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#hurt / comfort
ssahopelessly · 2 days
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Stay Alive
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Synopsis: Reader asks Spencer not to die.
Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of gunshot wound (GSW), reader fearing for Spencer’s life // let me know of any I missed
Word Count: 1.1k
Masterist
Once in a blue moon- or every few months, whichever is the rarer time frame- a case would send someone in the BAU to the hospital. Most of the time it was minor gunshot wounds, or exposure to a dangerous chemical, or even loss of consciousness, but someone was always being sent to the hospital, always. It was the one guarantee with the job.
-
Stumbling into the living area where Spencer had been, legs stretched in front of him onto the ottoman as he read through another book, I made my way to his side, arms immediately slipping over his waist as I laid next to him, nuzzling closer. “Hey.” He greeted me, gently pressing a kiss to my hair while not losing his spot on the page, the hand not holding the book running a soft singular line down my back. “I’m almost done, promise.”
It wouldn’t have mattered, my anxiety too focused on the fact he was here, that I had been lucky. That that was what I had to resort to calling it: luck. That his latest hospital trip was a month ago now, all for a GSW to his upper arm. I tried to force it from memory, but it was only a month ago, I could almost remember all of it:
How Penelope had texted me, saying the team was heading back home. How his ETA was late by two hours that night. How I texted her, asking what the hold up was. How no one answered the phone until I called Aaron for the third time, who informed me on their way back an old unsub had caught up to them, holding the exhausted team at gunpoint. How Spencer had tried to assist in talking them down, and that somehow resulted in a poorly aimed bullet just scraping his arm through the sweater I had gotten him for Christmas.
How Aaron then told me they were taking him to the local ER to get stitched up and that he would be home shortly. How I raced to the hospital, trying to convince myself I was lucky this was the outcome, how I would be lucky if picking my boyfriend up from the hospital was always meant to be something of luck.
“Hey, what’s going on?” He was brushing some of my hair behind my ear, gently stroking his thumb along my cheekbone to regain my attention.
“You can’t die on me.” It barely came out in a broken voice whispered, but he heard it. He didn’t seem to understand the heavy tone I had suddenly taken on though, light laughter beginning to form at the back of his throat.
“I can’t control that. You know-“
“I mean it Spencer.” The words were catching in my throat now, getting caught just before they could form on my tongue. “You can’t- you can’t die on me.” The serious tone I maintained finally clicked in his head, hand once occupied by a book now finding mine at his side, entwining our fingers as the tension pulled at his eyebrow.
“I- I wouldn’t leave you.” I thought of the countless others who asked for the safe return of their loved ones everyday. How by being with Spencer for this long, I had somehow agreed to cohabitate with this lingering fear and dread in the back of my mind, pressing into my thoughts at the worst times. How by asking him not to die on me, he had turned it into him leaving me. “Where is this coming from?”
“I just- I tried to imagine my life without you and- I couldn't see it.” This wasn’t a lie. The few times when he hadn’t come home by his ETA or hadn’t been able to reach out due to the case, the panic would set in. And every time I tried to think of my life without him, it was only ever a vision of me just staring at the ground.
“Listen to me.” He brought our hands closer to his lips, kissing the back of my hand as he thought over his words. “I… cannot control the people we go after, and I can’t control the inherent increased risk of danger I face in the field. But I promise you. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to always come home to you.”
“You can’t make that promise Spencer.”
“I am making that promise. I’ll always come back to you.” He raised a lithe finger to wipe away a tear I hadn’t realised even fell, and I let my hand grasp tightly onto the shirt he had been wearing. Another kiss was pressed to my hairline as he mumbled out an “I love you,” there, squeezing my body closer to him.
I tried not to think of the impossible promise he made, fearful of the day he may just have to break that promise. I could feel how the lingering thoughts and dread weighed me down, still snuggled tightly to his side as he rubbed a hand up and down my back.
“Let’s go to bed.” His book was gently closed and placed on the end table as he untangled my body from him, standing to then hold his hands out for me. Even standing by him, I gravitated back to his side, slipping our fingers together, as we walked towards our bedroom, the dark DC night having settled around the apartment outside.
We went about our nighttime routines, a coordinated dance around the other as we went between the room, bathroom, and eventually to bed. As I climbed into the covers though, Spencer motioned for me to cuddle against him, our bodies tangling together like they often did.
Resting on his chest, his fingers started combing through my hair, my ear listening closely to his heart beat. Between the steady beat and the feeling of his fingers still in my hair, I felt my eyelids grow heavy, finding his breathing had slowed a bit too. “I love you.” I made sure to get out, squeezing his body tight just one more time before I intentionally closed my eyes.
“I love you too.” He gave me one more squeeze, and one more kiss before we both drifted off to sleep.
I could’ve wasted energy and time, continuing to worry about things out of my control, wallowing in how my love for him had grown the fear of ever losing him, but I chose to appreciate this moment for what it was: Spencer Reid was home, safe in my arms.
-
Tell me what you think here!
-
Originally written, December 2023
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Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts
Part IV
"It's going to be okay. I promise you."
"Let me feel your temperature."
"Can you just look at me? Please?"
"You can trust me. I hope you know that."
"Is there something I can do to make it easier?"
"Please talk to me. I need to hear you."
"We'll be fine. I know it."
"Let me wipe those tears away."
"You're doing amazing, I'm so proud of you."
"It would make me feel better to know that you're alright."
"Can't you see that you are being loved?"
"Do you want me to hold you?"
"You're comfort is more important to me."
"Thank you for sticking by my side."
"I never want to be a reason for you to hurt."
Hurt/Comfort Masterpost
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whumpster-dumpster · 5 months
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100 Ways to say "I Care"
See the original 100 Ways to say "I Love You" list here: [x] I was inspired to make one of my own for caretaking themes 💕
"I'm here."
"Stay still."
"Trust me."
"You're safe."
"I've got you."
"I don't mind."
"I'm not mad."
"Lean on me."
"I understand."
"It's no bother."
"I'll clean it up."
"Take my coat."
"Need a hand?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'll handle this."
"Happy to help."
"Get some rest."
"Can I hug you?"
"I'll get the light."
"I can't lose you."
"Shh, don't cry..."
"My door's open."
"Take small sips."
"Stay behind me."
"I'll walk with you."
"Feel better soon."
"You're not alone."
"How'd you sleep?"
"I just want to help."
"I've got your back."
"Please be careful."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I'm a good listener."
"Let me help you up."
"When I say run, run."
"I'm glad you're okay."
"You're not a burden."
"I made your favorite."
"I'll see what I can do."
"How are you feeling?"
"We'll get through this."
"That's it, just let it out."
"I'm worried about you."
"I'll start a bath for you."
"I'm coming right back."
"I can stay up with you."
"I wish you had told me."
"It's okay to not be okay."
"Your health comes first."
"You need a ride home?"
"Sit tight, I'm on my way."
"I'm not here to hurt you."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Just looking out for you."
"I'm sorry, I know it hurts."
"Let me worry about that."
"Stay as long as you want."
"I'll take care of everything."
"It's fine, I'll take the couch."
"I came as soon as I heard."
"You really gave us a scare."
"I'm not leaving you behind."
"I'm never too busy for you."
"I'll stay until you fall asleep."
"You don't have to apologize."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"It's okay, it was just a dream."
"You ready to eat something?"
"Don't strain yourself, I'll get it."
"I've missed seeing you smile."
"Do you need another blanket?"
"You didn't deserve any of this."
"Follow my breathing. In...out..."
"Don't scare me like that again."
"I'll wake you in a couple hours."
"It's really me. I'm here, I'm real."
"I won't let them near you again."
"You first, I'll be right behind you."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
"You can hold my hand if it helps."
"I've got your next round of meds."
"Let me put on some fresh sheets."
"It's good to see you up and about."
"I'm with you every step of the way."
"I'll be outside if you need anything."
"Hey, you're supposed to be resting."
"You're the strongest person I know."
"Is there anyone you want me to call?"
"If you're not up for this, let me know."
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"I just hate to see you hurting like this."
"Tell me what you need most right now."
"I called off work. You've got me all day."
"You've got my emergency contact info."
"I know you. You don't seem like yourself."
"I have a change of clothes ready for you."
"I'm so proud of you, and how far you've come."
"Call me if you need me. I don't care how late it is."
"They want to get to you, they'll have to go through me."
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dreamcubed · 6 months
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lover | mattheo riddle x reader
song; lover [taylor swift] pairing; duke!mattheo riddle x fem!baronet's daughter!reader genre; marriage of convenience, s2l, fluff, angst, hurt comfort word count; 9,1k timeline; bridgerton au (again lol) warnings; abusive parents (verbal, neglect, psychological), implied anxiety, panic attacks, near death experience (illness) summary; born into a loveless family, you had been denied the opportunity to marry for many years. that was, until, a duke noticed your situation and gave your parents an offer that they simply couldn't refuse - but would it be a love match?
suggested by @fictionisjustbetter ! (sorry this took so long)
icl mattheo is just so perfect for period aus
masterlist
"all's well that ends well to end up with you."
———————————————
Sir Vincent Malton was a baronet and nothing more. Of course, while being a low title, it was still a part of the aristocracy, which was much better than the alternative. He took his role very seriously, as his father before him had, and his father before him.
So, when the first Lady Malton of his passed during childbirth having sired not an heir, but a daughter, he had arranged for a new wife to marry ready for his first day of it being considered acceptable to be out of mourning. The second Lady Malton of his was more successful in the heir department: during her first pregnancy, she sired twins, both a boy and a girl. And then after two more girls (of separate pregnancies), she had another boy. Sir Vincent Malton then finally felt safe in the security of his baronetcy lineage.
But he never spoke to any of his six children. He left them up to the second Lady Malton, including his firstborn, who was not her blood. Where other ladies would have accepted their stepchildren as their own, Lady Daria Malton did not. As far she was concerned, Y/N was not her child and thus not her problem. But Sir Vincent was a traditional man who saw the children as the mother's business, so she kept up appearances to continue her life of comfort.
Sir Vincent didn't even bother with the marriage mart, instructing his wife to simply inform him when a suitor (with a title) proposed to any one of his daughters. And Lady Malton had - with her own eldest daughter, Samantha, when a baron asked for her hand. He was twice her age, but Lady Malton (like her husband) cared about title more than anything. Samantha was quickly married off to her new life as a baroness.
One thing Sir Vincent didn't know was that Lady Malton had never officially debuted Y/N. She brought her along to more casual soirées that other non-debutantes attended to keep up appearances, but as far as the one-and-twenty-year-old's actual debut - well, it was significantly overdue. The thing was, Y/N had received callers after such events before, but callers were received by the baronetess and not the baronet, and she quickly sent them away. Thus, the actual stage of proposal was never reached, so Lady Malton was by all technicalities following her husband's instruction.
Y/N knew that it was unfair, that her stepmother's abuse was unjust. She didn't see why she couldn't just allow someone to propose and get her out of the home: Lady Malton clearly didn't like her, so why not be rid of her?
But, she supposed, someone like Lady Malton must quite enjoy having a scapegoat around to target their frustrations at.
***
"Last year was a tremendous success by all means," Lady Malton spoke as her lady's maid attended to her corset, "To have Samantha married off in her first year as a debutante was a splendid result."
Y/N subtly rolled her eyes: Samantha was eighteen and her husband almost forty, it really shouldn't have been a permitted pairing. But, her husband was a baron, and title was all Lord & Lady Malton cared for. They couldn't choose to be fussy as the lowest titleholders of the aristocracy.
"Thus, Y/N, I do not wish you to cause any interference," she explained further, glaring at you through her reflection in the mirror, "I am bringing you along to Lady Bridgerton's birthday soirée out of necessity, as she always includes young ladies of whom have not made their debut."
You knew that: you had attended Lady Bridgerton's birthday event the year prior for the same reason.
"Rumour has it the Duke of Covenshire has returned from his travels to the Americas and will be attending tonight," she proceeded, "And it would simply be marvellous if Grace could secure him as a match in her first year as a debutante."
You glanced over at Grace, sat at the dresser as her lady's maid applied her makeup. She was putting on a remarkably brave face, but you could tell that she was nervous: she was too young to debut. After Samantha's success, Lady Malton had felt confident enough to debut Grace at only seven-and-ten. It wasn't entirely uncommon, but typically Mamas waited until their daughters were at least one year older.
Meanwhile you were one-and-twenty and still yet to have your debut. At this rate you would be a spinster before you had even entered the marriage mart.
You looked to your other side at Tia, your youngest sister at fourteen, who was more than thrilled to be allowed to attend that night. You never saw your brothers, really: Vincent (creatively named after your father) was away at Cambridge, and Henry, the youngest of the lot, was away at Eton.
"Right, is the carriage ready?" Lady Malton snapped at one of the servants, who quickly nodded.
And then with a curt bob of her head, the baronetess proceeded over to the door - a silent instruction for her daughters to follow - and they all headed to the front of Malton House, the London lodgings of the family.
***
"Lady Bridgerton! How good to see you," Lady Malton beamed at the dowager viscountess, "Such a lovely soirée."
