.

Who still fought for his life against the illness.

He had languished between getting better for a day or two, before becoming quite worse and being only moments, if not seconds, from death. But, finally, after nearly another fortnight, the second youngest son roused, his fever breaking and his life safe from the dark tentacles of death that had taken all of his family, all that mattered and he held so dearly to his heart.

It had taken time, and a good many lives, before the plague that washed over Mintwillow to pass away, leaving an ugly scar in the lives and minds of the inhabitants. While a mass grave had to be excavated for the townspeople, the bodies of the dead family were given single graves in their ancestral graveyard, just down the hill from the castle. It was the day of their funeral, even though they had already been in their graves for a month or more, that the second youngest son, now the heir and executor of the family empire, realized the amount of power he suddenly wielded; the mass fortunes of gold he had at his disposal, for every want, whim and fancy he could ever dream of, with no one to tell him no, or hold him in check with the spending.

That was when the Bane came to be.

He threw huge balls for the top families in the land, inviting the prettiest women his staff could find and lived in the county. He spent thousands of pounds on furnishings, decorations and things he had no need for; some he didn't even know how to work and use, but bought, simply because he could. But, within two years of his new found power, the money was starting to dwindle. He was spending more than the family business could support.

So, he taxed the small town of Mintwillow.

Raising the taxes on the goods he supplied them, supplies and goods they needed to live and support themselves, since the next option to do so, was over a hundred leagues away. He taxed them for everything he could, and even thought up new things he could tax them on, because he knew without him, they would all likely starve.

After awhile, spending mountains of gold, throwing lavish parties and having an endless line of women, didn't fill the hole that had been left at the loss of his parents and brothers. Nonetheless, he kept spending the gold and dancing at his parties and bedding every woman he could. It had become a habit now, instead of a pleasure. However, in the third year after the illness, and quite suddenly, he no longer threw lavish parties that lasted for days, he no longer spent vast amounts of gold or entertained a woman. Some in the village speculated that he had packed up and moved out of the county, having slighted some young lady's honor and ran before her father could force him into marrying her. Some said, someone he had overtaxed had become so enraged by it, they murdered him and his body was decaying somewhere in the castle.

But, the impossibly high taxes kept being enforced and collected.

What he had done, was reduced the staff to a single butler, closed up all of the rooms, but his own bedroom, a study and the kitchen; leaving the rest to grow thick layers of dust, cobwebs, moth holes and to fall into disrepair and neglect; leaving the ghosts of his former life to inhabit them.

Shutting the world away and darkening the once bright and full of life castle.

Why would he suddenly close out the world like that? The answer isn't as simple as one might think.

During one of the biggest balls he had ever thrown, the girls were flocking him, as usual, when an exceptionally gorgeous woman approached him, she was so radiant in her gown and her self assurance, that he couldn't help be attracted to her, drawn to her glow, like a moth to the naked flame of a candle. Pushing away all other women, he approached her, turning his handsome charm onto her. She was just as drawn to him as he was to her. They danced and floated around each other, none other existed to them, not the nearly two hundred guests or the jealous women; just him and her.

Before long, the pair were in the privacy of one of the castle's many rooms, sitting close together on a divan, smiling faces so near to each other, they shared the same breath. They shared jokes and quips, flirtations and jests. But, suddenly, her behavior changed and her bright eyes dimmed, like a dangerous storm cloud.

“You like all your fancy things, don't you?” She hissed at him. “Having every woman fling herself upon your feet, like a simpering puppy.”

He blinked at her, taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor. “What are you talking about?” He demanded, pulling away from her; shock and brewing rage in his blue eyes and handsome face.

“Taxing the lands and lives of all the poor souls in this land, while you sit fit and happy upon your mountains of gold and privilege.” Her own rage grew, out matching his own. “Yet, you are as miserable, if not more so, than they are. But, you still tax them, sucking them dry, until they are so far in debt to you, they fling themselves from the cliffs, to end their suffering.”

“Suffering you cause for nothing.”

“I won't be spoken to like this.” He said in a low growl, his upper lip twitching with a snarl. “Get out and never show your face here again! Or I'll show you what true misery is!” He raved, jumping to his feet and pointing a stiff finger to the door.

She stood with him, quite gracefully for a soul so consumed with rage and distaste. “No, you will know what misery really is!” She barked, before roughly kissing him, her long nails digging into the soft flesh of his neck, leaving thin trails of blood in their stead.

“That will be the last kindness you will have for some time.” She hissed, then swept out of the room.

The room was dark and stifling hot, you could feel beads of sweat rolling down your back, as you leaned over the mortar you were currently grinding up a combination of white willow bark, yarrow and marshmallow root in. Another painful sounding and wet cough filled the single room hut your patient lived in with her husband and six children, all under the age of nine. Getting the herbs fine enough, you turned to the roaring fireplace that dominated a large section of the north wall of the hut. You had told her husband not to put so many logs on the fire, she was already badly hydrated, and the overwhelming heat of the fire, combined with her high fever, were causing her to sweat profusely, making her even more dehydrated.

But, being a man and feeling he knew better than you, he kept feeding more and more logs into the licking flames.

You suppressed an eye roll as he tossed another sizable log into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks into the chimney flue. Using the skirt of your dress, you grabbed a hold of the handle to the roiling kettle and pulled it off the hook that held it over the flames. Taking it back to the makeshift kitchen table, you dumped the ground herbs into the battered and chipped teapot, then poured in the steaming hot water, leaving it to brew the herbal tea that would reduce her fever and help quiet down her cough.

“Have her drink the whole pot.” You told him, holding the teapot, and still using your dress as a barrier, while you gently swirl the liquid inside, the heat radiating through the porcelain felt pleasant. “Even if she doesn't want to. But, don't make her drink it too fast either. Maybe a cup every half hour.” You explained to him, setting it back down on its stone coaster.

“If she gets any worse, come and get me.” You added, gathering your little bag full of herbs and other odds and ends you used as a healer for Mintwillow.

