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thecreaturecalledriza · 2 years

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The last thing Stede expected to see first thing in the morning was a strange man climbing aboard and another vessel sitting pretty, side to side with the Revenge. The Swede was supposed to have been on watch, was supposed to have called out a warning for approaching vessels. Stede was beginning to think the Swede had fallen asleep on watch.

The man, dressed almost as finely as Stede, glanced up after brushing himself off and straightening his coat. “Ah,” the man said, offering up a winning smile, “good morning, friend.”

“Good morning. Er. Who are you?” Stede dearly hoped this wouldn’t be a repeat of the Calico Jack incident. The man gave a flourishing bow and introduced himself, “Captain Sam Bellamy, at your service.” Stede started to give his own bow when he stopped himself. He shouldn’t be so pleasant to this strange man who could just be here to cause problems.

“Captain Stede Bonnet, Gentleman Pirate,” he returned. The man—Sam—stood straight again, looking tall and proud and unfairly handsome for such an early hour. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you,” Sam said easily, running a keen eye over Stede. Stede couldn’t help but perk up at the words.

“Oh, have you?”

“Indeed. And I was hoping I could get your assistance, my good man.” Sam stepped closer, clapping a hand heavy with rings over Stede’s shoulder. “See, I have reason to believe my darling husband is aboard your fine ship, and I’d rather like to find him. We’ve been apart for an unfortunately long time, you see, and I do miss him terribly.”

Husband. Husband? Who on earth could this man be referring to? Not Edward, surely? A frisson of anxiety twisted through Stede’s stomach. This was worse than the Calico Jack incident if that was the case. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden racket and accompanied yelling cut him off. Good lord, Izzy was at it already?

Stede had an apology all ready to go. “You’ll have to forgive the noise, I’m afraid. The first mate is a rather bad tempered fellow and we can’t seem to break him of his habit of yelling at the crew.”

Sam tilted his head in askance. “Oh? And who is this first mate of yours?”

“Izzy,” Stede grumbled out.

“Izzy?”

“Yes, Izzy Hands.”

Sam made a face, brow furrowed and nose wrinkling. Stede couldn’t blame the man. Izzy’s temper and propensity for overusing obscenities had a long reaching reputation. Before Stede could offer any further apologies, Sam Bellamy started marching himself toward the stairs leading to the hold where Izzy was screaming at what sounded like the top of his lungs.

As he passed Stede could hear him muttering something about, “… can’t believe he’s still letting that arsehole call him that…”

XXX

There was a migraine already blossoming behind Izzy’s eyes. The last thing he wanted to see when he’d gone to start his day checking the stores was Lucius and Pete, tangled up asleep and very, very naked. Again.

Izzy was so incredibly tempted to kick them both awake, and damn the consequences to himself. It would upset Bonnet and that would upset Edward, and Izzy would end up suffering just because he didn’t want to have to guess if whatever supplies he had to get into were tainted with… fluids.

So he settled with screaming at them. It would still probably get him in trouble, but not as much as physical violence would. Izzy still got some satisfaction, watching the two startle and scramble up.

He would have gone on, was just drawing in a breath to let loose another round of vitriol when another voice called out from the stairs behind him.

“Are those the dulcet tones of my sweet, darling husband I hear?”

Izzy froze, eyes wide. All the breath went out of him in a rush. He hadn’t heard that voice in years. Had he finally gone off and lost his mind? Was he hearing ghosts now? Izzy brought a hand up to touch the ring at his throat.

He forgot all about Lucius and Pete. Izzy turned slowly, terrified of what he might see, but unable to help himself.

There, standing in the doorway, backlit by the grey light of dawn and looking regal as ever, was Sam fucking Bellamy.

“Sam…” Izzy breathed, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

Sam gave him a handsome smile and moved toward him. “Israel, my darling.” His dark eyes were soft and sparkling as he reached for Izzy with his big, jewel bedecked hands.

Izzy couldn’t do anything but stand there as Sam leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. Oh. Sam was here. He was really here. Warm and real and alive.

Izzy punched him solidly in the gut.

Sam doubled over with a wheeze, curling his fingers into Izzy’s shirt to steady himself. Izzy noticed Stede in the doorway then, looking more than a little shell shocked.

“I deserved that,” Sam groaned. “No fucking shit!” Izzy yelled back, voice strained around the lump in his throat. “I thought you were fucking dead you piece of shit! What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking fucker!?” He flung his arms out to beat at Sam, bearing his teeth in a snarl.