"Why thank you, Lady Malton," the kind woman replied, "Pleased to see all your daughters could make it."
"Oh, is Samantha here already?"
"I believe Lady Halterton is over there," Lady Bridgerton vaguely pointed in a direction, "But how are all the Miss Maltons?"
"Grace is excited to make a match this year," the poor girl was pushed forward, "With any luck, she shall follow in her sister's footsteps."
"And what of the oldest Miss Malton?"
You looked up and gave Lady Bridgerton a hesitant smile.
"You know how Y/N is - still doesn't want to debut," Lady Malton sighed, "At this rate she shall be a spinster before even trying for marriage. But, we love her and support her decisions."
You scoffed internally, wanting nothing more than to blaspheme at your stepmother in that moment.
The conversation with Lady Bridgerton wrapped up and the focus then became the considering of various potential suitors. It was the first social event that you had the privilege of attending since the year prior, so you fully planned to savour the moments you were free from the house.
And then the room hushed into whispers as the door opened, it being remarkably noticeable how all the ambitious eyes of the Mamas zoned in on one particular man gracing the room with his presence.
"That's him- that's the duke!" Lady Malton whispered, mainly to Grace, but anyone close by could have heard her.
"Gosh, he's handsome," Tia mumbled to your left, "Shame I'm too young."
You kept your eyes glued on to the pale man with curly brown hair gelled somewhat neatly. His eyes were narrowed like that of a cat's, and his very presence commanded authority - yet he was polite to every hopeful Mama who approached him. Dismissive, but polite.
"Ah, Lady Bridgerton," he spoke, near enough to you for you to hear his gruff monotone voice as he bent over to kiss the dowager viscountess's hand, "Thank you for the invitation, and happy birthday."
"It is an honour you attended, your grace."
The man nodded, chatting to her for a few moments longer as the noise and bustle returned to the room, so you couldn't hear the rest of it.
"Now is our chance," your stepmother said as the duke's conversation wrapped up. She quickly sped towards him. "Your grace!"
The duke paused, and half-turned so he was fully facing your brood.
"Lady Malton, Baronetess of Catury," she curtsied, "And this is my daughter, Grace," she gestured towards the girl.
When his eyes flicked to Tia, she hurried to introduce her, but when his eyes flicked to you, she remained silent.
"And you are?" he inquired.
Your eyes widened: you were rarely spoken to, "Y/N- Miss Y/N Malton," you corrected.
"Don't pay her any mind, your grace," your stepmother quickly said, pinching you in the side as subtly as she could which made you flinch - as it always did. You didn't notice the way the duke's beady eyes followed the interaction. "She isn't a debutante."
"She looks old enough to be." He was clearly referencing the fact you obviously had a few years on Grace.
"It is her own choice."
You couldn't help the scowl that itched at your eyebrows, and the duke couldn't help but notice it.
"Would you care for a dance with Grace?"
The duke's eyes flicked over your sister again, "I have no intentions of dancing this evening- if you excuse me."
And with that, he departed, just to be ambushed by yet another Mama.
Your stepmother turned and glared at you, "You ruined Grace's chances."
"I didn't do anything," you said simply.
"You spoke. You know you're not supposed to."
"He asked me a question."
"I respond to the questions about you."
"Mama," Grace interrupted, shooting you a sympathetic look, "Is that the Earl of Kilmartin over there?"
Lady Malton's head snapped in that direction, "So it is! He has returned from India."
You couldn't be more grateful to Grace for the distraction.
***
"Saunders," the duke, Mattheo, called from his work study in Riddle Manor, his London residence. It was merely a couple hours after he had returned from Lady Bridgerton's soirée.
The secretary hurried into the office, "Yes, your grace?"
"What do you know of the Malton family?"
Saunders paused, "Sir Vincent Malton?"
Mattheo nodded.
"He is married to Dame Daria Malton and has six children. He attended Eton and Cambridge, studying history."
"And of his children?"
"Two sons and four daughters, I believe."
"And what of Miss Y/N Malton?"
The secretary immediately recognised the name, "She is the oldest, your grace. She is one-and-twenty and well-known for not having debuted yet."
Mattheo frowned, leaning back in his chair, "Is there a way in which she is different from her siblings?"
"I-" the secretary thought for a moment, "I believe she has a different mother than her younger siblings, if that's what you mean."
"Lady Malton is not her mother?"
"Well, yes and no. The current Lady Malton is not her mother, but the Lady Malton before her was. She passed in childbirth, I believe."
Mattheo hummed, "I see."
"Is that all, your grace?"
"Prepare the carriage to journey to Malton House tomorrow morning, Saunders, and locate my mother's engagement ring."
Saunders' eyes widened, but he quickly nodded, "Of course, your grace."
Nothing made Mattheo angrier than cruel parents.
***
Lady Malton and Grace were up bright and early the next day, as all debutantes and their Mamas were after a social event. They were to dress in some of their nicer but not so fancy attire ready to sit in the upstairs drawing room in await for any callers they may receive in the downstairs drawing room. You, however, stayed tucked nicely into bed until a more reasonable hour, since your stepmother certainly wouldn't want to catch sight of you until lunchtime - if then.
Still, you rose from your slumber at around eleven o'clock and called for your lady's maid, getting dressed in a simple baby blue piece that you had purchased a few years ago. You rarely got new dresses under Lady Malton's reign.
"I'll take my breakfast in here, please, Melinda," you smiled.
***
The Duke of Covenshire had been up at an exceptionally early hour, having taken a ride on his favourite stallion at sunrise, to then return to his city house and retreat to his office for a few hours accompanied by some breakfast.
He was still there at eleven o'clock.
"Your grace," Saunders began after having knocked on the door, "The carriage is ready for you."
"And the ring?" the duke inquired.
"Here," the secretary presented it, "It was still safely in the dowager duchess's bed chamber."
Mattheo had seen no point in keeping it anywhere else since that room had remained unoccupied for quite some time now.
"Excellent," he murmured, "Now, let us make haste."
***
It wasn't a long journey to Malton House, so really it was no time at all by the time that the Covenshire carriage pulled up to the smaller but still grand home. There were two or three other carriages parked outside, likely belonging to other potential suitors.
Mattheo wasn't worried: he was a duke, after all, and the Maltons were merely baronets. They would jump at the opportunity to marry a daughter off to be a duchess.
After knocking on the door, he was greeted by a short balding man with a seemingly permanently curved eyebrow.
"Here for Miss Malton?" he asked.
"Yes," Mattheo replied, although he had a feeling they weren't referring to the same one.
"Name?"
"Mattheo Riddle, Duke of Covenshire."
The butler's eyes widened, "Right this way, your grace."
Mattheo was led through the hallway into the downstairs drawing room, where Lady Malton and Grace were perched on an orange settee. On the other side of Grace sat an older gentleman, meanwhile on the settee sat across from them were two others. One of them was roughly the same age as the first, whereas the other was much younger - closer to Grace's age.
"Your grace," Lady Malton instantly said, shooting up to curtsy.
"Lady Malton," Mattheo nodded, "May I speak with Sir Vincent?"
"Yes, yes, of course," the baronetess said with widened eyes, "I'll go fetch him at once."
Typically she would have sent a servant to complete such a task, but clearly the shock had consumed her to the point she sprung into action. Once she had departed the room, Mattheo turned his eyes to Grace and the other three gentlemen who were all staring at him curiously.
"Who are you gentlemen?" he asked.
"Edward Cann, Viscount of Sancourt," one of the older gentlemen introduced.
"Gareth Warner," the other older one spoke.
Mattheo couldn't help but question the audacity of an older man to pursue the hand of such a young woman when he didn't even possess a title. Still, his eyes turned to the youngest man.
"Sir Charles Robinson, Baronet of Rackney."
"And how old are you?" his eyes were still on Charles.
"Twenty, your grace."
Mattheo hummed, that was more appropriate for Grace. Unusual for a man to seek a wife at such an age, but not unheard of.
"Lord Cann and Mr Warner," he began, and they perked up at his address, "May I ask what the devil men of your age are doing pursuing such a young woman?"
They were clearly taken aback by his blunt honesty, as were the servants littered around the room.
"I certainly will have to rethink my family's business with your estates in light of such news."
And with apologies to Grace and Mattheo, the two older gentlemen quickly vanished from the room, moments before the Lord & Lady of the house made an appearance.
"Your grace," Sir Vincent spoke, holding out his hand, which Mattheo shook, "To what do I owe the honour?"
"May we proceed to a more private location?"
"Of course, right this way."
"Your presence won't be required any longer, Sir Charles," Lady Malton said, clearly confused at the absence of the two other gentlemen.
Mattheo interrupted, "Oh, I'm sure it will, Lady Malton. I wouldn't dismiss the young gentleman."
Before she could ask what he meant, he was being led out the drawing room and to the baronet's office.
"I believe you know what I am here for," Mattheo stated simply, after declining the offer of brandy.
"I shouldn't want to get my hopes up, your grace."
"I would like your daughter's hand in marriage."
Sir Vincent nodded, "Of course, I shall dower her fairly-"
"Unnecessary. I have no use for a dowry, no matter the size."
"Oh- okay," the baronet paused, "Which daughter is this?"
Mattheo almost frowned: was Sir Vincent not aware of his daughter's status in society? Perhaps he left such matters up to his wife.
"Miss Y/N Malton."
"You're the first suitor that we have received for her."
The duke's breath hitched.
"This is such a relief - of course, we will arrange the wedding right away."
"I would like to marry her quickly," Mattheo said, "We will need to procure a special license."
Sir Vincent nodded, "Whatever you wish, your grace. It is an honour to be your father-in-law."
Mattheo turned to leave after saying his thanks, but paused and faced the baronet again, "You should definitely consider Sir Charles Robinson to marry Miss Grace Malton, he is a fine young man."
The baronet was clearly confused at such a statement, but absently nodded nonetheless.
***
You had been shocked when your father called you down to the drawing room: you couldn't remember the last time that he had requested your presence. Not that he requested your sisters' presences either, you were pretty sure your brother Vincent was the only of his children he spoke to.
"Excellent news for our family," he began, with Lady Malton looking thrilled at what she expected him to say, "Excellent news indeed."
You almost rolled your eyes, expecting that you had simply been called down to receive the announcement of Grace's engagement.
"The Duke of Covenshire has proposed."
Lady Malton stood up, "This is fabulous news! Well done, Grace."
"No," Sir Vincent silenced his wife, "Well done, Y/N."
Your head snapped up.
What?
"Whatever do you mean, Father?"
"His grace has asked for your hand in marriage," you had never seen your father so happy, "And naturally I accepted."
Lady Malton stood in absolute horror.
"I was beginning to become worried about your lack of proposals," he continued, unaware of his wife's reaction, "But clearly God was holding out in await for this massive surprise."
"But- what about Grace?" Lady Malton finally spluttered out.
"I am in the process of discussing that matter with Sir Charles Robinson, the duke recommended him himself."
You noticed the way Grace smiled to herself at that and looked abashedly to the ground. Clearly she was happy with such an arrangement - had the duke known that and so used his influence to help her?
"His grace wishes to be married quickly."
And thus, at the end of the week, you were married.
***
You had no idea what a honeymoon night was supposed to entail. Typically, a Mama would give a bride-to-be 'the talk' the night before her wedding, but Lady Malton would never do such a motherly thing for you. Thus, you were left completely clueless.
Plus, apart from the exchange of your vows, you had hardly spoken to the duke before, so you really didn't know where the evening was going to take you as you stepped out of the carriage outside Riddle Manor. You were both to spend the night in his London home before beginning the three day journey to his countryside residence the next day. It was a typical agenda for newly weds.
You were introduced to the various staff, including your new lady's maids - you now had two of them, as opposed to one - before you were both led through to the dining room. Your eyes fell on the long dining table, with the two distanced ends laid and nothing more.
You grimaced.
"Is salmon not to your tastes?" your husband asked you.
"Tis a very formal set up," you explained simply, but said nothing more as you assumed one of the seats.
"I mostly take dinner in my work study, so this will be a rare occurrence."
You ate the entire meal in silence, and then it was time to be shown your bed chambers.
"This is the duchess' chamber," he gestured to the door, "You may redecorate it however you so wish."
You hummed.
"My chamber is next door - we have an adjoining door, of course."
You said nothing.
"Are you going to enter?"
"But what of our consummation?" you asked.
Mattheo paused - he hadn't expected you to be so blunt.
"Lady Malton did not give me a talk like she was supposed to," you explained, somewhat shyly, "I do not know what is meant to happen, but I know that something must."
"Right," he said slowly, "We will consummate."
***
You lay awake in bed next to the duke the next morning, unable to get the memories of the night prior out of your head. Never would you have guessed that that was how babies were made, something that felt so heavenly, so good. But, you were also confused, many women muttered about it in fear, as if their consummation was unenjoyable.
Perhaps it differed with each man. Regardless, with Mattheo, it was completely and entirely soul-consuming, and you wished to experience it a countless number of times over.
A knock sounded on the door, "Your graces, breakfast is ready."
Mattheo was still sound asleep, "We'll take it in here," you replied.