“Thank you.” The husband said gruffly, standing stiffly by his wife's side.

“Of course.” You nodded to him, then gave the youngest child, only fourteen months old, and sitting on the hearth rug, gumming on a biscuit, a smile; recalling you helping birth the babe into the world, before going out into the cold and salty air.

It was so much nicer out there, the winds pushing in pungent ocean air, salty and fresh, with a tang of fish and kelp. It was cool and refreshing, an excellent cure all to the stuffy and hot atmosphere of the hut you just left. You were nearly home, when a familiar silhouette appeared in the early evening mist, bringing a happy smile to your face.

“Hello, papa.” You greeted him as he fully appeared.

“Hello, child.” He smiled back at you, his tired and wrinkled face brightening at the sight of you. “How is she?” He asked, eyes flickering to the hut several yards behind you.

“She should be just fine.” You assured him, confidently. “Just a strong cold. Nothing I can't fight.” You chuckled, but you could see the undeniable fear and anxiety in his deep set brown eyes.

Your father, honestly, loathed that you were a healer, but he honored your choice, like he had always done your entire life. If you set your mind to something and he knew you couldn't be swayed on the subject, he would respectfully disagree, but would support you, through and through. You were his daughter, his first born, his only born, and he would move heaven and earth for your happiness. But, his fear and anxiety over your chosen profession came with good merit and reason. Nearly five years before, a great illness had swept over the village, taking so many lives. But, there was one person there, doing her utmost best to try, and at least, slow its progression.

Your mother.

She had been Mintwillow's healer longer than you had been born, before she and your father had even married. Nothing would stop her from healing her fellow villagers, not even that horrid plague. She had worked tirelessly to try and stop it, though, more often than not, she would lose to it. Your mother didn't let that stop her though, she kept trying and trying, mixing every type of herb she had and could get her hands on, looking for a cure. Your father would have to bodily drag her away from her herbalist table, just so she would take a moment to eat or drink something, to sleep, even if it was just for a moment's nap.

Then, she was right back at it.

In the end though, four dozen Mintwillow villagers died, your dearest mother, being one of them. She had caught it, after being in contact with so many of the infected, and died almost a week later; leaving only you and your father. You had gotten the illness, there was barely a single handful of people who didn't get it, but had survived, with very little after effects. Your father on the other hand, had survived, only to be severely affected by it, he couldn't work the endless hours he once had as the village's blacksmith, finding wielding the heavy tools of his craft almost too much to manage for more than an hour or two.

Which affected the household income, making so many things you both needed scarce, like food and clothing. So, taking what you had learned from your mother, you stepped into her shoes as the village healer, hoping that the occasional gold piece would help ease the burden on your father. It still wasn't enough though, and that became abundantly clear, when stiff and high taxes were pressed on the village and its workers, your father being one of them, needing the supplies for his blacksmithing, causing him to be heavily in debt.

Of all the bones in your body, there was only one of them that was mean, and it loathed the life crippling taxes that squeezed and bled every person in the village, man, woman, child and even infants. You glanced across the foggy village, to the shadowy smudge, almost hidden by the charcoal clouds, that were like puffs of wool, against stark purple sky; the castle. You hated that filthy structure that loomed over the village, like an awful eye, bringing nothing be hardship and doom. You hated the creature that lived inside of it, reaping all the benefit of your father's hard-work, while you both struggled to put half a loaf of bread on the table for one of the two meals you could afford a day; if you were lucky.

Shaking the malice away from your thoughts, you followed your father back to your home. It was a little more than the rest of the homes in Mintwillow, it was a story and a half, the kitchen and living area was all one room, there was a water closet and a back room, that was your father's room. The half story was a loft, that was your own room. You loved your room, going up the half spiral staircase to it, it was closed off, so you had the utmost level of privacy. Half of your room, hanging above a writing desk, was an array of herbs that you used for your healing.

The one thing about your room that you had a qualm with, was the single peaked window; it pointed towards the bleak structure on the stormy cliffs, forever in your sight, whenever you look out your window. You wished it would just fall off the cliff it was butted up against; the gloomy and cursed castle of the Bane.

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wrenhyperfixates · 3 years

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How the God Stole Christmas

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: Loki despises Christmas, and after watching the Grinch, he decides there’s only one thing to do about it. But you just might melt his cold heart. Warnings: zip, zilch, zero A/N: So this is my little spoof of the original and best Grinch, starring Loki. Hope you all enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Red and green everywhere, the same songs playing in every single store, silly little decorations in every nook and cranny. Yup, it was official. Loki hated Christmas. He couldn’t even place his finger on why, exactly; he just did. So, naturally, this was his least favorite time of year. Sadly, none of his teammates seemed to share that sentiment.

Loki walked into the common room only to hear the same carol that was playing in the last shop he’d visited. He gritted his teeth against the sound of his brother signing along. The Tower was just as heavily decorated as the rest of the city. If there was a Christmas-field version of something, you could bet one of the Avengers had bought it. And if they hadn’t, it was just a matter of time.

At least the sweets constantly being baked weren’t entirely despicable. Though, admittedly, even his notorious sweet tooth was getting a little sick of them. Right now, he could smell the aroma of gingerbread wafting from the oven. It made him consider skipping the cup of tea he was currently on his way to get, but he knew he needed it if he had any chance of calming down. He was glad he’d decided to go to the kitchen after all when he saw you were the one baking, flour smeared on your apron and face in an adorable mess.

The poor God of Mischief was still rather isolated from everyone else. He was trying, but by the time any of the Avengers had gotten over his past wrongdoings, he was sour towards all of them. It was hard to want to be friends with people who spent the first six months of his living in the Tower scorning him. It was also hard to call a place like that home. There had been one shining beacon of beautiful light during those early days: you.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted, heating up the water for his cup. “Those cookies smell divine.”

“Oh! Hi Loki,” you exclaimed, turning around, not having heard him enter. “And thanks. Do you want to help us decorate?”