Sam caught his wrists, grip firm but gentle. “I know, my darling, I know.” His not so dead husband’s voice was painfully soft. “And I am so, dreadfully sorry.”

He released one of Izzy’s wrists to cup the side of his face, and fuck, Izzy couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch for anything. “Not yet, you’re not,” Izzy choked out.

He didn’t mean it. He was perfectly ready to fall into Sam’s arms and stay there, if not for their little audience.

Sam seemed to remember, too, that they weren’t alone. “Israel, my darling, my beloved, come with me back to the Whydah. Please? Even just for a few hours, just to talk.”

Izzy turned his face further into Sam’s hand, closed his eyes, and sighed. It would t be just talking. He knew it wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. “Yeah,” Izzy murmured after a beat, “yeah, alright.”

He couldn’t say no to Sam. That was how he ended up married to the man in the first place, after all.

Izzy let Sam slide an arm around his waist, let himself be led up the stairs and eventually off the Revenge to go be properly reacquainted with his husband.

XXX

Down in the hold, Stede, Lucius and Pete were left stunned as they watched Izzy be led away, docile as a lamb.

“That definitely happened, right?” Lucius finally said when he found his voice again. “Like, I didn’t just imagine that whole thing?”

“Was anybody going to tell us Izzy’s name was actually Israel,” Pete started, scratching at his head in thought, “or were we just supposed to find that out ourselves? From his husband, apparently. Also who was that guy?”

Stede blinked and shook himself, trying to come to terms himself with what he’d just witnessed. “He um. He said his name was Sam Bellamy, I believe.”

Pete’s jaw practically hit the floor. “No way. No fucking way!” Lucius pushed at his shoulder, demanding, “What, babe what is it?”

“Izzy’s husband is THE Prince of Pirates! The richest, handsomest pirate like ever!”

Stede fell back into stunned silence as Lucius and Pete tittered to each other. The Prince of Pirates? And Izzy? It just boggles the mind. He didn’t think anyone could be attracted to Izzy, angry little thing that he was, let alone enough to get married to him.

And then he had another thought, stomach twisting again. What was he supposed to tell Ed when he woke up?

#Bellhands #izzy hands #sam bellamy #ofmd #yes sam is matt berry #I saw a post about that once and integrated that into my belief system #This idea randomly came to me in the shower #It is some nebulous time after the stede ed reunion

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kbirbpods · 4 months

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and, we're live!

Time for my 2023 stats round up.

First, let's look at the number of hours/minutes per month, shall we?

All of that account for 59 hours & 11 minutes of podfic. Now, comparing to last year, when I had just shy of 31 hours, that looks pretty good. Remember, last year I started in August so I almost doubled it.

We do notice a dip in March & April, which tend to be busy months in the education world. The spike in May is due to Voiceteam. June-August are a bit odd - you'd think a teacher on break would have more time to create. But I had some life stuff hit and it really destroyed my brain.

So, here's my first 2024 Resolution:

Remember how happy podfic makes you & don't let your depression win.

Now, moving on to the breakdowns and fun stuff, shall we?

Here are my top 5 fandoms, authors, ratings, and genres! I also have them in bar chart form and pie chart form, which I'll put below the cut. You'll see a slight difference in the author category -- I didn't include myself or Flowerparrish and my podcast in that as those weren't authors.

Of course, what is podficcing without making covers you love? Here are my favorite covers I made for my own podfics! I have a migraine so please excuse the fact that the images don't line up, vision is blurry:

Now, let's move on to my stats image from above. I used the same format as last year but since I made over 100 more podfic than last year, each microphone now equals five podfics.

As you can see, I participated in a lot of events! I believe I made the most audio for Voiceteam 2022 (as evidenced by my hours/month graph). This was my first year doing Voiceteam and I had a blast. I also got to do Podtogether & Summer Swap for the first time. It was my 2nd year doing ITPE. And then so much more.

My top kudosed collaborative project was "A Fair Compromise" with @wanderingjedihistorian for 212th Appreciation week. My top kudosed solo project was "A Game of Guess Who With Big Blue" by TheWitchBoy. The longest podfic I made was also with @wanderingjedihistorian and was my podfic of our Codywan Big Bang project! My shortest was a Locked Tomb podfic at 57 seconds called Realization.

My first podfic of 2023 was Hot Cocoa by Melime, a "The Batman" podfic. In the middle was Dissipate by SunsetsOverLA for Waxer*Boil month. And the last posted thing was for @fandomtrumpshate, for my top bidder - an Obi-Wan/Jango soulmates AU.