You weren't used to having power in a household.
Also, how did the servant know you weren't in the duchess' bed chamber?
Mattheo woke up once the servants had wheeled in the breakfast selection, and once you were both loosely dressed, you began eating. It was then that he began speaking.
"Now is as good a time as any to set out the details of this marriage," he said, making you look up from your eggs, "I married you because I can't stand when parents mistreat their children."
Your heart warmed at that: he had noticed how Lady Malton treated you?
"I do not intend for love, but obviously at some point there will need to be an heir," he said, "You may have conceived last night, but it is unlikely. In the probable case that you haven't, we can wait a couple years to produce one should you so wish."
You thought over what he was saying - perhaps part of you had hoped that he had fallen in love with you at first sight, but you knew that was childish. This was a marriage of convenience.
"I only have one condition when it comes to children," you said slowly.
"Which is?"
"That you are an involved father," you said, "Like the Bridgertons are known for being."
Memories flashed through Mattheo's mind of his childhood: his father's coldness and distance all throughout the years until he returned from Cambridge a grown man. Only then did the late duke want anything to do with his son.
"I shall be involved," he said.
***
You couldn't look Mattheo in the eyes, you soon realised. He scared you, not in the way that Lady Malton had, but in a way you didn't quite understand. He made you nervous, made you unable to speak more than a few words at a time. Not that you did speak much: the entire journey to Covenshire Hall had been very much one of silence. The only sound to accompany you was the wheels and hooves against the cobbled roads.
The nights were spent in inns, in separate bed chambers.
Covenshire Hall was enormous: far bigger than the Catury estate that you had spent half your childhood on. It made sense, obviously, you were no longer a mere baronet's daughter, but a duchess.
"Your graces," the butler greeted you as you stepped out the carriage, "Welcome."
"Dantle," Mattheo replied, "Gather all the servants in the entrance hall."
"Right away, your grace."
The man disappeared inside, and you soon had entered through the same doors that he had, to be greeted by the largest entry room that you had ever seen. Symmetrical stairs curved around the walls either side of you, carpeted in plush blue velvet. The walls were decorated in a branch-design, but the once deep maroon colour had faded over time: it was evident to you that there hadn't been a lady of the house in quite a few years.
And then, quite quickly, the room filled with lines of house staff - more than you had ever seen for one household before. You were introduced to them all, including the primary housekeeper, Ms Godley. She was an older woman, with mostly grey hair that still held evidence of her brunette days, and a lightly wrinkled face that seemed more to do with the permanent pursing of her lips rather than age. Her eyebrows were ghastly thin, much like the rest of her, which could only be described as bony. She wore a pleated black dress down to her ankles, suggesting that she was in mourning.
You smiled politely at her, but she did not return it.
"I will leave you in her capable hands," your husband said to you, "She will provide a tour of the grounds."
"Where are you going?" you couldn't help but ask.
"My office."
You watched as he left, before turning back to Ms Godley.
"Where shall we begin?" you asked, attempting to be friendly.
***
You didn't like Ms Godley - not one bit. She reminded you of your stepmother, except this time you didn't even have younger siblings to provide a distraction. It was quite evident that she wasn't particularly fond of you either, although you had no idea what you could have done.
"This is the nursery," the woman said tightly, "It has been empty for some years now."
Gazing around the room of faded yellows and purples, you were cast back to when you were in your nursery, though you always got the short end of the stick when it came to beds. Nonetheless, it had been a relatively pleasant time for you, back when your sisters were too young to notice that Lady Malton treated you differently, so you would all play together as children do.
You didn't want any of your children to feel left out.
"Your grace," Ms Godley said curtly, "We don't have all day."
You sighed, exiting the room.
***
Loneliness was a familiar emotion to you, so a week of solitude in Covenshire Hall wasn't all that much of a change from your old life, other than the fact you now had servants waiting on your hand and foot. Although, you were growing quite bored: at least with the Maltons, you were always distracted by gauging your stepmother's mood.
You decided that you needed a distraction, and since the prestigious house was in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint, you landed on redecorating.
"You called for me, your grace?" Ms Godley stood before you in the duchess' office that you had taken to using regularly.
"Yes," you stood up, walking around your desk, "I have a matter to discuss with you."
It took everything in you to act courageous in front of a woman so similar to Lady Malton.
"I wish to redecorate the house," you said simply.
By some miracle, Ms Godley's lips pursed even more.
"Starting with the entrance hall - since that is the first room guests see, then-"
"No."
You paused - was she allowed to say that to you? "No?"
"No. This estate is not a part of your lineage, you have no right to tamper with it."
The amount of bravery that it had taken for you to have this conversation with her, just for her to pull a line that sounded so eerily similar to Lady Malton's.
"I am the lady of the house," you said, but it was obvious you weren't speaking as surely of yourself as moments prior.
"The dowager duchess was never permitted to redecorate either," she said, "And I imagine that the late duke would especially not want somebody as measly as a baronet's daughter interfering with his heritage."
You stood in shock for a few moments, eventually managing to splutter out, "You are excused."
Once she was gone, you finally gave in to the panic consuming you, feeling your breath beginning to dramatically labour and push against your corset. You felt trapped, suffocated, like you had your entire childhood, and you didn't like it. You had to escape.
So, you did.
You weren't running away by any means: you just needed fresh air, and the woods on the Covenshire grounds seemed perfect to hide away for a while. Just a couple days ago, you had taken a walk through them. Of course, that was on one of the paths that navigated between the trees, this time you simply started running straight ahead once you breached the tree line.
But you could only go so far when you had to hitch up your thick heavy skirts to make progress, so it wasn't long before you collapsed against a tree, your lungs pounding against your rib cage which were in turn pounding against your corset.
It was then that floods poured out of your eyes and down your cheeks, leaving a sticky, puffy trail behind.
You should have known better.
Just because you were a duchess didn't mean you suddenly had control over your own life.
You failed to notice the looming grey clouds gathering above, up until the sky thundered, and the familiar trickle of heavy rain commenced.
***
Mattheo was sat in his office, going over estate finances, when a knock sounded on the door.
"Your grace?"
He hated being interrupted during work, but still said a grumbled, "Come in."
"I am so sorry to disturb you, your grace," Dantle said, bowing his head, "But the duchess appears to be missing."
Mattheo's head shot up, "Missing, you say?"
"Ms Godley was the last one to speak to her, approximately two hours ago."
"Where has she gone?" the duke was now standing up.
Dantle appeared uncomfortable, "I do not know, your grace. Apparently she ran down into the woods."
"Ran?" Mattheo felt his blood boil, "Have you gone out to look for her?"
"No, your grace, the storm-"
"The storm?" he saw red, "The bloody storm?" He then let out a sound somewhat adjacent to a growl before pushing past Dantle out his office.
He was going to find his wife.
***
You probably had pneumonia or something at this rate, you thought to yourself. Your body was completely freezing and soaked, and your lack of cloak was becoming apparent as a massive problem in terms of your well-being. You should have gone back inside the second the rain started, but that was when you were still in the depths of your upset. It wasn't until you were too cold to move did you calm down a bit more.
To be honest, you were about ready to accept your fate.
"Y/N!" a faint cry came from nearby, and as much as you wanted to call out and alert them of your location, your voice was weak.
By some miracle, the man - your husband - managed to locate you.
"Y/N, oh, God," he blasphemed, "Are you okay? What are you doing out here?"
You couldn't even reply.
Mattheo scooped you up into his arms and began making haste back towards the mansion that you shared.
"Stay with me," he murmured at irregular intervals, right up until you felt the warmth of a fireplace hit you on the cheeks. You were in your bed chamber, you realised, upon noticing the faded floral pink wall decor.
Your skin was so numb you hardly felt your husband begin to peel off all items of your clothing, including your undergarments. Typically, you would have felt embarrassed, but you were completely spent.
As he picked you up again and carried you through to the bathroom, where a bath had been prepared, you couldn't help but curl into him.
"I ordered it be run before I went to find you," he said softly - the softest you had ever heard him speak.
The warmth of the water felt heavenly.
"What happened, darling?"
You shivered, this time not because of the cold, but because of the nickname.
"Godley," you forced out between your blue lips.
"Ms Godley? What did she do?" he asked as he began to wet your hair.
"I wan- wanted to redecorate the house," your teeth were chattering, "She said I couldn't change anything."
Mattheo said nothing.
"It's- it's the way she said it," you clarified, not wanting him to think you were a brat who had simply been told 'no', "She was so mean."
"How did she say it?" you didn't miss the edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.
"She said it would upset the- the late duke - and that- that he especially wouldn't want a measly baronet's daughter to-" you choked on re-emerging sobs, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, my love," you felt him press a kiss to your forehead, "I will handle this."
***
After you had warmed up in the bath and been wrapped up in thick clothing, Mattheo gently escorted you to one of the larger drawing rooms, where, to your horror, every single staff member of the house was gathered. Including Ms Godley.
"It has come to my attention that the duchess is not receiving the respect she deserves in this household," your husband sent an icy glare in the housekeeper's direction, "As the lady of the house, it is her right to decorate our rooms however she so pleases."
Ms Godley's lips pursed.
"The redecoration that her grace desires will commence immediately," Mattheo gave a forced smile, "Follow her every instruction. Any questions?"
"What of the late duke?" Ms Godley asked.
"What of a man of whom is dead?"
"Surely you should respect his wishes."
"How I choose to treat my father's wishes is none of your concern, Ms Godley. You are overstepping."
The old woman opened her mouth to say something, but decidedly shut it before saying, "My apologies, your grace."
"Apologise to my wife as well."
"My apologies," Ms Godley gave a stiff curtsy.
You had been glancing nervously between your husband and the housekeeper throughout the entire exchange, feeling overwhelmingly put on the spot. It was the second after Ms Godley apologised to you that your chest tightened and you erupted in a coughing fit.
"Darling?" Mattheo asked worriedly as you fell forward.
"Can't- breathe-" you choked out.
You felt a hand press to your forehead.
"She's overheating," the duke said loudly, "Help me get her to bed. And call the doctor."
Murmurs of, "Right away, your grace," came in reply.
"You're going to be okay," Mattheo said softly to you as he picked you up for the millionth time that day, "You must be."
***
The doctors concluded that you were pneumonic, which had been what everyone suspected but were too scared to say in front of you. But, you weren't an idiot, and understood what your symptoms meant.
There was a good chance that you would die.
It was dark outside: it often was when you came to from your fever dream episodes, for a few minutes of painful consciousness. You lurched up in bed, quickly producing horrific gurgling coughs and splutters, unable to stop yourself from groaning in pain in between. Tears pricked at your eyes as you placed a hand on your chest, your blurred vision just about making out the duke running in from the door between your bed chambers.
Mattheo grabbed the cloth from your bedside table and dipped it into the pot of water placed for this occasion, hurrying to press it to your burning forehead. You let out a brief sigh of relief, before you began coughing again.
He rubbed your back, "You can get through this."
You weren't sure if you could, in fact, you felt deathly, as it were. But, your husband's words gave you a sense of strength and hope, and it was all you could do but nod after the coughing subsided.
"If- if I make it," you murmured, falling back on to the pillows. Your voice was low and cracked. "Please- may we go to London?"
"Whatever for?"
"I..." you trailed off, "I would like to make friends."
And before Mattheo could question you further, you drifted back into unconsciousness and shallow breathing.
***
It was three days later, on a chilly but sunny morning, when you awoke naturally instead of being forced awake by coughs. Your breathing felt stronger, and you weren't overheating, which was the best feeling you had felt in forever.
You heard voices outside your door.
"Is she doing any better, your grace?" who you assumed to be the doctor asked.
"We were about to check," your husband's familiar voice replied.
The door opened, and you blinked a few times to clear your vision as the two men approached you.
"Mattheo," you said softly, your words still sore to speak.
"You're awake," he said simply, pressing his hand to your forehead. The physical contact comforted you.
"How do you feel?" the doctor asked.
"Better."
He raised his eyebrows, "In what way?"
"Every way."
He performed a more thorough examination, and concluded that while you likely still had a couple more days of illness, you had pushed through the worst of it and were well on your way to recovery. You were relieved to hear that, but even more relieved to finally be able to take a bath and and cleanse yourself.
"You wanted to return to London," Mattheo said simply at dinner that night, as he was taking it in your room with you.
"I said that?" you asked. You knew that it was what you wished to do, you just couldn't recall mentioning it to your husband.
He hummed, "While you were feverish."
He had been taking care of you?
"Well, yes- I wish to finally have a social circle."
"You mentioned that also."
You said nothing.
"Once you are fully returned to health, we shall make the journey," he said simply.
You couldn't help but beam, "Really?"
"Really."
"Thank you- thank you so much."
He shook his head, as if to say 'don't thank me'.
"I'm so glad you're my husband."
Mattheo chuckled, "I'll take care of you no matter what, darling."
***
Two weeks later, and the doctor had determined that you were back to being healthy and thus your convalescence was able to come to an end. It was then arranged for you and Mattheo to return to London for the remainder of the season but three days later, once you would have passed an appropriate honeymoon duration. While you were terribly excited to be able to properly socialise, you were also nervous. For one, your stepmother would be there, and for two, you weren't that experienced with the correct customs for socialising. The only comforting factor was that your husband would be there with you: a man who you held a lot of adoration for, and felt an immense amount of comfort from.