“That depends on who exactly ‘us’ is.”

“The whole team.” He made a small hum of acknowledgement and blew on his scalding drink. You frowned a little, knowing full well that he distanced himself because of how they used to treat him. But you also knew they wanted to change things, they just weren’t entirely sure how. “It could be a great bonding opportunity. Plus, I’ll be there, obviously, but so will Peter and Bucky. Doesn’t it sound fun?”

Besides you, the trickster god found some companionship in the two aforementioned Avengers. They’d come after Loki had, and Peter’s endless optimism had won him over. As for Bucky, he had gone through much the same that Loki had, their common pasts bonding them quickly. Unfortunately, all his friends loved this despicable holiday.

“Perhaps another time,” he finally replied. “Next year.”

“Ok,” you sighed. “You’ll at least watch movies with us tonight, right?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would be better if I did not.”

“Please,” you pouted. “Come on, it’s Christmas Eve. I’ll even save a special cookie for you.”

“Your persistence is as relentless as it is adorable,” he laughed. “I will come, but just for a movie or two. Deal?”

“Deal!” you squealed. “You won’t regret it. Oh! And, Loki, come here.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace. It surprised him, to say the least. He still wasn’t entirely used to such signs of affection, but they were welcome, especially from you. However, he never was quite sure how to respond. After a second, he somewhat awkwardly wrapped his arms around you to return the hug.

“What was that for?” he questioned as you pulled back.

“You just seemed like you needed one,” you shrugged.

The joy that that gave him lasted all the way into the evening when it was time for him to join you for a movie, as promised. He’d put it off as long as he could, even considering just skipping and saying he’d fallen asleep. That would upset you, though, and you were the one person he hated to lie to. So, he made his way to the common room where a new movie was just starting. You scooted over a little on the couch so he could squeeze in between you and Peter. Bucky was sitting on the floor close by, and Loki had no doubt you’d specifically requested they be in those positions so he felt more comfortable. He was greeted with a few polite—dare he say, borderline friendly—nods and waves from a few of his other teammates. And, of course, an overly enthusiastic pat on the back from his brother as he passed.

“Loki! Glad you could make it,” you whispered as he plopped down next to you.

“Well, a deal is a deal, darling.”

“That reminds me, here’s your cookie.”

The little gingerbread man you handed him was decorated to look like him in his Asgardian battle armor. It was a wonderful likeness, all things considered. He smiled as he took a bite of the baked good. He tried to let go of all hate for the season as he relished this moment with you, but it was still lingering there.

“It is delicious, thank you.”

“No problem. I’m glad you liked it.”

You quieted down as the movie began and the opening credits played. Loki was already losing interest, and then the title appeared. How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A most intriguing title, he mused. Now that his interest was peaked, he watched with rapt attention as the animated film began. That grumpy, green fellow was possibly the best protagonist in any movie he’d been made to watch yet. He certainly had the right idea about Christmas. And those tiny little voices would have annoyed Loki to no end. It really was no different than what he was going through now, he realized. He thought it rather rude to call the Grinch “mean” though. It seemed to Loki he was just misunderstood.

As he watched the Grinch load up all the wreathes and toys into his sleigh, Loki was struck with an idea. Why should he not be able to do the same thing? Ok, maybe he couldn’t get away with stealing from the whole city, but what about the Tower? It was his home, too, and no one had asked him how he felt about all this stuff.

Now that he had a master plan blossoming in his head, he didn’t much care to see the end of the movie. He’d gotten everything he needed out of it. So, he went up to get a refill on his drink. By the time he go back, it was over.

“You missed the ending,” Peter said. “Do you want us to go back?”

“No, it is fine. I thought it was perfect just the way it was.”

“But all you saw was him stealing Christmas?”

“Exactly.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No. In fact, I could use your help.”

Before Peter could ask with what, everyone was getting up and leaving the room, ready to call it a night. You fretted over the fact that he’d only gotten to see one movie, but he assured you it was alright. The matter wasn’t dropped until he promised to watch at least one more tomorrow, too. It didn’t make much difference to him though, considering that after he was through with the Tower, he was sure no one would be much in the mood for Christmas movies, anyway.

“You’re planning something,” Bucky said before exiting.

“Maybe. Are you looking to assist?”

“Probably not. But good luck.”

“Fair enough. Goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight, Loki,” Peter said as he tried to hurry off after Bucky.

“Spiderling, may I enlist your help?” Loki asked.

“I, uh, yeah, I guess. What are friends for?”

“Excellent!” Loki exclaimed as the rest of the Avengers finished filing out.

The more he explained the plan, the more nervous Peter became. It did give Loki a bit of a pause, but oh, it sounded like great fun! For weeks on end now, he’d been suffering through this horrid season. It was just a little payback to the universe. That was fair, right? Maybe, but it was not fair to force his friend to help him.

“Listen, spiderling, if you do not wish to help, you do not have to,” Loki said.

“This is going to make you happy, right? Like, is this going to make your Christmas?”

“Quite honestly, I think it will.”

Peter considered for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of this situation. “Ok, I’ll help. On one condition. We leave everyone’s rooms as they are. We’ll just clean out the common areas.”

“That is quite reasonable. Thank you, spiderling.”

The duo got to work, stuffing all the little decorations in their sacks. Peter insisted that if they were going to do this, they had to do it right, and fetched a reindeer antler headband for himself and a Santa hat for Loki. While it was on the one hand entirely ridiculous, it did give Loki a bit of a laugh at the implication of it. Him as the Grinch and Peter as Max, his reluctant but loyal ally. The thought made him smile a little.

Everything was going great until they got to the first of the many large trees in the Tower. Loki stood there with a cocked head, tapping his chin. Sure, he could try to do it like the Grinch had, but life wasn’t a cartoon. So, no, that would pose more of a problem than a solution. Besides, Loki had something the Grinch didn’t. Magic. Carefully working his seiðr, the god shrunk down the first pine, ornaments and all, and put it in one of the bags.