Now, on to 2024! My resolutions are:

To continue working on current WIPs I'm bringing into 2024 - some of which I've already tied up only 5 days into the year

To podfic even when my brain is being a gremlin, because podfic makes me happy and I should be able to focus on that!

To be brave enough to post the first "Soft Wars" podfic and finally tackle the series (kind of the same as resolution #1)

Not to sign up for Big Bangs -- I love them dearly but they actually caused a lot of my burnout this year and I didn't love that. As much as I love collabs, I think I'll stick to Podtogether, multivoices with friends, and gift exchanges this year!

Close the gaps -- aka, as much as I love Clone Wars, I want to focus on all things I love, instead of overbearingly focusing in on one.

Going into 2024, I am going to start tracking what music I use in my podfics, because I was curious about it / @flowerparrish inspired me. I also found a way to track overall Star Wars and then Star Wars broken down into sub fandoms - that should neaten up my "top 5" category a bit.

Happy New Year, all!

And, as mentioned above, screenshots of my actual graphs & tables, for interest sake!

#podfic #podficcer #podficcing #awesome ladies podfic anthology #itpe #itpe 23 #fandom trumps hate #kaje pods #kbirb pods #podfic stats #wanderingjedihistorian #blackkat #flowerparrish #voiceteam #voiceteam mystery box

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 1 month

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I've talked a lot about how I can't wait until the John Robins level of competitiveness and intensity gets featured on Taskmaster, but I'm not sure I've made it clear enough yet that I am also excited just to see the skillset. Quick and lateral thinking is probably one of the most significant fundamental skills that comes up across Taskmaster tasks, and he's really good at it, and when I say I think he'll win I don't mean just because he's my favourite, I mean he's my favourite because I love his comedy and will enjoy watching his playing style, and as a separate issue from that, I think he's going to win due to being better than everyone else at the tasks.

Just heard a Made-Up Game that I believe illustrates this. Relevant to know that it's a running discussion that Elis James is really really into football and John Robins prefers other sports, follow football only casually. Which has come up before in these games, the time when John Robins started a feature of reading out excerpts from his old diary (which are amazingly horrifying, that's a whole other post), got so upset about doing so that he immediately contracted a migraine, probably. In that he started complaining of a bad headache, made them stop to turn off all the lights in the studio, asked if it's normal to "feel like I'm not here", asked if anyone else saw that flashing light, to which the poor interm producer said "No" while sounding fairly afraid that the radio station was going to fall apart on his watch because this happened while the normal producer was on holiday, and Elis started sounding genuinely panicked that he'd have to broadcast by himself. And in the middle of this, they played a Made-Up Game that based on guessing things about football stadiums, which is Elis James' special source of interest and John's casual one at absolute best, and John still won the game 3-0. Incredible showing. I was so impressed. The cut to a track and came back and he was able to keep broadcasting. It was fine.

Anyway, a few episodes later they did another game that John won so easily that afterward, he offered to play another round but base this one on football players to significantly stack it in Elis' favour, and still took the round easily.

I mean, it definitely makes a difference that Elis James is very, very bad at quick thinking. Elis definitely makes John look quick. I somewhat recently listened to John's first few appearances on the Pappy's podcast, where he got into some back-and-forths with people who are not Elis James, and the difference was noticable, Elis definitely makes John look quick. But even on those Pappy's podcasts, John still sounded fairly quick (impressive, I think, considering that he was clearly very drunk in both of them), just not totally unchallenged as he is on home turf. Quick thinking and ability to accurately size up factors to make a good guess is such a transferable skill. Nick Mohammed has the wildly strong memory skills, and I'm hoping they'll give him a chance to show those off on Taskmaster, but I have to hope that because not every task requires it. While John Robins has skills that I don't have to hope come up in the season, because those are fundamental to almost every Taskmaster task.

So I would like to make it clear that I will not just be enjoying the comedic stylings of John Robins on Taskmaster, I will be backing him like he's my favourite sports team as I believe in his abilities, and will get upset if he doesn't win. Not just if he doesn't win the whole thing, I'll get upset every time he doesn't win a task. Everyone get ready for that. I'm nailing my colours to the mast on that right now. It's going to be an exciting ten weeks.

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bihanspookies · 4 months

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Alora Moveset:

Intro: Alora, no emotion, cracks her knuckles and rolls her neck before eyeing her opponent up and down in a condescending manner.