After the pneumonia episode, he hadn't distanced himself quite so much. Granted, you still hadn't engaged in your wedding night type of intimacy again yet, but you ate meals together, and frequently found yourself wandering over to his bed chamber in the night. The first time you had done it, it had been most nerve-wracking.
It had been a few days since you had snapped out of the fever dream episode, and were feeling much more energetic. Unfortunately, you had also been dealing with bouts of insomnia, which you suspected had something to do with your fear of falling asleep and re-entering the fever dream. Like usual, you found yourself up at the early hours of the morning, only the exhaustion was catching up to you and you could feel your chest tighten as hysteric panic began to set in.
Before you completely freaked out, you forced yourself up and over to the adjoining door, aiming to seek comfort from Mattheo even if the prospect of doing so petrified you. He stirred the second that you entered the room, at least it appeared like he did from what you could make out in the shadows. "Y/N?" he murmured.
You let out a sob.
"Come here," he said without hesitation and you gladly obliged, finding that you could finally drift into a slumber once in his arms.
And, thus, you went to him whenever you couldn't sleep.
But, now, you were in the carriage back to London, with your hands folded neatly in your lap and your husband sat across from you. You weren't sure why, but there was an awkward silence present.
***
Mattheo was conflicted.
He didn't know why he cared so deeply for you, why he was so willing to aid you whenever you were in need.
A strangled, screaming part of himself deep inside knew exactly why he felt how he did, but the part of him that he listened to feigned ignorance and told him it was simply expected of him to take care of his wife.
But the thing that confused him the most was the fact he felt the urge to tell you about his childhood, about his father, and about the lack of family and love he had endured. Why would he want to tell you such personal information that didn't even matter any longer, since the cause of it was dead?
Why did you make him feel this way?
"Mattheo?" he looked up at you sat opposite him. Your voice sounded small and timid.
"Yes?"
"Are you mad at me?"
He could have sworn he actually felt the searing pain of his heart breaking at that moment. He wasn't sure he was capable of being mad at you. "Of course not, why ever would you think that?"
You gave a gentle shrug, "You're quieter than normal."
"I'm often quiet." It was true: he was often regarded as a grumpy and brooding individual.
"Yes," you said tightly, "But not like this."
It stunned him how easily you could read him, but, then again, maybe he had never been close enough to anyone for them to know him. Maybe his emotions were obvious to anyone who cared enough to try and figure them out.
"Do you not wish to return to London?"
Mattheo paused for a moment. He hadn't put any thought into whether or not he wanted to go back to the capital, but initially it seemed like an obvious answer since he had always despised the season. Overbearing Mamas and their brood of debutante daughters were his idea of hell, but now he felt different. He realised that he did in fact want to go to London, not just because he was now married and off the Mamas' radar, but because you wanted to go. Mattheo was faced with the overwhelming realisation that he simply wanted to do whatever you wanted to do.
"Oh, dear, you don't, do you? We can turn around," you said quickly, making him snap out of his thoughts.
"No," he rushed to say, "We shall go to London."
"But you don't want to go."
"I do."
"But-"
"We are going, and that's final."
You opened your mouth to say something more, but decided against it, and turned your gaze to out the window.
The rest of the journey was silent.
***
"We need to discuss the rules for our time here," Mattheo said once you had settled into Riddle Manor for some dinner.
"We do?"
He hummed, "I will not be attending every social event we are invited to."
"But- people will think our marriage is rocky if you're not with me. The ton will talk, they always do."
"I said not every social event," he reminded, "I will attend some."
"You have to attend the first one," you said, "That one is the most important."
Mattheo agreed, "Of course, but from then on, it will be events here and there. You are welcome to attend alone."
You deflated a bit, but nodded your head, "Maybe we can host a ball at some point."
His eyebrows raised. Riddle Manor hadn't been the location of a ball in almost thirty years - there had been no lady of the house to host it.
"Perhaps," he replied pensively.
***
The next social event, to Mattheo's great horror, was the infamous Smythe-Smith musicale. Otherwise known as a torturous cacophony of four tone-deaf girls of whom were trusted with instruments that should have undoubtably never been allowed within five feet of them. You had heard what the quartet were like, having never attended yourself, and - honestly - you were rather excited to finally be a part of an inside joke of the ton that you had been left out of. Your husband was not nearly so enthusiastic, having attended exactly twice before, but not for a good many years.
Unfortunately, as selfish a woman as Lady Malton was, she was more than willing to sacrifice her hearing in order to secure impressive marriages for all of her (biological) daughters. So, you weren't surprised to enter the Smythe-Smith ballroom and see her stood with Grace closely by her side.
"Introducing, the Duke and Duchess of Covenshire," the man stood by the door announced, making your half-sister and stepmother quickly turn their attentions in your direction.
You squeezed Mattheo's arm tightly, to which he patted your hand and nodded when your family members approached.
"Your grace," Lady Malton gave a gentle curtsy - to Mattheo, not you, "How fares your marriage?"
It was a question that bordered on the edge of improper for polite society. "Most excellent," the duke replied coolly, making you smile to yourself.
Lady Malton gave the politest smile her sour face could muster.
"What brings you here?" Mattheo asked, trying to gauge why Lady Malton would put herself through the Smythe-Smith musicale with no daughters on the marriage mart.
"Marriage prospects, of course."
"Is Miss Grace Malton not engaged to Sir Charles?" he asked.
"Well- uh- yes."
The duke raised an eyebrow at the woman, and you must say that you were thoroughly enjoying this interaction.
"They shall be married at the end of the week," she said reluctantly, "But until the vows are complete, things can change."
That was when you realised: Lady Malton was praying on securing a last-minute proposal from someone of a higher status than Sir Charles. If it meant marrying into more wealth and more powerful connections, surely your father would agree to it.
"You should come to the wedding," Grace blurted out, "We thought you would still be in the country, so we didn't send an invitation."
You knew the real reason that you hadn't received an invitation was because Lady Malton would have taken control of all the wedding arrangements, and you were most certainly not on her invite list. But, she couldn't revoke the invitation to the duke's face and in a public setting, so she forced herself to smile and agree.
"That would be lovely," you beamed, purposefully showing as much enthusiasm as possible, simply to upset your stepmother, "Now, if you excuse us, I wish to secure front row seats."
Multiple people around you stared at you like you were insane - they just wouldn't understand your motivations.
"Trust me, front row seats are never the ones that need to be fought for here," Mattheo whispered to you as you both moved over to the rows of chairs set up.
You shrugged, "You're sitting with me whether you like it or not."
"Ah, Lady Danbury," he spoke as you came face to face with the renowned old woman sat in the very central front seat.
"Your grace," she raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Come to enjoy the musicale?" your husband asked, the sarcastic undertone impossible to miss - at least to you.
"But, of course," Lady Danbury smiled, "I attend every year."
You desperately wanted to enter the conversation, but you didn't know how.
"You're the eldest Miss Malton, aren't you?" she said towards you, making you freeze on the spot.
"Uh, yes - Lady Riddle now, actually."
She hummed, waving her cane around despite being sat, "Yes, Duchess of Covenshire. Quite grand, no?"
You awkwardly smiled.
The dowager countess turned her attentions back to Mattheo, "I must admit, I didn't think you would marry for quite some time, your grace."
"Nor did I," he simply replied, which for some reason, slightly hurt you. You had inconvenienced his life: you were a burden to him as a result of him being a good person.
"I fear that love does tend to have the effect of uprooting our lives," Lady Danbury said wistfully, a gentler emotion than you had ever witnessed on her from afar at the few social gatherings you had been allowed at.
Love.
"I only wish I had been so lucky as to have had it been with my husband."
You looked up in surprise. To be honest, you knew very little of the dowager countess' life: she had been a widow for as long as you had been alive, so it was hard to imagine her having a husband. All you knew was that she was widowed very young, and chose to never remarry. Part of you had assumed that it was because of how much she loved her husband, like the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. It was clear now that you were wrong, but you knew better than to pry.
"Alas, let us enjoy this musicale," she said with a glint in her eye, "It is meant to be a joyous occasion, after all."
You knew she said it sarcastically, but, for you, this was indeed a joyous occasion. You were more than thrilled to finally be a part of London society - the ton.
Sparing a glass in Mattheo's direction, you were surprised to see that he was already looking at you.
***
The duke did not attend another social event with you for the rest of the week, but almost every night you were out. It was strange, not needing to be chaperoned as a married woman, but you quite enjoyed it.
The first two events alone you spent as a wallflower - albeit a married one - which weren't so enjoyable. But, once people realised that the Duchess of Covenshire was present at the social events, you began attracting a lot of attention from fellow ladies who aspired to be friends with someone of such a powerful status. Soon, you were mingling with the ton as if you had always done so, although your social skills were still inept. Thankfully, most were willing to overlook this due to you being a duchess.
Then, your sister's wedding came around, and it meant that you would have your second outing with your husband accompanying you. That made you more excited than you were willing to admit.
"Blue is most becoming on you," Mattheo spoke from behind you, making you jump. You hadn't heard him enter your bed chamber.
"Thank you," you replied, "I had it tailored on Tuesday."
"How much?"
You blanched - it had been quite expensive. You had felt guilty at the time, but found it difficult to say no to the Madam who had been dressing you.
"Darling, you are free to spend my money, I am simply curious," he reassured you, "My wife deserves only the best, after all."
Butterflies swarmed in your stomach. Was it normal - for you to feel this way towards your husband when it was merely a marriage of convenience? You were snapped out of your thoughts when he moved closer to you and began kissing along your neck.
"Mattheo," you murmured.
He hummed, "Shame you're already dressed," and then he reluctantly pulled back, "But, we must depart now anyway."
That was the first hint you had received that he wanted to repeat the intimacies of your consummation. And it made your skin feel hot and prickly.
***
Your half-sister was a gorgeous bride: her elegant dress matching her eye colour and making her glistening smile seem bright. It was obvious that she was elated to be with Sir Charles, the incredibly young baronet who hung off her every word. One could only describe it as a love match.
"Thank you," you said to Mattheo, who was stood next to you as you applauded the newly weds.
"For what?"
"For recommending Sir Charles - and for marrying me."
He chuckled, "There is no need to thank me, darling. I can hardly complain about having a breath-taking wife, can I?"
Yet again, butterflies, and the overwhelming sense of desire.
Soon, it was time for the first dance of the newly married couple, celebrated back at Sir Charles' London residence. After they danced the first number alone, more couples joined the dance floor for a waltz. You couldn't help but look up at your husband hopefully.
He sighed fondly and held out his hand, "My lady?"
"My lord," you murmured, taking his hand and allowing him to lead you on to the dance floor.
As you moved into position, you found yourself avoiding looking at Mattheo's face, as for some reason it scared you. Maybe it was the proximity, or the emotions you had been consistently feeling for the last few days. Regardless, you felt timid.
"Darling?" your stomach flipped, and you were forced to meet his eyes.
"Yes?"
"I prefer it when you look at me," Mattheo muttered before he could stop the words from tumbling out. Momentarily, he froze, unable to ignore the way his heart burned in his chest.
"Okay," you said breathlessly, now not being able to tear your eyes away from him.
"You're so perfect."
A lump formed in your throat, "No one's perfect."
"Perfect for me," he said so quietly you almost didn't hear, just as the dance came to an end.
You stood in silence for a few moments, unable to process his words.
Eventually, you spoke, "Mattheo, I- I..."
The look in his eyes beckoned you on.
"Heaven knows I know nothing of love nor what it's like to be loved, but- but I think I love you."
His expression was unreadable, and you felt as if you had said the wrong thing, right up until, "I think I love you too."
God, why were tears pricking in your eyes?
No one had ever said that to you before.
And then you shoved yourself into his arms, desperately seeking warmth and affection as if it were your life line. The other people at the wedding and propriety be damned.
Mattheo moved his head to whisper in your ear.
"All's well that ends well to end up with you."
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masterlist
written; 09/08/2023 —> 04/10/2023 published;05/10/2023 edited; —/—/——
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jordanstrophe · 19 days
Text
Caretaker jolted awake to the sound of whumpee crying. Caretaker hurried to their room, flicking on the light, expecting torn stitches and blood.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Caretaker whispered. They already knew the answer to the first question, feeling guilty for asking.
"I- I'm not hu-hurt." Whumpee responded, curling their knees to their chest. Caretaker pulled them into their arms and rested their hand on the side of whumpee's face. It was probably another nightmare; they were getting more frequent.
"Can you talk to me?" Caretaker asked. They felt whumpee shake their head against their shoulder.
"No, I-I'm okay I just-" Whumpee took a deep breath and relaxed. "I need a moment." They mumbled.
"Okay, then we'll take it easy. Do you want tea and we can work on that puzzle?" Caretaker nudged. They felt whumpee huff and nod their head.