A little while later, he was getting ready to do the same thing to one of the last remaining trees. Then you came stumbling out into the room. Peter did a little panicked dance before slinging a web and sticking himself to the ceiling. Loki walked up to you and laid his hands on your shoulder, trying to determine how conscious you actually were.

“Loki?” you asked, rubbing your eyes, your voice a little slurred from sleep. “What’re you doing? Where’re all the decorations?”

“You tell me. It is your dream,” he quickly lied.

“My dream,” you parroted spotting the filled sack on the ground near his feet “So is this because we watched the Grinch? Does that make me Cindy Lou Who?”

“I suppose it does, darling,” he laughed. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“Are you going to put everything thing back, Loki Claus?”

This time the chuckle came from Peter, who was watching the whole thing play out from his vantage point. You were too out of it to notice, though. Instead, you kept looking at Loki with those adorable doe eyes.

“I... Perhaps. Let us just get you back to your room right now, ok?”

You nodded, and he picked up your tired body, using his godly strength to carry you bridal style and lay you down amongst your many blankets and pillows. You gently tugged him down onto the mattress with you, and he remained there for a moment, not exactly sure of what was happening.

“Do you need to talk?” you questioned, cupping his cheeks and seeming a bit more awake than you a had a second ago. “I know things are hard, but we all do really care for you. I really care for you. And I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know. I will be alright, darling. Just get a good night’s sleep for me, hmm?”

“Ok,” you sighed as he got up. “Night, Loki.”

“Goodnight, darling,” he whispered as he leaned over to give your head a small kiss.

He walked back out to his partner in crime, who was anxiously awaiting him. Loki let out a huff. He knew what the right thing to do now was.

“So?” Peter asked.

“Let’s put it all back,” Loki conceded.

And so they did. It took most of the night, but they got every last knickknack and ornament into place. Then Loki did something he never imagined he would; he added even more. His magic made the garlands a little bit fuller, the lights a little bit brighter, and the trees a little bit taller. More little statues and winter scenes appeared on nearly every surface possible. Finally, he nearly doubled the number of gifts under the tree, adding his own to the mix. He gave a satisfied little nod when he was done, then looked at Peter who was beaming at him.

“What is it?” Loki inquired, though he knew the answer deep down.

“Oh, nothing. This was fun, though. We should do this every year,” Peter yawned as they worked their way to their rooms to catch a couple hours of sleep.

“Maybe we will, spiderling. Maybe we will.”

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

Loki woke up the next morning slightly more cheerful than he had in months. Ironic, considering today was actually Christmas, the culmination of the season he hated so much. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed and stretching out, Loki realized maybe he really was like the Grinch, and the only reason he disliked it so much was because he was so alone. And, like the Grinch, maybe he wasn’t appreciating those he did have enough. Maybe it was time to come out of his mountain cave and live amongst the people in town.

He eyed his Santa hat from last night, hanging from a bedpost. He picked it up and put it on his head, laughing a little in the mirror. He tugged on a deep green cable-knit sweater before he remembered the rest of the team’s plan to wear ugly sweaters today. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him exactly, but he conjured one up for himself. It was a little ridiculous, but he supposed that was the whole point.

Heading out into the hall, he realized everything was dead silent. Loki wondered for a second if maybe you all had decided to go out for breakfast this morning. He sighed, but he couldn’t really hold it against any of you if you hadn’t invited him. He never said yes on a normal day, and he’d made it a point just how much he disliked Christmas. Regardless, he made his way to the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas!”

He nearly pulled out a dagger as everyone suddenly jumped out in front of him and shouted those words. Once his heart rate slowed back down to normal, he smiled despite himself. That’s when he noticed plates piled high with his favorite foods and realized you’d all must have gotten up early to do this for him.

“Merry Christmas, everyone. What is all this?”

“We just wanted to do something for you, Loki,” you explained. “Oh! And we got you a gift. Here.”

You handed him a small package wrapped in green and gold. It must have been convenient that his colors were also colors for the holiday. He laughed a little to himself, wondering how he hadn’t noticed before. He tore into the wrapping paper to find a small planner. You nodded at him, urging him on as he gave you a quizzical look. It had a bunch of events written in it, as well as which members of the team were attending.

“See, we know you don’t always come to our team events,” Bucky told him, “but we know you might want to start.”

“We have not always been the most... accepting,” Thor added. “Now, though, we want you to be able to come to any and everything you want to.”

“So we wrote it all down for you,” Peter finished. “This way, you know when things are and can just join whenever you feel like it.”

“Do you like it?” you nervously asked, biting your lip.

“Darling, it’s perfect,” he sincerely told you, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes. “Thank you. All of you.”

He was met with a chorus of “you’re welcomes” and “anytimes” as the room was filled with even more smiles. Soon, everyone dug into the feast that had been prepared, and the rest of the day was filled with merriment and laughter. Loki was surprised to see there were even more gifts for him resting under the tree. By the time it was dark out, the team was settling in to watch a few final Christmas movies for the season. Loki didn’t think he’d be taking any ideas from them tonight.

“Darling,” he said as the two of you were alone, grabbing movie snacks in the kitchen. “May I ask you why you all did what you did for me?”

“It’s like we said, Loki. We all do care about you, and we want you to be able to do stuff with us. They know you’re not a bad guy, you’ve more than proven that. For a long time they just weren’t exactly sure how to bridge the gap. But you’re a part of the team, and we want you to feel like it.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“It’s no problem, Loki. Plus, you really did go all out with these extra decorations.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he blushed.

“Oh?” you said, walking up to him so that you bodies were nearly pressed together. “You don’t now, huh Loki Claus?”

Of course you hadn’t bought his lie last night. He laughed a little to himself now for thinking you had. But Loki realized something else, too. What you’d done last night, what you’d said, you’d fully known what you were doing. The way you’d pulled him onto the bed and held his face, told him how you cared. You knew it was real.

“Darling,” he said. “I think I do need to talk, after all.”

“I’m listening. What is it?”