X-Ray: Alora grabs her dagger from her side, flips it into the air and catches it before repeatedly stabbing into the opponents neck. As they fall to their knees she delivers a harsh front kick to the face (breaking their skull). They fall on their back and cry out a weak ‘no’ before Alora stomps down on their neck, crushing the windpipe.

Round Win Taunt:

Close: Alora shakes her head disapprovingly and spits blood out before walking away, muttering “I don’t have time for this”.

Far: Alora takes a dagger out to inspect it, scoffing and cleaning it on her shirt as she says “You got blood on my shit”.

Round Lose Taunt:

Alora gets to one knee and punches the floor in frustration, cracking the ground and then standing to her feet.

Fatalities:

Practice Dummy(Close): Alora throws her two daggers into the opponents feet to keep them standing up. She shifts her neck side to side before sending a devastating blow to the opponents face. The force knocks them back so hard that they bounce off the floor and back up right into another harsh punch. It goes on several more times until the final punch goes straight through the face, leaving the opponent to crumple to the floor.

Rat Snack(Close): Alora makes a fist and looks at it before shaking it out, instead pulling out her dagger and slicing upward on the opponents stomach. As they try to hold their innards together, Alora pulls out Michi her pet rat, snuggling his nose before sending him forth into the opponent. Michi will then scurry around inside, eating and killing the opponent from the inside out. As they fall to the floor, several more rats show up and feast on the body.

Migraine(Close): Alora punches the opponents jaw so hard that they spin around in a 360 before facing her again, finding that their jaw is dislocated. As they panic Alora grabs it and forcefully yanks on it to separate it. She then slams it on top of their head, embedding it into the skull.

Brutalities:

Twist Top: Alora goes to the opponent and snaps their neck before continuing to turn it until their head pops off. She holds the head above hers before slamming it to the ground.

Sticky Foot: Alora brings her leg straight up in a high arch before bringing it down onto the opponents head, crushing it under her boot. She lifts her foot and sees the remains sticking to her then going and smearing the blood on the ground.

Winning Animations:

- Alora fixes her broken nose back into place and wipes the blood with her hand, giving a quick shake as it splatters over the ground.

- Alora crouches to the ground and smiles softly with her hand extended out. Michi runs to her and jumps in her hand bringing him to face and scratching his head.

#mortal kombat #mk oc #mk alora #alora

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jianghushenanigans · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 15: Suppressed Suffering

She watches as her brothers make decisions and go down paths they cannot come back from. She understands. She does the same herself.

She watches as they don’t tell her, as they keep secrets from her. As they try to protect her.

She hates it. That’s not their job. She’s supposed to protect them. They’re her younger brothers, by blood or by choice, and she is the head of the household. She’s supposed to keep them safe. To pull Ming Lou from the government, to let Ming Cheng put his feet up for once, to keep Ming Tai by her side.

She knows she can’t. The people need them. So she suffers watching them suffering, as says nothing. Keeps going. She has a job to do.

He doesn’t sleep at night, he just runs figures, plans the day ahead.

If he doesn’t calculate it, all he’ll do is lie there thinking about his family. Thinking about them dying. Ming Tai, caught up in the middle of of war he’s too young to be spying on the front lines off. Jie, collapsing out of grief as one of her brothers doesn’t come home. A-Cheng jumping in front of a bullet meant for him.

He can’t let any of that happen. He has to make sure everything works. That his family is safe.

In the office the next day, a migraine presses, squeezing his brain. Spots dance at the corners of his eyes. He pushes it down, ignores it. He has a job to do.

They call him their brother, and he knows he is, and he knows that in order to win, in order to survive, he has to be treated as the servant he was born as.

Still, it makes him feel ill, sometimes, when Ming Jing has important guests round and she orders him to bring them tea. When Ming Tai shrugs off a warning hand on his shoulder with a well-drawn sneer in the public square. When Ming Lou snaps his fingers and he’s just expected to be there, at his shoulder.

They care about him, truly, he knows they do. Da-jie refuses to let him use her name instead of her title as his sister, in private. Didi rolls his eyes and play fights with him in a way he would never let someone outside the family see. Da-ge places a firm, warm hand between his shoulder blades and thanks him for everything he’s done.

It’s just, sometimes, well… no matter. He has a job to do.

A knife to his thigh is practically nothing. He gets away otherwise unharmed, and gets it clean and bandaged up, and there’s no further risk to it.

No risk except his family finding out.