The puzzle only ever got worked on in the middle of the night. Every time a piece was found, they asked mindless questions and kept eachother talking. They would go until whumpee was fully calm, then caretaker would put them back to bed.
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resident-gay-bitch · 2 months
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Single teen dad steve who’s kid comes out as trans kinda young and fuck it’s the late 80’s early 90’s - post upside down - and he’s freaking out because he just wants the best for his little kid. She- he has always been Steve’s biggest priority and he loves his kid no matter what and he’s gonna embrace the hell out of it, but he has worries about it all because he’s in small town Hawkins and people here get beat up for being rumoured to be gay, what the hell is gonna happen to his kid??
But mainly, he has no idea how to help. He doesn’t know anything about it. Robin assists where she can but she’s just as in the dark about it as Steve.
Then comes one night, Axl (they’re trying out new names each month and this month Axl is obsessed with Gunners so it’s only appropriate) is having a panic attack over his dysphoria and Steve is trying his best to help. He can’t bind, doesn’t know how to do it on his own without it hurting really bad, and Steve is trying to help but Axl won’t let anyone see any part of him without a shirt and so it’s hard. They tried to figure out how to do it on Steve’s bare chest but it’s not really the same. Eventually Axl cries himself to sleep about it with Steve sitting on the end of his bed because Axl didn’t want to even be touched after a while.
And Steve doesn’t sleep that night, he stays up half the night trying to bind his own chest correctly, then he tapes balloons and stuffed toys to the front of this big bear they have and tries to bind on that. But nothings working, and he can’t help but feel like he’s failed his kid. He debated calling Robin up to see if she’d come over and he could try binding her chest to figure it out, he knows she’ll say yes because she cares about Axl so much and also won’t care if Steve sees her bare chest as he has before, but she’s out of state for work for a whole other week. He just cries until it’s time to get up for work and school.
Axl is wearing a baggy shirt under an even baggier hoodie, even though it’s the middle of summer. Steve wants to tell him to take it off, to make sure he doesn’t faint today, but he knows that’s only gonna make things worse - everyone at school still thinks he’s a girl. He makes sure to pack ice packs in Axl’s lunch bag and extra ice in his water bottle.
He goes to work and thinks about it all day, then he gets home to find a note on the counter from Axl, saying he’s popped across the street to study with Melody for a while. They’ve been friends since they were little, and she’s the only one from school who knows so far. Steve’s glad Axl’s doing something to distract himself rather than rotting away in bed and making himself feel more sick about it.
Halfway through cooking himself dinner (and by cooking he means microwaving whatever the fuck he can find in the fridge) he gets a knock on the door. It’s Eddie. Of course it’s Eddie. They had plans to catch up for a beer down the pub tonight, since they hadn’t seen eachother in a while now. Steve had been so distracted today he completely forgot.
Steve apologises to Eddie and tells him he’s just been so stressed today and he couldn’t talk to Robin about it and everything is just so complicated, he just breaks down and cries right then and there in his doorway.
And Eddie, being the kind soul that he always has been, pulls Steve into a hug and lets him cry about it.
They sit down at the table together and crack open a couple of beers and eat the microwaved leftovers. And they chat and Steve forgets about everything for a little while. Eddie does that to him; makes Steve forget everything else in the world doesn’t exist besides Eddie.
He’s tried to snuff his stupid feelings for Eddie out for years, since 1986. It hasn’t worked. But Eddie’s been between relationships, and Steve’s had Axl to worry about so trying to have anything serious has been so hard and pointless. No one wants an instant pre-teen, and especially not Eddie who has expressed he doesn’t want kids several times. It’s pointless.
So very pointless.
But Steve wants him anyway.
Eddie asks about Axl, as he always does. He cares about Steve’s kid the way he cares about Dustin, sort of. They get along, but Eddie kinda gets awkward around him for some reason and Axl gets very flustered around Eddie. Steve found it adorable when he was little, Eddie with his long hair and tattoos, he always through it was cool. And as Axl got older, the more he’d avoid Eddie in hopes of not fanboying over Eddie’s band, or tattoos, or his guitar.
But they don’t really see eachother much these days, so now that Axl’s fourteen and too cool to ask questions when Steve brings Eddie up, who knows what they’d be like around eachother?
Eddie’s asking questions, completely oblivious as he asks how “she’s going” and if “she’s surviving her first year of highschool” and blah blah blah, and Steve knows it’s because he doesn’t know. But it messes with his head anyway, because that’s his boy their talking about, not his girl, and it’s been bothering him all day and Steve just-
He crumbles. He opens up to Eddie and tells him everything on his mind right now. How Axl is really a boy, and how they’re trying out new names, and how Steve feels like he’s failing his kid because he doesn’t know how to help him bind, or feel safe, or come out at school, or what to do to get him on testosterone or if that’s even an option and-
Eddie places his hand on Steve’s and smiles so softly, “You’re struggling to bind?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah, it’s like- his chest… he- he’s doesn’t-“
“Yeah, I- I know, Steve.” Eddie nods, “Would Axl be okay with me knowing this? Or, like, not?”
“I don’t know.” Steve so sobs, “I shouldn’t have said anything without his permission, but I just trusted you and I needed to talk to- to someone. And I’m…”
“Okay.” Eddie cleared his throat, “okay, will Axl be home tonight?”
“Yeah.” Steve sniffled and checked his watch, “It’s almost curfew.”
“Okay. Have you got any bandages? Or what have you been using?”
“Yeah, bandages… cloth.” Steve rubbed his nose.
“That’s okay, uhm, how about you go get those for me?”
Steve, confused but too mentally tired to think much of it, goes and does just that. He brings back the rolls of bandages and cloth they were using and dumps them on the table in front of Eddie. Eddie smiles and moves the cloth aside, looking at the strip of bandages.
“The wider ones are better. These are a little thin, but… does he use a sports bra most days?”
Steve nods.
“Okay, I suggest getting some wider bandages. But I can make these work.” Eddie grins.
“What?” Steve grumbles.
“Come here.” Eddie shuffles his chair over to Steve, “Arms up, not up in the air but like, out so I can get around.”
Steve follows his command yet again, and watches with confused eyes as Eddie begins to wrap the bandage around Steve’s chest, talking him through the process; where to place his hands for best compression, and insisting it can’t be too tight or it will hurt.
“It probably won’t be perfectly flat, they never are, but it will be better.” Eddie smiled, “Surgery is always an option, but they won’t let him get that until he’s like, eighteen.”
“How do you-“
“Hey, dad, sorry I’m late, I have a math test tomorrow and we-“ Axl chattered, walking through and shutting the door, “… uhm, hi Eddie.”
“Hi!” Eddie grinned and waved at Axl before looking back at Steve’s chest and fastening the bandage together with the clip at Steve’s side.
“What are you doing?”
Steve felt his heart drop, “I’m- I’m sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have told him but- I was just, I needed someone to talk to, and- It’s not and excuse-“
“No, it’s not.” Axl dumped his bag down on the kitchen counter and walked over, “You should ask before assuming.”
“I know.” Steve furrowed his brow, “I don’t usually-“
“But it’s okay because it’s just Eddie.” Axl shrugged and leant down to look at the bandges wrapped tight around Steve’s chest, “I figured you’d already told all of your friends.”
“Nope.” Eddie shook his head and smiled, “He certainly did not. Cool name, by the way- Guns and Roses?”
“Yeah.” Axl nodded.
“Sick.” Eddie grinned.
“Did you do this?” Axl pointed to the bandages.
“Wait, you’re not upset with me?” Steve asked.
“No, I know you’re not just gonna out me to some cunt who’s gonna beat me up-“
“Language.” Steve pressed.
“Besides, Eddie’s gay and a self proclaimed Freak, out of most of your friends he’s the least likely to judge.”
“Right you are, little gremlin.” Eddie smiled up at him.
“I’m still sorry.” Steve murmured.
“Don’t be.” Axl playfully punched his arm.
“Also, to answer your question,” Eddie continued, “Yes, this is how you bind. I can show you how to do it, if you like? I suggest bigger bandages but this can work for now.”
“Yes please.” Axl nodded, and Eddie immediately started to unwound the bindings on Steve’s chest.
He re-tied it, talking step by step to Axl, and then he got Axl to bind Steve’s chest himself, Eddie talking him through the process.
Then, Eddie got Axl to do it on himself, over his baggy jumpers, because it’s a little different doing it on someone else. Steve sat at the table and watched in awe as Eddie animatedly talked Axl through the process, and Axl couldn’t wipe his smile off his face.
The moment it was done he raced off to his room to do it properly. Eddie went and got them another beer.
“Thank you.” Steve smiled at him, “So much.”
“No problem, Steve-o.” Eddie grinned, “I have not done that in a while, it was kinda fun.”
“What do you mean?” Steve furrowed his brow, and Eddie shrugged and pulled up his shirt.
The first thing Steve noticed was the added ink Eddie had gotten since ‘86. The second thing he noticed was the bat bites scattered over his skin. And the third… two scars stretching along his chest.
Steve remembered being back there, crying and trying to add compression on all of Eddie’s scars. He remembered finding bandages already wrapped around Eddie’s chest, under his clothes, but he thought nothing of it, figured Eddie had cut his chest open or something. Not… this.
Eddie blushed and lowered his shirt, shrugging up at Steve.
“Oh my god.” Steve muttered, and Eddie just stared at him, “Holy shit, you’re like Axl?!”
“Yeah.” Eddie nodded, and then a couple of seconds later Axl was body slamming into the back of Eddie and wrapping himself around him.
“I didn’t think anyone was like me here.” Axl mumbled, obviously trying to not cry, “I always thought you’d be the coolest out of dad’s friends.”
Eddie snickered and gave Axl a hug back, “How’d you go, did you get it?”
“I think so.” He said, stepping back and showing off to them. It’s the first time Steve had seen him wear anything less than a baggy shirt. He was dressed in a cropped muscle tee, and he looked so confident.
Steve started to cry.
“Hey! Look at you, it looks so good, kid.” Eddie grinned, “If you want I can show you how to draw facial hair on to look realistic.”
“Fuck yeah.” Axl grinned, “I want a moustache.”
Eddie snickered and looked back at Steve, his face dropped when he saw him crying, “Hey, Stevie-“
“Thank you.” Steve sobbed and buried his head in his hands, “Holy fuck, thank you so much.”
Eddie smiled softly, “It’s no issues, of course. Anything to help a fellow freak like me, huh?” He smiled up at Axl, “I should be thanking you, it feels nice to have another person like me around again.”
“Do you know more people like us?”
Eddie nodded, “You know my friend Gareth? Yeah, he’s like us, and a two more people but they’re not in town.”
“Oh my god, really?!” Axl grinned, “This is so awesome, can I please come to one of your gigs or something?”
“I thought you were too cool for that stuff?” Steve snickered.
Axl flipped him off, “I just wanna meet him… as a guy.”
Eddie leant out and ruffled Axl’s hair, “Yeah, kid, whenever you like- though, a band practice would be more ideal for a fourteen year old.”
Axl frowned dramatically and went to get himself a drink.
“Seriously, Eddie, thank you.” Steve murmured, “I haven’t seen him that happy in… not in years. He’s just a kid, he’s meant to be that happy every day.”
Eddie nodded, “I know how he feels. I knew I was different really young too, and when I was about twelve I told my mum and she told me to never tell anyone. And then she died, when I was sixteen, and I ended up telling dad for some- I don’t even know why, he beat the shit out of me and I ran away. Like, away away, up to Indi. Wayne found me then, when my dad told him what happened, and bought me home and let me be Eddie.” He shrugged, “I remember the first time I tried binding with duct tape, Wayne found me crying in front of the mirror about it and he came in with bandages and helped me figure it out. I went on testosterone when I turned eighteen, so.”
Steve smiled, “I’m sorry you went through that, Eddie.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been going through this clueless. Wayne had no idea either, he’s got a book on how to look after trans kids now, but he didn’t back then, I can tell you that.” Eddie laughed, “Thanks for being his dad, and like, being a good one.”
“He’s my kid, I can’t just… of course, I love him.”
Eddie smiled, “You don’t know how rare that is for people like Axl and I.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“Me either.” Eddie hummed, “You’re a really good dad, Steve. A really good guy.”
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.”
“Yeah, but you care. More than most people do. You care so much.” Eddie gently took Steve’s hand into his own, “I’m sure you already know but being Axl’s dad isn’t gonna be easy, especially not in fucking Hawkins, but so long as you just stick around and… care, then things are gonna be a whole lot easier for him. It means so much to him, and me, even.”
Steve smiled at him and squeezed Eddie’s hands as a thank you, “Can you stick around too?” He asked, “Help Axl in the places I cant?”
Eddie grinned, “Yeah, of course I can, Stevie.”
“Thank you.” Steve sighed, rubbing his temples, “You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re in my life.”
There was a moment of silence before Eddie whispered, “You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re in mine.”
They looked at eachother, and Steve felt his heart in his throat.
“Okay…” Axl murmured, rolling back over to the table, “You guys are clearly having a moment so I’m gonna stop eavesdropping.”
“Hey!” Steve scoffed, “You little shit.”