“I love you.”

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he reciprocated immediately, smiling against your lips. Now he was wondering if he was dreaming. But no, just like last night, this was real.

“In case it wasn’t obvious,” you said, catching your breath, “I love you too.”

Hand in hand, you went to join the rest of the team. So maybe Loki’s heart didn’t literally grow three sizes that day, but there was one more comparison to be drawn. Because, you see, in finding his place, Loki realized that Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.

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essays-for-breakfast · 3 years

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One Candle Still Flickers

Melizabethweek Day 2: Heaven and Hell

Please note that this piece contains mentions of blood and violence. If this makes you uncomfortable, turn away now.

Scorching heat. Blistering cold. Air that burns the lungs and tears at the sensitive tissue in the throat until even screams of agonizing pain become an impossible feat. And oh, does he scream.

Compared to even the foulest depths of Meliodas’ wretched hellscape of a home, the Demon Realm, Purgatory offers a charming hospitality no one can withstand for long. He tries, of course. Tells himself that he overcame worse pain, that the frostbites on his arms and the iron taste of blood in his mouth don’t compare to all 106 times he watched Elizabeth die, and that the shredded skin on his fingertips is an illusion summoned by his father.

After all, only Meliodas’ emotions roam the desolate canyons.

The weakest part of himself trapped in the cruelest part of the world.

Somewhere in the smoke-heavy clouds, obscured by the constant ash rain from volcanic activity, the Demon King laughs. Meliodas spits out a lump of blood and sends the towering frame of his father a humorless grin. At least one of them is having fun.

The next step costs him more energy than he has to give, and Meliodas falls to his knees. More ash under his fingernails, another lungful of distillated fume eager to kill him. The searing pain while his illusory organs devolve to embers for the thousandths time almost entices a begrudging respect for his father out of him. He has defied the scorching heat and the blistering cold since the end of the Holy War, and he still has the liveliness to laugh at Meliodas’ failed attempts to escape.

For how long have they played this game now? How many years, decades, and eons have passed since the curse pulled Meliodas into Purgatory?

He doesn’t know. The creator of this ugly fusion between a glacier and a volcano hasn’t bothered to install a clock.

Ash flakes tumble from above and leave black scars on the back of Meliodas’ hand. The forefinger twitches in a desperate struggle to hold onto life, hope, anything that will help him stand again.

“Elizabeth…” he whispers.

“Will you die with the witch’s name on your lips too?” The Demon King’s voice thunders in Meliodas’ head, and a fiery eruption from the nearest volcano punctuates his words.

Meliodas pushes himself on his forearms. “You made sure I can’t die, remember? You’re getting rusty, old man.”

“Your insolent tongue is just as worthless as the entirety of your emotions. They only hinder you from becoming my successor.”

“I’ll gladly take my insolent tongue over a world where I become like you.”

The Demon King points a finger the size of a grown man at Meliodas. “There is no stopping it now. As we speak, my loyal subjects are gathering the Ten Commandments, and your body will soon fuse with their magic. Then neither the Seven Deadly Sins nor your dear goddess will be able to stand against the reborn Demon King.”

“Then I guess I just have to find the exit before that happens.”

The Demon King’s laugh rings for a long time between the twisted rock formations. Meliodas climbs to his knees, but his shell of a body refuses to support the weight of his worries. More ash under his fingernails, another lungful of distillated fume eager to kill him. Another century gone by without a glint of success, without a glimmer of hope.

Purgatory may never kill him. But to survive in this world is to endure endless suffering where despair gnaws at him with every step until he loses himself in shapeless shadows, destined to wander the lava riversides and blizzard-coated mountain peaks for the rest of time.

Meliodas takes another step.

For her. Elizabeth.

He has to return to Britannia before the Demon King can reach his horrid claw around her. Before the curse claims her life anew.

Her face, in the variant as princess of Liones and all the incarnations before her, keeps Meliodas upright and pushes him to scale another cliffside, even as his field of vision shrinks and the shadows at the edge take over.

Golden Warmth. A liberating breeze. Puffy fine-weather clouds as far as the eye can see, an entire ocean of them. And in between these white waves float islands with alabaster towers and grass so eternally green it can only exist in a place far beyond all destructive influences. An endless summer sun caresses his neck.

Meliodas digs his fingers into the ground where he fell, although he hardly feels the sharp pebbles anymore.

Why do the memories of the Celestial Realm return to him now? Elizabeth, the very first incarnation he fell in love with, took him to her home once. They played a dangerous game of hide and seek with the countless Goddess warriors there. If even one of them had seen through Meliodas pathetic disguise, at least one of the parties involved would have lost their head. Despite the threat of discovery, Elizabeth dragged him to all her favorite places with a cheer she rarely allowed herself to show. A vast field of golden wheat hems. The top of an abandoned tower, half destroyed and seized by ivy tendrils.

Amidst the bloodshed of the Holy War and despite the feud that divides their clans, Elizabeth offered Meliodas a hand. With nothing but a smile and her belief in the good in others, she pulled him out of hell. Shoulder to shoulder with her, he saw heaven for the first time.

“Elizabeth,” Meliodas says. He hardly recognizes his voice. “I let you down again. If it’s always ending like this, why’d you take my hand that day? Why didn’t you give up on me?”

The warmth of her presence is so very far away. Where she used to stroke his arms, only freezing numbness remains. Where she used to kiss him, his lips only taste the burning aridity of Purgatory.

But even if she is so very far away, an incarnation of Elizabeth is still out there, alive. Maybe she is standing amidst the chaos of magical and hellfire explosions and leads the war against the cruel fangs of darkness as she always did. Maybe she is gazing into a star-sprinkled sky and waits for his return. Maybe she still believes he will fulfill his promise and free her of her curse.

A blood-red vail has overtaken Meliodas’ vision. When he struggles out of the dust to his feet, he has lost his humanoid shape. A shadow stands in his place, a perversion of the dragon creature with which he shares the name of his sin. Wrath.