He can imagine them. A-Cheng-gege flitting around, trying to make him comfortable. Da-ge, frowning down at him in concern. Jie, alternating between lecturing him for getting involved and holding him close. He… he wants that. He wants all of that.

But as he walks into the house, he focuses on hiding his limp entirely. He has a job to do.

Crossposted here on ao3

#whumptober 2023 #no.15 #Suppressed Suffering #the disguiser #fic #ming jing #ming lou #ming cheng #ming tai

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thewatercolours · 2 years

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King's Quest Ficlet: "Shift"

A livid blue light flickers dully from under the king’s door. Number One looks down as it plays on his polished boots. An unnatural sort of colour – pale and haunting as the candle in a fortune teller’s tinted lantern, meant to put you in a shivery mood. Tricks for children and gullibles. Showmanship.

In the king’s room in the middle of the night?

Oh, who ever knows with Graham. Always up to something.

Number One can only imagine all these late night guard shifts are going to bring the migraines on, sure as ferrets. A few centuries back he could pull all-nighters without feeling it the next day. No more. He’s getting to be an old neeker-breeker who can’t even drink a midnight coffee to keep him going, not without getting heartburn a few hours later.

But the king’s ill. He’s been in bed three days. Not a soul’s been in or out. Why…

That’s besides the point. A king can do as he likes. And if he has to have a guard at his door, he’s entitled to someone who doesn’t get snoopy while he’s at it.

He looks down again at the light, and it seems brighter.

Showmanship. Sleight of hand.

He puts it out of his head and focuses on trying not to nod off.

---

The following night, it’s even more difficult to stay alert. The unreasoned part of him feels like it simply will never end. He’s already been on duty round the clock four days. It’s not right. They ought to create an addendum to ensure guards on duty are relieved within five hours.

There already is such an addendum.

Stupid red tape. You can pass all the addenda you like, and it won’t make a shred of difference. This country, really.

It’ll be nice to eat something. There’s a nice smoked brisket in the larder he’s had his eye on. The new chef hadn’t been informed that the king only ate meat in private these days – meals in the great hall were supposed to be vegetarian. So the brisket had been put aside, and someone had to eat it. He could only hope his underlings hadn’t already –

There’s that blue light again.

No. You’re just sleepy. You get flickers of colour in your field of vision sometimes, if you haven’t slept.

If only the king would get better. See a doctor or something. Then Number One could rest, and eat, and whatever else people did off duty.

Number One hopes it wouldn’t be many more days before someone else turns up to take over.

---

There was a tapping on the door behind him, more like drumming fingertips than a real knock. Number One started awake – the noise was directly behind his head, on the other side of the door. He turned smartly on his heel and turned the knob.

Graham stood trembling in his nightshirt, his blue eyes enormous, his clammy skin too rosy – even his bare feet were flushed. He wrung one hand round the other wildly, as though his it were detachable and he were trying to twist it off. He nearly feel against Number One’s shoulder when the door opened.

“Guard?” he whispered.

“Yes, Sire?”

The confusion in Graham’s eyes grew, but he shook his head and went on. “I’m really sorry. Did I faint or something? Did they put me in here to sleep it off? I didn’t think about what all that powder might do to my system past the moment. Uh, anyway, I… Yeah. Do you… know where my clothes… are?” He laced and unlaced his stubby fingers in a manic fashion.

Number One narrowed his eyes. “Powder? What do you mean? Do you mean that sleeping compound Mistress Hobblepot gave you after you got back from the caves? I thought you’d used It all up months ago.”

“Months ago?” The king swallowed, but seemed determined to push through. “Uh, anyway, I’m sorry for falling asleep or whatever. Thanks for the bed and all. But if I could just get my clothes, I’ll be on my w…” Something else dawned in those dilated eyes. “Oh wait. Wait. Manny. I beat him. Does this mean I win the tournament?” He smiled weakly yet with a snatch of his characteristic excitement. Number One just hopes he wouldn’t go on of his outbursts and try leaping about the room is his current condition. “To be frank, I kind of cheated him at his own game – I coloured the raisin juice to track it – but that wasn’t part of the official game anyway, and, uh, I’m babbling.”

“Sire,” Number One interjected, starting to feel mightily that something was wrong. “I think you’re delirious from your illness. Of course you won the tournament. It’s been literal years. Here – what day is it?”

The fear flooded Graham’s face again. “Years? But I don’t understand.”

“You have a fever, sir – and it’s only,” he glanced at the hallway clock, “five in the morning. More sleep will do you a world of good. Why not go back to bed?”