Axl chuckled and scruffed Steve’s hair, “Thanks dad, I love you too. You’re my best friend.”
Steve absolutely blossomed at that, he’d never been so happy to hear those words. He used to hear them all the time, when Axl was really little. But then he became a preteen and being friends with your dad suddenly stopped being cool. He’s ecstatic right now.
“Thanks Eddie.” Axl smiled at him, giving Eddie a fist bump as he passed, “Can we like… talk sometime? I just wanna-“
“Know if someone’s gone through all the crazy shit as you?” Eddie offered and Eddie nodded, “How about we get some lunch this weekend, huh? Then hang out at the music store?”
“Sounds good.” Axl grinned and continued to walk past, “I’ll let you guys get back to your moment.”
“Moment?” Steve asked, red in the face, watching Axl walk down the hallway to his room, “There’s no moment, what moment?!”
“Don’t worry about it.” Axl shouted back and walked into his room.
“Axl!” Steve shouted out.
“Axl!” Eddie shouted too, “What fucking moment do you mean?”
Axl poked his head back out the door, “You were having a nice moment about friendship and being a good dad and blah blah blah!” Axl shouted and Steve and Eddie both relaxed, “I just shouldn’t be evesdropping of course.”
“Okay.” Steve nodded and looked back to Eddie, watched the sparkle in his eyes dance as he shifted to look back at Steve. And he melted at the sight.
“Also, this would be a great time to do something about that crush you’ve had on Eddie for years, dad!”
And with that, Axl’s door was slammed shut.
Steve and Eddie were staring at eachother. Eddie was slowly turning more and more red.
“You have a crush on me?”
Steve’s lack of an answer probably was a dead giveaway, but he hoped Eddie was oblivious.
“Oh.” Eddie muttered, and clearly he’s not oblivious, “You have a crush on me- god, I sound fifteen. Wow, you are into me- Steve- you- okay.” Eddie cleared his throat and fixed his posture, “Do- wow, huh, uh… do- do you wanna- do you wanna go out with me? Okay, there, I did it.”
“You’re asking me out?” Steve asked, a little gobsmacked.
“Yeah.” Eddie bit at his nails as he looked at Steve nervously.
“Yes.” Steve swallowed, “Yeah, I- yeah… can- does tomorrow work? Seven?”
“Seven.” Eddie smiled, his shoulders relaxing, “Yeah, a date at seven.”
“Okay.” Steve smiled too, “Wait, is this just… I just need to know if this is a date or like, with the intention of something more serious.”
“Uh…” Eddie swallowed, “Considering I’ve been into you for years now, I’d prefer something a little more permanent. But-“
“You don’t care I’ve got a kid?”
“No, I-“ Eddie ducked his head, blushing, “To be honest I’ve kinda always been jealous he wasn’t our kid.”
“Holy shit.” Steve muttered, “I thought you didn’t want kids?!”
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugged, “I don’t know, you make all my wires cross, Steve. I’ve pictured a whole ass future with you.”
And Steve can’t wait to make that future come true.
And Axl grows up with a second dad who helps him through his transition too, has a little more intel. And Steve loves watching them as they chat about their shared experiences being trans, and cries when Axl comes out and shows off his excessive leg hair one afternoon, and when Eddie starts compulsively making fun of his voice cracks at age seventeen, and when Eddie’s sitting there and talking him through the procedure he’ll endure for his first surgery and- Steve’s just overwhelmed with love for them both.
And then he and Eddie adopt a little girl and Steve’s just so in awe of how Eddie is with the baby, and how Axl instantly takes to the protective big brother role. And just picture it, okay!? Just picture Steve and Eddie having a family together, okay?!
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jcryptid · 22 days
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Did i impulsively spend weeks on rendering after getting hooked on a Batfam fic? Yes.... Yes I did.
for real though guys, the author of this fic is an absolute angel. So... @lulurythmea: Happy Birthday.... thanks for making me cry and go feral.... can't wait to see what the hell you do next you crazy son of a bitch ;)
the fic in question is Across the Sands on Ao3, go check it out if you also want to go feral and get some of that sweet sweet hurt comfort!
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cowboygenes · 2 months
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Hurt Comfort
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pursuitseternal · 2 months
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✨Fall in love with “The Rogue You Were”✨
Ascended Astarion x F!Reader: “Soft A!Astarion✨power couple✨gothic aesthetic✨steamy smut with some plot✨
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Art from Mahtsazizi on X
From Chapter 1: Welcome Me
He is both things all at once, your rogue and your master, your lover in the dirt and on his throne.“That’s what I love about you,” he speaks softly, lips brushing your pointed ear. “My good girl, so eager to take the future, without losing what was the best of me before…”
“Mmm,” you breathe as you turn your head, nestling your forehead against the sharp edge of his jaw. “You can claim the world, but from time to time, you will need to fuck me in the dirt. Keep yourself… grounded.”
Chapter 1: Welcome Me
Chapter 2: Cleanse Me
Chapter 3: Surprise Me
Chapter 4: Hold Me
Chapter 5: Master Me
Chapter 6: Warm Me
Chapter 7: Persuade Me
Chapter 8: Scald Me
Ao3 Link | Astarion Fic Masterlist
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hyperfixat · 2 months
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hbd to me!!!!!!! here’s a vent fic i wrote a few months ago so proceed with caution; reader attempted suicide, reader continues to have suicidal thoughts/attempts, reader seeks harm onto themself (both from external sources and self inflicted), reader is depressed!!! be sure to evaluate your mental state before reading this fic :3. this also contains a scene that i felt compelled to write for some reason involving assisted hygiene: idk i felt that needed a little acknowledgment..
ik its my birthday fic and it proably should be happy, but theres a bit of hurt comfort to this that i love and i polished it up to share so that hopefully u like it too.. again heed my warnings^
also final note; formatted on my pc, sprry if its funky
The first thing you feel upon waking up is disappointment.  This… you rub your face with your hands.  You can’t do anything right, you sigh.  Waking up is a clear sign of a failure as to your plans.
Although you frown as you observe your surroundings, this isn’t where you would be if someone had caught you attempting to take your life.  You wouldn’t be dumped in the middle of a sunny field.  This isn’t a hospital or ward, in fact there’s no sign of any modern buildings from where you sit.
Just where are you…?
You use shaky arms to lift yourself up, and begin to attempt to find a way home.  Or for something to just kill you.
What luck, you realize morbidly, you spawned on a plateau, and that’s all you allow yourself to think before breaking into a sprint and running both to and over the edge.
You hit the plains with a crack and you wheeze out a pained groan.  Before you can lift yourself up to try again or seek help or check for any witnesses, you feel your body fade away. It’s a weightless feeling as you sink into the earth of Teyvat.
There is not much pain, not as much as you had hoped or expected.  In ways this is a pro, for you are a coward in the face of pain no matter deserved or otherwise.
You fade, but not into the hold of death, at least you don’t think this is death, rather you fade from your spot crumpled on the ground into a sitting position firmly in the arms of an Anemo Statue of Seven.  The marble orb of Barbatos’ lookalike stops you from falling out of the statue’s arms and you heave a sigh.
How unfortunate.  It seems you cannot permanently die here.  Though… what if it was a fluke…?  With another bone deep sigh you fall to the ground and walk back to the ledge and stare down at the fifty foot drop.
Before you work up the courage to take the plunge a high, excited voice calls out for you.  You flinch, opening your eyes to see a youthful bard dressed in Mondstatian green, holding his hands out for you.  Venti is sprinting towards you and you take a step back nervously.  He seems to recognize you… but how could that be?  
His face falls as you back away and his sprint slows when he’s a few yards away from being able to reach out to you.  Venti calls your name again.  He falters, the smile adorning his face slips.
“Wait…” his voice wavers.  “What are you doing, Divine One?”
Why did he call you that…?  Is it some Mondstat greeting of sorts?  You can’t kill yourself in front of him and retraumatize the poor guy, so you allow him to get closer to you, and you don’t stop him when he sweeps his lythe form down into a kneeling bow.
“Hello.”  You greet, unsure of how one is supposed to act when approached by a fictional character.
Venti lifts his gaze from the ground up to your face, looking downright awestruck.
“I, we, have long awaited your descent, Divine One, it is an honor to have you grace the lands of Freedom with your presence first.”  
Uh-oh.  He seems to have confused you with someone else, because you are certainly no one special and definitely not any sort of divine.  How are you gonna break that to him without too much embarrassment on either of your parts?
“Please, come with me to the city, I’m certain the people will be delighted to host the one who shaped the world.”  His voice is high with a musical lilt, and it’s hard to decline him.
“I’m sorry,” your voice comes out dry, and you realize you’re terribly dehydrated.  “I think there’s been a mistake.  I’m not whoever you think I am.”
You take a step back, backing yourself up the hill onto higher ground.
“Whatever do you mean, Divine One?  Your presence is unmistakable.”
You shake your head, stepping further away from the Archon.  Venti reaches his hand out to grasp at the bottom hem of your pajama pants.  “Please!  I’ve waited so long for you.”  He falls onto his knees to beg.
Fuck, his eyes are so pretty when he pleads.  You don’t want to risk angering whatever God he’s mistaking you with, though, “Venti….”  
The blue-green sky of his eyes turns to the color of the ocean as tears well up in his waterline.  His whole body shivers when you utter his chosen name.  “I can keep it a secret from the public.  Surely only Archons and those blessed with a Vision will be able to sense you.  We can keep it quiet, please, Divine One, I beg of you.”
“I’m not this Divine One you speak of,” you kneel and place a hand on his hat.  Venti’s eyes search yours with confusion. As he lifts his head, your hand presses into the curve of his skull, making him lean harder into your touch.
“Th-That’s okay, please just stay in Mondstadt for a night, that’s all I wish.”  He doesn’t believe you, that’s clear, but he seems so eager to appease you.
You pause, looking away from the pathetically begging archon.  His hands clench on your pant fabric.
“Okay.  Just for the night.”  You hope no one else from Mondsat is as strange as Venti is…
“I don’t have any way to pay for this,” you smile at Diluc, placing a hand on the side of the glass to push it back across the counter.
“I wouldn’t dream of making you pay, please drink all you wish.  Let me know if it isn’t to your taste.”
“Does that apply to their guide as well, Master Diluc?”
“No.”
“A shame,” Venti sighs, taking a deep drink from his glass.
You have to hand it to Venti, he is a good guide.  He’s quick to shut down any vision holder you come across with a quick whisper in their ear, and he truly knows Mondstadt in and out.
The bell above the door jingles as it swings open, and you glance behind you in time to see Rosaria come strolling in with a timid Barbara clutching the back of her cathedral robes.  She must not visit the Angel’s Share much, seeing as the hydro-user looks around with quick, nervous eyes.  When her eyes land on you they widen comically, her small hand darting out to steady herself on Rosaria’s forearm.
“Farewell, my Divinity,” “Safe travels, Divine One,” and “May the wind bless your travels, Your Grace,” follow your retreating form as you make the hike to Dragonspine.  
Honestly you aren’t certain where you’re heading.  If the other nations treat you the same as Mondstadt, that's a no-go.  You won’t know unless you go, though.  Maybe you should head the same route the Traveler would.  That would mean Dragonspine is your next destination.  
Who will you meet there?  Albedo…?  He’s the only one you can think of that stays there.
As you begin the trek you realize; he’s a research-type dude, you hesitate to say scientist, but he does experiments and such.  Perhaps, you can make use of yourself by giving your body up to him to work on.  Surely an undying body would greatly interest the research of life?
After a surprisingly simple search you find him and present your proposition.
“Absolutely not,” Albedo dismisses you without thought.  He doesn’t even bother to spare you a look.  “That is blasphemy of the highest order, I’d suggest giving that attitude up sooner rather than later.”
You flinch back at the words, taking a step back into the chill of Dragonspine.
“I can offer you sanctuary here if you seek it, but I will not harm you.”  
“That’s…” not at all what you want.  “That’s very kind of you to offer, but I must decline.”
His haunting blue eyes follow you down the snowy path to Liyue.  Once you are far too away to hear, he states calmly, “safe travels.”
As you walk down the icy paths lining the gravel streets you think… Albedo had rejected you just like that.  What’s the next step?
You might as well stop by Liyue Harbor, maybe meet some characters before… before maybe heading to Sumeru?  
Ahhah! It hits you then, the harbinger introduced in Sumeru: Il Dottore.  If Albedo had reservations, then Dottore would have none.
Even still, Liyue is a harbor.  You’re sure to find a way to Snezhnaya from there.
You almost get to the docks without drawing any attention to yourself.  Almost.
Your mistake laid in the fact that you passed the Golden House, the weekly Childe Boss fight.  In your defense you didn’t actually think he’d be in there.  And it’s not like you even went in, only going up the steps and around for a detour.  
And it was a quick route until a strangled gasp came from behind you, making you spin around in alarm.  There, Tartaglia stood, with pupils nearly the size of his gray-blue eyes, staring, completely enraptured by your visage.  Your knees buckle and you make to sprint, but your body is no match for a Fatui Harbinger.
In retrospect you’re not entirely sure what drove you to run, perhaps some fight or flight instinct buried inside of you.