Somewhere hidden in the smoke screens, the Demon King triumphs. At last, his son’s emotions have given into hopelessness.

But in a place deep in the insides of the shadow dragon, Meliodas keeps a flame alight. Elizabeth’s face kindles the spark, her gentle hands shield the candle against the hurricanes and hailstorms, and her voice, filled with tireless encouragement, nurtures the beacon.

She fought for him during the Holy War. They fought for each other against the overwhelming might of gods. Even if she is so very far away, Meliodas will fight for her.

As the shadow to her light.

Scorching heat. Blistering cold. Claws that dig into the most treacherous slopes carry him forward, step by step. He tears through Purgatory’s pitiful inhabitants and shreds any creature that hinders his search for the exit. For a moment, he may lose himself and taste this senseless wrath the Demon King wants him to dissolve into. But the flame inside endures.

Years, decades, and eons go by, glaciers melt and magma chambers freeze, while Meliodas fights. For her. Elizabeth.

The dragon creature which serves as Meliodas’ shell roars and bares its teeth. His current opponent is of the nasty type. He doesn’t yield. Neither does Meliodas.

They slam each other into the rock formations, break each other’s bones, and throw themselves at the other as though this brawl is all they’ve ever known and all that ever mattered.

Meliodas should hate his opponent. After all he, aside from the Demon King, stands as the only one with the power to deter his escape. And yet… this gritty, pesky bastard he crushes and is getting crushed by has the air of familiarity to him. Meliodas knows his fighting style. Furthermore, he knows all too well the flame that convinces his opponent to strike blow after blow until they collapse into a heap of limps and shadows.

They both feel the exhaustion in each haggard breath. And yet they both won’t die.

Meliodas’ opponent mumbles something. His words have never quite reached through the shadows clogging Meliodas’ senses, but they gain a new clarity now that the frenzy of battle flees him.

“…holding out for you in the land of the living,” a familiar voice says. “And I… want to see the woman who means the world to me.”

Yeah. I do too.

#melizabethweek #melizabeth #nnt fanfiction #nnt #meliodas #purgatory arc #seven deadly sins #nanatsu no taizai #my writing #I hope you didn't think I gave up on drama just cause my last entry was so harmless #hahaha never

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treksickfic · 3 years

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The City on the Edge of Forever

I’m so excited to share this with you, anonymous requester! After you sent in your prompt, I had another anonymous reader get in touch with me to let me know they’d already written a story that matched your wishes exactly.

The author of this story is French, not a native English speaker, and they’ve written a beautifully touching story that expands on the TOS episode, City on the Edge of Forever. I am posting it here on my blog, with their permission, because they do not wish to have an account nor have their identity attached to the story. This writer has already become dear to me and I’m honored that they trusted me with their writing. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s a long story, nearly 3,000 words, so RIP to your dash if you’re on mobile. I didn’t want to post it on AO3 or anywhere else except my blog, which feels safer.

Trigger warning for panic attack and trigger warning for some mild emeto, if you’re sensitive to that. It’s not very graphic.

“James Kirk, I demand an explanation!”

Scotty, Uhura, the teleportation technicians, and the security guards were completely dumbfounded by the doctor's explosion. They watched the captain stagger off, livid, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He disappeared without a word, with long stiff steps, from the room.

“Jim!” yelled McCoy.

“Not now, doctor.” Spock's cold, dry voice stopped him.

Spock squeezed McCoy’s arm firmly and Scott was sure to read in his black eyes a burst of fury. McCoy noticed it too, because despite the storm of his own eyes, he remained silent.

“Everyone, at your posts,” declared the Vulcan. “Scott, you are in charge for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Scotty nodded, refraining from asking any questions.

As soon as they had come through the Time Gate, seconds after they left, it seemed, but many weeks later for them, he had seen that they were not fine at all. The captain was pale, deaf to their questions, obviously struggling with the tears that filled his eyes. The doctor was just as white, his face contracted with a terrible anger. As for Spock, he kept his eyes fixed on Jim, his usual indifference altered by deep and obvious concern.

What the hell had happened?

This is precisely the question McCoy yelled at Spock, pulling himself brutally out of his grip as they entered his office, safe from prying ears:

“Damn it, Spock!”

“If you calm down, doctor, maybe I could explain.”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN? Shit, Spock! How do you want me to calm down?”

“Breathing. Deep, and slowly. Start by sitting down.”

“Don't fuck with me!”

“The Vulcans don't fuck with people. Now, please calm down.”

Jim killed someone without thought. There's no way I can calm down. Shit!”

Spock gritted his teeth and an aura of icy disappointment emanated from him:

“Jim killed someone without thought...do you get along, doctor? You've been aboard this ship for over a year. You even pretend to be the captain's friend. How can you accuse him of this without thinking for two seconds?”

“I saw it ! He prevented me from—"

“--and your poor little mind preferred to give in to this abject emotion rather than try to find a logical explanation. Jim, the most compassionate man we know…would he have acted like this for no reason?”

These words had the effect of a cold shower on McCoy. He shook his head, gradually coming to himself. He hadn't actually thought for a single moment, mired in a nauseating fury that he hadn't even tried to control. Shame replaced anger and he sagged in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

The past few weeks had been a total blur. He had woken up in a room with antique furniture, with an adorable woman at his bedside: Edith Keeler. It had taken him some time to realize that she was neither a hallucination nor a very good actress, but that he was indeed in a different era. Back in the 1930s. And he had barely had time to figure it out and come out of the bedroom to find answers before Jim and Spock, overjoyed, fell on him.

The next second Edith was dead. And it was Kirk's fault., He had kept him from coming to her aid. It had been too much emotion, too quickly and too soon. He had not managed to digest it, even less to understand anything other than what he had seen:

Jim had killed Edith.

But now that Spock had brought him back to reality, it all seemed absurd. And he noticed certain details: His friend's trembling when he held him; the tears in his green eyes when he leaned against the wall; Spock's unusually soft words when he had defended Jim, "he knows doctor, he knows."