Graham’s hands were still out of control. Now he was clenching and unclenching his fist rapidly, running his thumb along the outside. “You’ve been calling me ‘sire,’” he murmured. “Am I… king?”

“Yes, sire. But trust me. You likely have a brain inflammation. I know you didn’t want it, but with your permission I am going to send for the doctors now, and I know they’ll tell you the same – this will all make sense when you’re better.”

Graham gripped the door frame with shaking fingers. “Okay,” he said uncertainly. “I’ll go back to bed. Thank you, guard.”

“Number One.”

The king slunk back into the complete darkness of his bedroom. Number One could barely see him a couple of feet beyond the door. Funny. They’d laid a roaring log on the hearth last night – just before Number One had come on duty at midnight – practically a yule log. It should have burned through into the day. He couldn’t even see a glowing ember in the darkness. And midnight didn’t seem all that long ago.”

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Time to switch off, old-timer,” said the familiar voice of Number Two.

Number One sighed. “I could have sworn I’d only been here a few minutes.”

“Falling asleep on duty? Tsk, tsk.” Number Two elbowed him gently in the ribs. Maybe you ought to stay on duty – you’re probably well rested for the next shift. But shifts is shifts. All shipshape, other than napping on duty?”

Number One turned to him seriously. “Nothing unusual to report, except the king’s illness is having complications – more than it looked like when he took to bed last night. I’ll be back with Beckett.”

He hurried off down the hallway, his practiced march in time with the ticking of the hallway clock.

#rippling consequences #very much so rippling consequences #king graham #king's quest #kings quest #fic #fanfiction #my writing

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acgasfanchallenge · 2 years

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#ACGAS FREE TO ANYONE WHO WISHES TO WRITE IN FULL

So … you know that thing where a complete stranger (shy lurker who promised themselves they wouldn’t touch fanfiction again until they’d finished their book they are writing and have an impatient publisher waiting for) finally finds somewhere to post an idea (synopsis) they hope someone on AO3 (far superior to FF.Net) might take on and write in full for everyone’s (especially their) pleasure?

Well, hi! *waves*

It’s a bit dark (but a happy ending, naturally, as we all prefer those) and came to me the other night, when absorbed once again in the gloriousness that is Mrs Hall and Siegfried of ACGAS 2020 …

(I’m a stickler for canon, so currently not sure where to stick this in – assuming anyone wants it and doesn’t think it’s trash and simply not worth the effort, which it may well be, but I’m writing it anyway because it is bugging me and I MUST get it out of my system – but probably after the current season.)

Also, whoever runs this account, feel free to quickly take this from the web and squirrel it away if you wish to take it on yourself, before too many see it, as it is fully detailed. I’ll stop rambling now. Ahem.

It is the depths of winter, snow is heavy, and Siegfried, Tristan, Mrs Hall, James and Helen are in the Drovers the evening before Valentine’s Day, doing a pub quiz thought up by the barmaid to pull in punters post-Christmas (in the hope of a cash prize), since the harshness of winter plus ongoing war is making people think twice about spending money (especially in Yorkshire, where folk are generally reluctant to spend to begin with – and as a Yorkshire native I can confirm this is completely true).

Mrs Hall, being the incredible woman she is, is along with Siegfried et al steering their table in the winning direction, and ultimately they beat the rest, much to the annoyance of the other folk in the place (who see the vets as hardly being in need) and declares upon receipt that she is taking the winnings out of harm’s reach (Tristan is already contemplating another two rounds to warm them all up) and going to rest her banging head for an hour before preparing dinner. Siegfried wants to accompany her but she tells him to stay out from under her feet. Gerald, sitting nearby, is given a look of warning from him to also stay out from under her feet. Jess doesn’t like walking in snow, anyway.

Audrey leaves and trudges through the ever-growing snow the short distance home and unlocks the front door. Once inside, she hangs up her coat, calling automatically for Jess, and is confused when the dog doesn’t come running. She ventures in further, turning on more lights, and shrieks to see Jess lying motionless on her side, just inside the living room. She makes to go to her and is grabbed from behind by a black-covered figure and dragged into the kitchen, passed the dispensary where another figure is grabbing at bottles left, right and centre, and is pinned against the sink, begged not to scream. She is terrified, as anyone would be, but despite this recognises the hoarse, almost distraught, voice immediately. Her eyes widen then roll back, the realisation plus a nasty migraine too much to bear.