His long hand wraps around your forearm, tugging you to a stop, you face him, and your face must portray your panic clearly because Tartaglia’s twists into sorrowful sympathy.
“My Divinity… it is an honor to meet you in the flesh.”
“Let go.”  He does, promptly so. 
“I’m sorry, I got ahead of myself.  May I ask where you are headed, and if you are in need of company?”
“No.  Thank you, Childe.” 
His face shifts into a serious look, nodding.  “Do you need an escort to Liyue then?  Is that where you’re heading?” 
“No.  I know where I’m going, and I much prefer to go alone.” It’s not entirely false, you know where you’re headed, just not how.
“Well… be safe, okay?  I hope to see you again.”
“I will.”  The lie comes out and you cringe, because its delivery falls flat and its so obviously untrue.
“Does Mr Zhongli know you’re here?  Surely you’re here to see Morax?” He strolls to your other side, offering a hand to lead you to the city.  You ignore the hand.
“Goodbye, Tartaglia.”
“I can’t let you leave alone in good conscience…. You don’t seem well.  Let me lead you to the harbor at least.”
Since he is as unmoving as stone, you let him take you to the main city, managing to ditch him before more people can know about your presence.
The boats docked at Liyue Harbor are hopeful.  “Where is this ship headed?” you ask one of the dock workers.  They look up at your voice before glancing at the ship they’re loading up with lumber.
“Snezhnaya.” They say glancing up at the grand vessel.  “Why?  Where’re you tryna go, friend?”  
“Snezhnaya.  How much does the fare cost, one way?”
“News of your travels have reached Snezhnaya, Divine One.”  Dottore starts, fixing his posture from a lean on a surgical table to something more proper.  You shake your head, the weariness you’ve accumulated on your journey weighing down on you.  You’re finally where you deserve to be.
“I’m not the Divine One you speak of, Dottore.”
“Hm?  Do you think so little of my intelligence?  Your presence is unmistakable.”
“No, it’s not that.  But I’m not.  I’m just a regular person.  And I came to you for a reason.”
“Oh?  The Creator themself, seeking me out?  It’s an honor,” the doctor bows to you, smirking at you from beneath his beaklike mask.
“I need you to hurt me.”
“What?”  He pulls himself up with a startled question.  “I’m afraid I misheard you, Divine One.”
“I can’t die, Dottore.  I’m giving myself to you, you…” you heave a sigh as you explain your reasoning.  “You could make use of me.  I’m not whoever you think I am, please just take me.  I don’t care what you do to me.”
“You’re… giving yourself to me?”  
“Yes.”
“Do you know what happens to my… patients?”
“Yes, that's why I’m here.  I can’t die, I imagine I would make a good test subject.”
“Is this a test?”  Dottore seems to be speaking to himself more than anything.  He pushes away from the table and paces to the back room of the lab, muttering madly to himself as he does so.  The door swings open with a loud screeching and you catch sight of multiple mops of blue hair and masks.  
His Segments.
You can hear a conversation ongoing between all of the parts of Zandik, it seems he doesn’t want to be rash and take you in too hastily.  You can understand his (their?) hesitancy; if a god offered themselves up to you, you would surely think it was a trap.  But you aren’t a god, so it should be a no brainer for him.  How often does he get consenting test subjects?
It seems this absurd idea of you being a higher power has infiltrated Snezhnaya as well, which is… not good. Everyone is saying you’re more than what you are, you can’t be a god, you barely consider yourself a human.
An older, completely unmasked Segment sticks his head out of the door, frowning once he makes eye contact with you.  There’s gray leaking from his roots into the teal of Dottore’s hair, and visible aging lines on his face; crows feet and tension on his cheekbones.  Glowing red eyes narrow upon meeting your own, mouth pulling into a tight line.
A younger segment, smaller in size and stature, with a nearly full face mask, only showing part of his mouth.  You think that is the one that the Fandom surrounding him dubbed Webttore.  You usually see pictures of him with a wide, jagged-tooth smile, but, like his older part, he looks solemn.
You wonder just how many Segments Il Dottore has, because you can still hear an entire conversation going on without the two.
The conversation seems to be dying down, not ending without a few red eyes peeking out from behind the door at you.  It’s surreal seeing so many versions of the same person at once; the youthful ones, eyes wide, and the older ones with wrinkles built with time and age, all at the same moment in time.
Eventually though, they do seem to come to a verdict: the Omega segment, the one you met upon walking into his lab, exits, closing the door behind him with a click that resonates through the room.
His answer is a simple word.  “No.”
Your heart drops and stomach sinks at the rejection, and based on il Dottore’s reaction it must show.  “Why?” your voice is small and sounds foreign to your own ears.
“I cannot forsake the true god in such a way, whether you acknowledge it or not, you have that power.”
All the turmoil and hardships it took to get here come crashing down, the light at the end of the tunnel is rejecting you.  You hadn’t known this was something that could happen, your… your savior, the one you were looking for is telling you no.  He won’t lay a finger on you, and it’s tearing you apart.  This was the only thing that kept you from burying yourself in the deep forest of Sumeru and letting yourself rot.
“Oh.” It’s shaky and you nod, trying to take it maturely.  “I see.”  Your voice is warbling like you're on the verge of tears.  Blinking rapidly to dispel the water from your eyes, you lower your head and make to scamper out of the lab.
Dottore lets out a heavy sigh, and his leather gloves wrap around your wrist.
“Wait.”  You nervously glance up at his mask.
“You said you would ‘give yourself to me,’ no?”
Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, “yes.”  Has he suddenly changed his mind? You shouldn't get your hopes up.
“I will take you.  I doubt you will appreciate my intentions, but if I were to own you, you wouldn’t be able to complain.  After all, you will have done it to yourself.”
You don’t know what those words mean, but the stinging rejection welling up in your eyes turns to relief. “Thank you,” he doesn’t stop you from dashing to his side and wrapping your arms around his waist.  You press your face into his abdomen, letting his clothes soak up your tears.  A hesitant hand rubs over your spine, an effort to soothe you.
You pull yourself together, sucking in a deep breath of the sterile lab air.  
“Alright,” Dottore says after he deems you put together enough.  “Come.”  His hand covers your wrist, gently tugging you behind him.  You aren’t sure where he is leading you, as he takes you out of the lab.  The halls are tall and gorgeously crafted, intermittent with intricate moldings on the wall.  
It’s a small room you find yourself in, but it is infinitely better than the wilderness.  The size is comparable to an average hotel room.  Dottore instructs you to sit and stay on the bed, which you do obediently.  Nerves swirl inside of you, as to where he has gone and what he will bring back with - when he will return, if at all.
Il Dottore knows.  While he is not well versed on human, much less godly, psychology, he can tell you’re depressed when you first stumbled your way into his workstation. Besides, he’d be hard pressed to deny the rumors from various agents that had been located in places you’d traveled through.
With a small caddy in his hands Dottore kneels next to the nightstand and places a hand on your shoulder to force you to lay down.  “Arm.”  Is what he prompts for you to let him maneuver your arm to lay open and flat over the edge of the bed. 
The scent of alcohol alerts you to the sanitary wipe before you feel the chill of it.  You keep your eyes trained on the ceiling as you feel the slight pinch of a needle  and a clicking as an IV is deposited into your arm.  Out of the corner of your eye you see Dottore set up a drip, but you don’t bother to ask what it is, the excitement of the day catching up with you.
Il Dottore eventually leaves the room in silence after pushing an odd vial of liquid into the drip, not bothering to look behind him as he closes the door and leaves with confident strides.
Although it’s entirely possible it’s simply the Placebo Effect, as the drip spreads throughout your veins you can feel your eyes getting heavier and heavier.  Before long you can no longer keep them open and slip into a dreamless sleep.
You wake up to a Mirror Maiden tidying up the nightstand next to you.  You observe her work, wondering how she can manage to navigate with the blind pulled over her eyes.  She startles when she catches your eyes on her, though returns back to work, quietly disposing of the used needles from earlier.  You wonder what The Doctor has injected you with; wonder if he added more of whatever it is while you were unconscious.
There’s a brisk, impatient knock on the door and the Maiden straightens up, taking hold of everything to discard and striding over to change positions with Tartaglia behind the door.
You stay flat on your back, looking at the ginger in mild surprise.  Last you saw him he was in Liyue and set to stay for quite a while.  Had he heard you gave yourself away to Il Dottore?   Is he here to plead for you to change your mind?
But to your bemusement he stays quiet, walking over to and kneeling next to your bed.  Instead of speaking he merely rests his head on the nightstand, dull blue eyes gazing at you sadly, yet reverently.
You’re unsure of how long you look up at the ceiling, doing your best to ignore Tartaglia’s eyes on you.  His gaze is unwavering, and eventually, you turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry for my behavior in Liyue.  I was too excited to see you, and my manners deserted me.”
“It’s okay.” You croak, throat dry from sleep.  “I was dismissive as well.”
Dottore doesn’t bother to knock when he comes in.
“I see you’re awake and seem to have found a stray harbinger.”
Tartaglia doesn’t react to his entrance, merely moving to the far end of the bed, laying his head on the covers near your feet.  You realize someone has drapped a plain, solid color duvet over your body when you slept. 
“Are you feeling anything out of the ordinary?” Dottore asks, checking the emptied IV bag.  He unclips it and pulls a fresh one from his lab coat pocket.
You take the moment to assess (how do you spell it) your body.  In all honesty you’re feeling much better, the hydration from the drip really made a difference.
“I feel hydrated.”
Dottore hums, he sounds disinterested.  “How’s your appetite? Can you stomach anything for me?”  He clips a new bag onto the pole, screwing it into your IV’s tube. “Stand if you can.” 
Dottore’s eyes watch you intensely behind his mask, observing how you tremble when you put a leg onto the floor.  “Childe, help them and follow me.”
Tartaglia scrambles to steady your arm as you fully get out of the bed, wrapping the one without the needle in it around his shoulder to support you.  You stiffen, but aren’t in any position to be able to get around without him, not with the emptiness of your stomach and the way black fades into your vision when you stand.  “Get them to the restroom, take care of their needs.  I will return with what they will eat.”
“Come on, I got you,” Tartaglia assures as he leads you to the ensuite restroom. It’s nothing too fancy; simply a sink, shower, and toilet.
You eye the toilet, realizing how long it’s been since you’ve relieved yourself.  A shower would also be nice…
“Allow me to assist you, Divine One,” Tartaglia remains stoic and respectful as he shimmies your pants and underwear down your legs, letting you support yourself on his broad shoulders as you step out of the pant holes.  After making sure you get to the toilet safely he turns around and starts the shower faucet.
The sound of the water helps you get over your pee shyness and by the time Tartaglia finishes soaking and preparing a cloth for you, you’ve finished and are ready to bathe.
With weak arms you gather the hem of your shirt in your hands and remove the remainder of your clothes.
Tartaglia helps you get clean with warm, respectful touches, passing you the cloth for you to clean more intimate areas, before helping you out of the shower and wrapping a large, soft towel around your body.  It’s huge, covering the top of your bust to well past mid-calf, looping around your body almost twice.  He tucks the towel tightly with practiced precision. 
“Il Dottore will be back soon, I’ll help you get dressed before he returns.  Do you have any material preferences?”
You sit up in bed, feeling marginally better than the day before.  The day after that, and the day after that all proceed in a similar fashion; each time you feel just a little bit better.  More clear headed, a better appetite, less like a corpse walking.
Only after Dottore deems you well enough to remove the IV do you get your suspicions that it was more than just the proper nutrition making you feel better.  He still stops by your room twice a day for some shots; he encouraged you to choose where he would deposit them (when you said into your brain or through your chest, it did not amuse him).  It feels suspiciously like the antidepressants you’ve been on before.  
It only further confuses you, though.  Does he want you in a proper state of mind for something?  He has no reason other than unfounded faith to help you, you don’t like it.  It’s … uncomfortable receiving this type of care, knowing it’s only because they think you're better than who you really are.
The food they feed you, the clothes they dress you in, it's all much more than you deserve.
“What are you doing to me?”
“Pardon?” Dottore sets the syringe down with a metallic click.  Through his mask you can feel his gaze on you.
“You’re… you’re trying to— to…” the words fail you.
“Mitigate your depressive symptoms?  Yes, I am.  What of it?”  Il Dottore picks the syringe back up, pushing the knob back before stabbing it into the vial in his hand. He pulls the liquid up with ease before removing the needle and pushing to remove the excess air in the syringe.
“Why?”
“Hm?  Why would I not?”  He flicks the syringe and some liquid flies from the point of the needle.
“If I were anyone else you wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Indeed.”
“Haven’t you realized by now that I’m not who you think I am?  That I’m just a normal human in a horrible situation of being unable to die?”
“That is not so.  Your skin cultures and biopsy results do not share that conclusion.  Even if you continue to deny your god-hood, it changes nothing. I know for certain who you are, and you will remain in my care until you utilize your divine right to revoke such.”
Biopsy? When on Earth — Teyvat? — did that happen?  But there’s more important things to discuss with him for now, not that you care how or when it happened.  You’re more surprised you never noticed, that’s all.