How could he have seen nothing? Holding back a moan, he confronted Spock's stern face again:

“Explain it to me.”

“I'll do it quickly. In the timeline of our current story, Edith Keeler dies in 1930. In the one you walked through, paranoid after the cordrazine syringe accident, her ideals of peace and openness reach Roosevelt's ears and America becomes a peaceful country. That prevents its involvement in the second world war. Germany wins and dominates the world. Our time, therefore, does not exist.”

“Oh.”

“By the time you got there, after roughly locating your destination, we got to know Edith. A very charming woman, particularly intelligent.”

“And, Jim—"

“Was deeply in love with her. But for the good of a whole world and not solely himself, he let her die and prevented you from committing irreparable damage.”

“My god.”

McCoy put his head in his hands, overcome with excruciating guilt. Spock watched him, suppressing the harsh words that itched on his lips. The man had realized his mistake. It was useless to add more in the current state. He sighed for a long time, feeling unpleasantly empathetic towards Jim. He admired the way the man had managed to silence all of his instincts to save everyone:

“You should go see him, doctor. I think leaving him alone right now is not the best solution. Especially since he slept and ate very little while we were on earth, and even less after he realized that Edith had to die. He was ill several times during the night. He needs help.”

“Perhaps it is better ... Chapel—”

“No, Leonard,” Spock said, as kindly as he could. “He needs you.”

McCoy let out a deep sigh. He felt silly, and unforgivable. But for the sake of his friend, and indirectly, the sake of the crew, he knew Spock was right. Grabbing his medical equipment, he left in the direction of the captain's quarters.

*****

Jim rested his forehead against the cool edge of the toilet. The doctor's words were circling in his mind, adding further weight to his overwhelming grief. He felt sick, his stomach as tight as his chest. A discomfort that had become familiar over the past few days. The intense nausea that rolled and rolled, threatening at every moment to overflow was a most unpleasant physical manifestation of his stress.

Despite his efforts to conserve food that was already scarce in their daily life in 1930, there were times when he couldn't do anything about it. Nightmares woke him in an agonizing sweat, on the verge of ruining the atrocious coarse cover of their flop.

He managed each time to sneak into the bathroom before returning the meager pittance with spasms he tried to silence. He also appreciated the discretion of Spock, who had the delicacy of pretending to sleep when Jim returned to his bed several minutes later, breathless and exhausted. But now that he was alone, aboard the Enterprise, he had no reason to contain himself, and did not fight the gagging that came out violently, like revenge for being held back so long. His stomach, however empty, kept revolting, replacing his sobs with endless contractions.

He had barely activated the door to his quarters when they had started, and he had yielded to the spasms with some relief. As unpleasant as vomiting was, his whole body tense and sore as he curled up over the toilet, at least it kept him from thinking about it. Being sick kept his mind on constant alert, focusing his attention on the spasms, gasps, bile, burning and kept the fear away. Unbearable, interminable, but ... secondary.

He coughed cautiously, catching his breath, feeling even sicker from the pungent smell that hung around him…the smell as horrible as the way he felt. This place of suffering and abandonment suited him.

He leaned over awkwardly when the bile passed his throat for the umpteenth time and spilled out in a long convulsion. He grabbed his stomach and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the mess coloring the water again. The dizziness began to build, the light becoming unbearable as a migraine took hold of his temples, seeping through to his sinuses. He shivered, trying to reach for the chase to vent some of his weakness, when a hand rested on his forehead. Incredibly cool, it brought such comfort that he could not suppress a fragile sigh.

Tenderly the hand placed a damp cloth on the back of his neck and then finally came to cover his eyes. There was the terribly aggressive sound of the toilet flushing, then a voice whispering for the light to drop to 20%.

That voice ...

His comfort immediately ceased, replaced by anguish. He coughed sharply, spitting out more bile in an effort to shake off the impending grief. He could do nothing against the intense tremors that made him gasp, nor the panicked sob that burst through the vomiting.

“Shhh, Jim.” The voice was a broken whisper. “Shhh, everything is fine.”

Kirk wanted to yell at him to go away, to leave him, not to hurt him anymore. Irrationally afraid of the anger that had rained over him earlier at the prospect of having to face reality. Instead he could only moan, shaken by a horrible, nauseating cough.

Feeling Jim shake and panic under his fingers, McCoy was crushed by an intense wave of guilt. He had seen Jim gripped with grief, stress, drunkenness, anger... but never so completely. It was the first time he seemed ... broken ... and it was largely his fault.

The abnormal heat radiating from his skin indicated a high fever and explained his lack of self control. McCoy took a syringe out of his bag and spoke in a very soft voice so as not to hurt his friend's headaches.

“Jim, I'm going to inject you with a painkiller, it'll help you relax.”

He had no other answer than a small hiccup and a burst of bile.

Nervous vomiting, McCoy noticed. It was serious. He was going to have to play it safe to get the captain to calm down enough to free himself from his sadness and he hoped the hypo would act quickly. He thrust the syringe into his biceps and took advantage of the slight respite that followed to quickly run the medical tricorder over Jim’s upper body.

The latter told him what he already knew: extreme stress, high fever, deficiencies in iron and magnesium, low blood pressure...nothing to indicate a gastric bug apart from weakness due to deficiencies, which reinforced his theory of psychogenic nausea.

McCoy was relieved to find that the sedative had done its work: Jim was shaking less and seemed more lucid.

“Bones...what--?”

Bones. So he didn't blame him. This man's empathy would kill him eventually, the doctor thought. He put a protective arm around the Jim’s shoulders and another under his chest to support him. He could feel the angry stomach muscles that continued to struggle and tighten. He gave a sad little smile.

“We are going to talk about all this. But first, we are going to get out of this horrible room. You need to lie down.”

“Um, that's not safe,” Jim grimaced with a little hiccup.

“I'll take a bucket, but I want you to lie down. Doctor's orders.”

“If it's an o-order,” he stammered, in a slight attempt at humor.