The figure catches her as she drops and lays her down, pleading for his mother to awaken. He is stopped by the second figure who hauls him to his feet and abruptly tells him to give him a hand. The revealed Edward then reluctantly leaves Audrey and goes to help. Audrey quickly awakens and unsteadily gets up, pale and afraid, and slowly creeps along to listen to what this chap is growling at her estranged son. It transpires they are stealing whatever drugs they can to sell on the black market, without any concept of the dangers of humans potentially having drugs formulated for animals. It is clear Edward has got himself into a fix he cannot get out of.

Audrey creeps back into the kitchen and takes a knife, then back along and, now armed, stands before them and calls for them to stop, put down the swag bag and get out, certain her clearly traumatised son will side with her, for never has he been so attentive as to call her name so desperately. The two freeze, and just as Edward is saying that it was a bad idea and they should go, a third figure appears knocks Audrey to the ground. Edward sees red and goes for him and chaos ensues with all three men arguing and fighting and Audrey caught literally in the middle, trying to stop both from attacking her son.

Her scream of pain puts an end to it and she collapses in Edward’s arms, blood pouring from her shoulder where she has been stabbed with a small pair of forceps. The two others scramble to leave, taking the swag bag with them. Edward pulls off his balaclava, cradling Audrey in panic. Adrenaline is pumping through her body and she asks him why. He tells her he owes them so much money and this was the only thing he could think of to pay it back. They’ve been watching the place to ensure no one was in, broke in at the back and the dog is only drugged, she isn’t hurt. No one was supposed to get hurt. Audrey tells him to take the winnings in her handbag and go far away, as far as the money will get him. If he is caught like this he will be locked up again and they will throw away the key. Edward refuses and she insists, begging him to stay out of the army if he can; he hasn’t the will for it and he will get himself killed. He is a good, gentle boy at heart, and nothing at all like his stepfather (or else his war-damaged and consequently abusive biological father) and he needs to use this moment to change his life for the better, and that she is sorry for how things have turned out but she has never stopped loving him.

Edward cries out as she loses consciousness and will not shake awake, then panics again as he hears voices at the front. He kisses Audrey’s forehead and flees, leaving the handbag and escaping out the back. By this point, the trio and Helen are inside and making their way merrily through the house and quickly realising something is wrong. Further chaos ensues as Siegfried spots Jess then, instead of remaining calm and cautious, blazes through the place and finds Audrey and half picks her up, checking for a pulse. Audrey is in and out of it, but cannot – will not – tell him what’s happened, although he can guess as he looks around at the destruction and missing items. It isn’t the first time the place has been raided. Tristan, James and Helen join them and he yells at them to get the village doctor, only to be reminded by Helen that the doctor is away at his daughter’s impending wedding tomorrow.

Siegfried swears then sobers at the speed of light and lifts Audrey into his arms and tells them to follow him, taking her into the surgery, where the table (in this story) is big enough for her petite body. By now, Audrey is in a degree of shock and out of it entirely, giving Siegfried free reign to remove her upper clothing (the urgency of the situation also removing his considerable inhibitions) and assess the wound, which isn’t as bad as he feared, but bad enough. Between them – Tristan and Helen keeping her otherwise warm and monitoring her pulse and breathing, and James and Siegfried removing the forceps, repairing the damage, irrigating and sewing up the wound – they sort Audrey out, joined after a while by Jess, now awake and wondering what on earth has happened. She comes straight over to the table to lick Audrey’s unresisting hand. Although she is stable, infection is still a risk with very limited antibiotics around. Mercifully Siegfried has something he can use on a human and does so. He then, despite being utterly exhausted, picks her up once more and carries her to her bedroom.

Once there, Helen takes over and tells the others to sit Siegfried down for half an hour with some strong tea. Siegfried reluctantly leaves, but returns as soon as he is permitted to sit by Audrey’s bedside. Helen tells him she briefly woke and managed a few sips of water and is now comfortably asleep on a painkilling draught and to try to close his eyes himself – and perhaps change his bloodied clothes. Siegfried nods and removes his thin jumper, sitting beside the bed and taking Audrey’s hand. Her skin is almost translucent in the firelight of the burning grate, hair curled in a dark wave across her white pillow, and bandaged shoulder just visible beneath her nightdress.

He sits and sobs as the impact of the moment and its otherwise possible consequence hits him. Audrey sleeps on, unknowing of his declaration of love, or so he thinks, for she concedes her own feelings when she wakes towards the man who has saved her in more ways than one, and she him, pointing out her head feels much better and eventually confiding what Edward has done, to which he agrees to stay quiet also, as well as join her on the bed for a decent kip, taking her in his protective arms. The end. Ish.