“You’re wrong!”  You wail, tears finally coming for the first time in a while.  You had thrown your head back to speak, but now you collapse in on yourself with your head between your arms and legs.  It’s humid, but saves you from having to look at the doctor and his unreadable bird mask.
“Oh my,” you hear Dottore murmur, then he sets his medical supplies to the side and places a hand on your shoulder. He remains there while you sob, when finally the lack of speech seems to reach the boiling point, he heaves a sigh.  “If it is of any consolation, if it were to come to my attention that you are not in any way godly or divine, I would treat you the same.  I’ve put far too much care into you to just toss you aside..”
That consoles you, if only a little, damn the drugs making you want to continue life to see the future.   But you broke the dam of tears, and it’ll take a while for them to stop; you need to cry out everything that led you here….
Your… attempt that put you in Teyvat, the one you tried right after arrival, the false death, all the eyes and praise that aren’t meant for you.  It’s dysphoric.  
The lurches of your body with your cries, stitches your sides and you sniffle harder into the crevice your body makes, the moisture of the confined body space blending in with your tears.
“There now,” Dottore says, quieter as you get so as well.  “Perhaps some more rest will do you good.  I’ll be at the ready whenever you wake.”
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warmblanketwhump · 3 months
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cold dialogue starters
dialogue for your cold-ridden whumpee:
"I’ve got chills all over."
“I think the cold got in my bones."
"I’m never gonna be warm again."
"Will you hold me? Please? I’m freezing.”
"I can't stop shivering."
"I just can’t get warm enough."
"I’m fine, really - just chilled and achy.”
"Can you get me another blanket?"
"Is it cold in here or is it just me?"
"Just...just lay next to me. You're warm and I'm cold."
“I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve felt shivery all morning.”
“Can I just…sit next to the fire a little longer? Please? I’m frozen.”
“I’ll feel better once I can wrap up.”
aaaand dialogue for your caretaker;
“Love, I think you’ve got the chills.”
“Still shivering?”
“Oh honey, you look frozen through.”
“C’mere. Of course I’ll warm you up.”
“Are you warm enough.”
“Poor thing—you must be chilled to the bone.”
“You’ve been shivering since we got home - are you feeling okay?”
“Let’s get you a blanket.”
“You’ve got to stay wrapped up, sweetheart, or you’ll get chilled.”
“C’mon, you, get under the covers. We’ll get you warm.”
“I see you shivering.”
“Get closer to the fire, love. There you go, that's better.”
please feel free to add more!!!
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autisticlancemcclain · 8 months
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Lance knows he talks way too fucking much.
He started talking at seven months old. He never stopped. It was his older brother Marco, he thinks, who first called him Motormouth, but honestly he doesn’t remember. He’s been called that and Lancito Lorito longer than he can remember.
He loved the nickname, when he was little. His brothers or sisters or cousins or parents would groan, playfully, when they saw the look in his eyes, but always indulged his constant lectures and ideas and rambling. Motormouth meant you talk a lot but I like to listen. Motormouth meant I know you enough to have a trait I associate with you. Motormouth meant fondness and teasing and care. He loved that name.
When he was seven years old, one of his friends tugged her older sister over to where Lance was colouring with sidewalk chalk on the pavement.
“Look,” she’d said, gesturing to Lance but not talking to him. Lance had looked up from his chalk and smiled at her, opening his mouth to say hello but was interrupted by the subtle elbow she’s jammed into her sister’s side, and her muttered, “Watch this.”
“Hey, Motormouth,” she’d said, and Lance grinned, feeling something warm bloom in his stomach at her use of the nickname, oblivious to the choked-back laughter of the sister. “What was that thing you were talking about earlier? About the comet?”
If at all possible, Lance had brightened further, dropping the chalk and dusting off his hands as he’d launched into an explanation about the comet he’d been tracking with his dad. It was supposed to be visible for the first time in thousands of years that month, and he’d been buzzing with excitement about it. He talked about it to everyone who even appeared like they were maybe going to ask him about it. He’s rambled about it to the cashier at the grocery store the evening before.
“Just look at him,” his friend’s sister had said, something almost like awe in her voice, but not quite. Lance faltered, trailing off mid-sentence. “You were right. He’s like a wind-up toy.”
“Mo-tor-mouth,” his friend had said, in a distinct, sing-songy voice. “I told you I could make him do it on command.”
The girls burst into giggles. Lance had looked around, hesitantly, and found a number of his classmates giggling to themselves, at him or not he didn’t know, but he did know that he felt, distinctly, like he was in a zoo, and his friend was not his friend but a keeper who’d brought spectators to observe him and his freakish oddness.
Motormouth had felt, for the first time, like the insult he didn’t know it had always been. He felt trapped.
He’s grown since then. He’s no longer seven years old and oblivious to the fact that some people are quietly cruel. He knows the warning signs, now, of when someone is mocking him, of when he’s being treated like a pet, like an amusing little weirdo to cart around and show off. He knows the difference now between amusement and endearment.
But that feeling, that realization. The brick-to-the-face understanding that he was wrong about how other people cared about him the whole time he loved them.
He has never been able to un-know that.
———
He and Keith have a system. Lance starts work earlier, and is home earlier too, so he makes dinner for them. Keith cleans up after, crawling into bed next to a half-asleep Lance if they eat late enough. Sometimes, though, Keith gets home early, finished a repair faster than he’d anticipated, and decides he wants to make them supper for a change. Today Lance sits on the counter, kicking his legs and eating half the vegetables Keith has cut, grinning every time Keith lets him get away with it.
“…And there was this one woman who came on the trails today, babe, I swear to God, she’s the same nightmare lady you had to deal with a couple months ago. You remember that?”
Keith hums, hiking up one shoulder.
“The cooking oil lady. Who threw her baby’s rattle at your head because you told her you couldn’t put canola oil in her engine to make things cheaper.”
Keith snorts. “Oh, that nightmare.”
“Yeah!” Lance says, muffled by the four slices of bell pepper he’s shoved in his mouth at once. Keith stares flatly at him and smacks his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and he walks over to the fridge to grab a new pepper without a word of admonishment. Loser.
Lance doesn’t say anything for a moment, following a new, bell-pepper related thought, and startled slightly when Keith clears his throat slightly and prompts, “You met cooking oil lady?”
“Oh yeah! On the trails today. We had to shut down one of them because Selena — remember the red wolf I told you about? The one who sings the loudest in her pack and has the reddest fur? I named her Selena after the singer, yeah, you remember — had her cubs the other day! So she’s super duper extra protective of the whole area, basically, and so is the rest of the pack, so humans going near their area is going to freak them out and that’s not fair to anybody. Hey, did you know red wolves are monogamous? Most wolf species are but red wolves especially show a really strong family unit. It’s really cute, actually, Selena her mate always go on wolf dates and stuff and terrorize the park-goers —”
“Trail,” Keith redirects gently, turning off the burner and scooping their food into two plates. He grabs them both, flicking Lance’s hand away, and sets them at the kitchen island, arranging the plates so they’re sat next to each other instead of across.
“Right, trail,” Lance says. As soon as he sits down and starts to eat, one of Keith’s hands comes to rest on his thigh, palm curving around the inner flesh and fingertips resting gently on the ankle tucked under it. He moves his thumb back and forth slowly, not to instigate, just to touch. Lance leans against him without even thinking about it.
“So. Trial closed. Not even that busy of a trail, honestly. One of the least popular ones. But this lady shows up, stroller in camo and packed to the nines like a fuckin, tactical mom, or something, and starts just hauling ass down the trail, breezing past the closed sign. And I’m like.” He points his fork in Keith’s direction, so he can Get The Vibe. His boyfriend smiles into his stir fry. “I mean, I didn’t want to be the one to handle her. But no one else did, either, and let me tell you she was hauling fucking ass down that trail, and I didn’t want her to actually disturb Selena or anything, so I had be like ma’am. Please. The sign very clearly says closed. And she ignored me, so I just stopped in front of her, and then she started screaming at me! All about how she has been to this trail all the time and she’s a loyal park-goer and it’s a public park, as if that means anything. I seriously thought she was never going to stop.”
He hears the irony as soon as he says it. I thought she was never going to stop. He’s like a wind-up toy. He manages to stop himself from tensing, barely, diverting into something like a twitch. He’s aware suddenly that he has been talking nonstop from essentially the second he walked in the front door and was delighted to find Keith’s boots already at the door, hear the quiet clanking of him in the kitchen. He can’t even remember if he’d bothered saying hello, or if he’d just launched right into whatever word salad was on his mind. God, did he even start with a full sentence? He does that sometimes, he just starts from the middle of his own thoughts like anyone would have any idea what he’s talking about, he’s honestly just kind of obsessed with the sound of his own voice, he thinks, he must be, because he just never stops, does he —
“I hope I die first.”
Lance blinks. He looks over at his boyfriend, wondering if he spaced out long enough that his brain just made something the fuck up to get him back on track (wouldn’t be the first time).
“…Pardon?”
Keith continues to eat, unbothered, casual. He’s not even feigning casualness, either — he tends to half-lid his eyes when he’s pretending something doesn’t bother him. He’s completely at ease, right now, hand still warm and heavy on Lance’s thigh.
“Sometimes I just think about how there’s a possibility that you’ll die before me, I guess.” He turns to Lance, finally, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. That was emo. I just…you go silent, sometimes, and I’m worried I’ll have to miss every time you spoke.”
Lance doesn’t know what to say. For once, his revving engines are completely silent. He sits there, frozen, staring almost blankly at his plate. Keith is humming quietly to himself, something ridiculous and made-up. They’re still in each other’s spaces, the two of them, and so Lance knows Keith feels it when he shudders, slightly, as a lump grows in his throat, as he desperately blinks away the tears in his eyes.
Keith turns his head slightly to press a kiss to Lance’s hair. He holds his face there, lips pressed to Lance’s skin, soft exhales blowing strands of Lance’s curls.
“What’s wrong, Motormouth?” Keith murmurs. The concern is evident in his voice, and maybe some panic, too, like he’s worried he’s the reason Lance is upset.
Lance smiles. A tear escapes from the corner of his eye an burns a trail down his cheek. He wipes it, quickly, swiping a hand across his face before resting it on the hand that Keith still holds on his leg. Keith flips his hand palm-side up so he can interlock their fingers together. If he feels the wetness of the wiped tears, he doesn’t say anything, only their squeezes their hands together three times in quick succession.
There is no mistaking the fondness bleeding from Keith’s voice. There is no mistaking amusement for endearment, here.
Lance can be annoying. He knows he can. And he no doubt has moments where he annoys Keith, even. But he’s not seven, anymore. He knows to watch for the signs. And for whatever he can’t catch — he’ll just have to trust.
“Nothing,” he whispers, turning his head to catch Keith’s mouth against his. “It’s just nice to…know, I guess, that you love me.”
Keith hums, kissing back, reaching his free hand up to curl around Lance’s cheek, holding him gently. “Good. Don’t forget.”
———
based on this post
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Text
Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts
Part III
"We will get through this. Together."
"You can hold my hand, if it makes you feel safer."
"It will become easier. Maybe not today, but soon."
"Lay your head on my shoulder and try to sleep."
"There is nothing wrong with needing a bit of help."
"I'm here for you. Today, tomorrow and every day after."
"Please trust me to help you."
"Thank you for getting me through this."
"I'm really hoping to see you smile again soon."
"Nothing a good night's sleep can't fix."
"Show me that bruise please."
"I'm taking care of you now."
"Do you feel safe enough to come with me?"
"Let's dry those tears and get you some water."
"I'm going to be here when you wake up."
"This will all soon be in the past."
"Can I please hold your hand?"
"Sorry, I'm being so difficult for you."
"Don't apologize for needing help every now and then."
"Let's get you in the shower and we'll take it from there."
Hurt/Comfort Masterpost
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whumpster-dumpster · 7 months
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Hand Holding Whump
Squeezing a hand for support through pain
Stroking a hand to soothe the sting of an IV
Pinning hands so they can be strapped down
Holding hands not to get separated while running
Bringing a hand up to kiss bruised/bloody knuckles
Gripping as tight as they can to pull them up from a fall
Grabbing hands desperately as others try to pull them apart
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scarredlove · 3 months
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Tumblr media
"You are ok..."
POV: Y/N is sick
Part 1/ Part 2
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jordanstrophe · 7 months
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"Hey,"
"Wake up."
Whumpee felt someone lightly shake them by the shoulder.
"Come on, I need you to stand."
Their arm was grabbed and they were pulled to their feet. They whimpered in response, having yet to open their eyes.
"That's it, arm over my shoulder, there you go." The voice was beginning to sound familiar, but the recent blow to their head made most of it incomprehensible.
"Can you take a step?" They corrected a stumble and tried pulling them forwards. The voice then sighed, muttered 'this isn't working'.
Suddenly whumpee was hoisted over their shoulders. They clung to the back of their jacket up side-down for what felt like dear life. They were held gently, like they were the most precious fragile thing this world has ever known.
"I know you're scared and confused; but I won't ever hurt you. You know me, I promise"
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