Jim allowed himself to be helped without opening his eyes, too ill to protest, and too weak to fend for himself. Bones almost carried him to his bed.

Once lying down, McCoy carefully removed Jim’s boots and socks, pulled up a wonderfully warm blanket and put a cloth on his forehead. Then Jim heard the familiar whirr of the tricorder passing once more over his body and finally the sound of several mixes. Careful fingers rested on his right temple.

“Can you open your eyes?”

“Urgh, Bones, I'll throw up if I open them.”

“There is a bucket, don't hold back. I need you to look at me.”

Jim groaned but obeyed. The light, even though very dim, made him moan in pain. It penetrated his head like a blade and triggered, as announced, a violent nausea.

McCoy held him very gently as he threw up a thin trickle of bilious saliva. He fell completely exhausted on the pillow once the attack was over. The doctor muttered something unintelligible and wiped his face.

“I should send you to the infirmary, Jim. You have serious deficiencies and that added to the stress...this is a perfect combination for a migraine in due form. I'll put you on an IV to regulate your sugar levels and give you a strong pain reliever. It should help you feel better.”

Once everything was in place, a tactical, hesitant silence settled between them. Jim could feel his presence, sitting on the edge of the bed rather than a chair, and the warm, warm hand pressed to his shoulder. The exhaustion and sadness rose in power now that the disease could no longer build its walls around his mind. He saw Edith again. Edith and her sweetness, her love, her joy, her magnificent ideas.

"She's fair ... but not at the right time," Spock had said, trying to make her listen to reason when he...he told her that she had to...die. He had desperately looked for another way but...but—

He clenched his teeth, overtaken by the intensity of the pain. By the gesture. He had even been unable to look at her body. He had not turned around, refusing to see what he had just done, struck head-on by the horror and disgust emanating from the doctor.

He swallowed, feeling the tremors start again, the despair skyrocketing. McCoy, hearing the gasps in his friend's tight breath, tightened his grip on his shoulder.

“I ... I loved her...Bones—"

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and he sniffled, trying to pull himself together:

“Jim,” McCoy whispered, his own emotions rising. “I ... I don't even know how to apologize.”

“You have nothing to excuse. You are right. I ... killed her.”

“No. You saved our world. You did what you had to.”

“Oh, you spoke to Spock,” Jim whispered with a bitter smile.

“Yes.”

Despite the darkness, McCoy could see the paleness growing and the captain's face tightening with the effort to hold back the sobs. He searched for a moment for words he could say to alleviate the pain. Not finding them, he shook his head.

Jim tried to speak, with difficulty. “I shouldn't—”

“You have the right to be sad. You just lost the one you love in an act of unimaginable courage. Jim, I'm an overly impulsive old fool, I can't even imagine what you've been through and I sincerely ask forgiveness for this unjustified anger.”

“Please, Bones—"

“No, let me finish. Thank you for your understanding, but you don't have to. I acted like an idiot.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“That's no excuse. I know you and should have taken a step back.”

“What is done is done.”

“Jim, what I'm trying to say is that you must not let my emotionally spoken words get to you. You didn't deserve it.”

“I...I searched and searched...and searched again. I couldn't get away from her even when I knew that—”

“You were in love.”

“No, Bones. I'm in love. A selfish person who regrets choices that he shouldn't regret.”

“You are human, and you are suffering. Let it go.”

Another tear rolled down, then another, and finally it was a torrent that poured into the pillow. The captain put a hand over his mouth to silence the gasps of despair and the overwhelming agony of loss. Bones gripped his shoulder, patting it in a comforting gesture. He watched Jim sob like a child, breathing laboriously through exhaustion and mourning. Then he gradually calmed down until he fell into a deep sleep.

The doctor sighed and wiped away his own tears that had started at the same time as his friend's, and that he had not tried to stop. He readjusted the IVs and scanned Jim’s body for the third time. His fever was still high from a mild viral infection after several weeks in the cold and fatigue undernourishment. Jim would be off for a few days and stay in bed.

When he left the room, the doctor was not surprised to find Spock standing and waiting with arched eyebrows.

“How is he?”

“Exhausted and cold, but fine.”

“Has he been able to express his sorrow?”

“I guess, yes.” McCoy smiled, thinking of his friend's relaxed face as he left the room.

“And were you able to express yours?”

The doctor jumped slightly, not at all prepared for this question, much less for Spock to say it. He was sometimes pleasantly surprised by the well-hidden sensitivity of his Vulcan friend. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it.

“You are about to cry.”

“Damned be your insight, Mister Spock,” the doctor growled, a little annoyed.

“Humans all must cry at one time or another to get better, doctor. I do not understand why you put a manly bulwark in front of this natural mechanism.”

Bones laughed. “Wouldn't you find it embarrassing for me to break down in tears right now in your arms?”

He expected Spock to answer him, "Vulcans don't know the gene, doctor." Instead he replied, in his usual relaxed and serene tone, “If that makes you feel better, no.”

Such compassion was so strange that it almost seemed out of place. Leonard burst out into a frank laugh that turned without realizing it into a flood of tears. Tears of his own sadness this time, not empathy or guilt. Sadness he didn't think he had. Maybe he was also a little in love with Edith after all. And that the Vulcan understood it well before him.

Spock, moreover, did not pretend to leave, contenting himself to stay by his side until McCoy’s tears turned back into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” the first officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Mister Spock, because I’m thinking of the absurd spectacle we would have made if someone had been there. The ship's doctor weeping like a baby in front of a motionless Vulcan and their captain's closed door.”

Spock coughed and McCoy would swear to anyone who wanted to hear it that he was blushing.

“Well, you're not a hopeless case,” he said with a smirk, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Spock.”

Then he turned on his heel towards the infirmary without hearing the relieved sigh of his alien friend.

#star trek sickfic #sickfic #TOS sickfic #sick kirk #panicked kirk #emotional hurt/comfort #physical hurt/comfort #emeto #tw emeto #tw panic attack

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