Any takers? If not, no problem, and HUGE thanks to everyone writing on AO3; there are some stunning works, my favourite being ladymelodrama’s third chapter of ‘Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed’. No surprises there. ;)

#submission #well this is fantastic #anon i know you asked to correct passed for past #but i honestly can't find it #also please finish that book asap and get writing fic ;)

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clatterbane · 2 years

Text

Eyeball update, after the surgery on 28 June.

It's looking even less disturbing now! Obviously still some redness, but nothing near "fucked-up SFX sclera lens" level gnarly anymore. Still feeling a little irritated, but not too bad now. I'm near the end of the prescribed course of steroid drops, but may also try some OTC "artificial tears" type lubricating ones. Apparently it's not at all unusual to need them for a while after a lens replacement, and that may help explain the irritation now.

The last initially unplanned followup late last week was just for a quick pressure check, which could thankfully be done at the clinic here in Malmö where I've been going for the laser zap-zap. We didn't need to go back to the surgical clinic in Lund for that--though, I don't guess I blame them for not wanting to just send patients home with one of their little handheld pressure gauges and instructions to update them on the numbers. 😅 As much as I would have preferred that option.

The pressure was still holding at just about the same as the good eye! So, I don't need to go back (to Lund again this time!) until the already scheduled roughly one month followup the first week of August. Then, assuming things are still looking OK? I should finally be done with the eye surgery clinic! 🥳

As a bonus, the eye surgeon on the last trip there also commented on what a good job they'd apparently done on my retinas. So, yay?

Best of all, though? I am actually seeing pretty damned well again! Except for a little bit of hopefully temporary distortion and a few annoying black dot floaters that my brain keeps telling me are gnats way too close to my face. The bit of wavy weirdness is likely down to some lingering inflammation, from what I have read. It would be totally liveable if it stuck around.

The weird and fairly sickening dark gas bubble "my head is now a spirit level" effect finally totally went away a few days ago. I have been sort of hoping that the little round gnat dots are just detached smaller bubbles, but if so they've been stubborn ones. No further apparent change there. But, again, totally liveable worst case.

(Also? The constant freaking migraine is no longer constant! *fingers crossed*)

And, of course my existing glasses prescription is totally wack for that eye now. It's honestly freaky as hell, in a way. Brand spanking new aftermarket lens inside, suddenly less nearsightedness than it's probably been since I first got glasses as a kid. That eye is now slightly farsighted, if anything. Hard to tell yet about the astigmatism.

There is no good distance to look at anything clearly with both eyes at the same time--with or without the glasses on--so, I've basically just been choosing one permutation there depending on what I do need to focus on. Hoping they will decide ASAP that things have settled down enough for a new prescription to stay stable for a while!

(I would be absolutely fine to drive with working glasses right now, btw. That was honestly one of my biggest hopes out of this mess.)

But yeah, I wasn't necessarily that optimistic going in. Have thankfully turned out very pleasantly surprised so far! *fingers crossed* More win than I was hoping for, tbh.

#personal #rambling #eye surgery #lens implant #vitrectomy #opthalmology #medical stuff #diabetic retinopathy #haunted eyeball

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nycorix · 2 years

Text

Consequences [8/11]

[fic post]

At long last I’m back with part 8!! Feat. the Director feeling proud of herself for #winning with him until she realizes, entirely too late, that she super lost

TW: emotional manipulation/abuse, medical stuff (see part 7 tw)

___________

When the Director enters Medical Bay One, 22 is sitting upright in the bed, posture ridiculously flawless, expression a perfect blank.

This does not surprise her.

She stands aside to let the medbot pass, looks on as it runs through diagnosis protocol, administers the first round of bespoke antivirals, disconnects his IV and pronounces him fit for release and monitoring.

There was a time when she would have had to bring in a team of six. One for the treatment, the other five requisitioned for restraint purposes. Medbots only, of course—broken medbots quantifiably less expensive to repair or replace than broken employees.

Now, in year twelve of the program, 22 does not so much as twitch at any point of the procedure, his stone-faced stillness perfectly evocative of the bioengineered lab-grown AI superweapon all of New Liberty City believes him to be. If he is relieved when it is done, or apprehensive at her presence, it does not show on his face.

This does not surprise her either.

Indeed, the only thing about the operative in front of her that gives her pause is the fact that he, despite a fever of nearly 102 and a vitals display feed that is threatening to give her a migraine, does not look ill in the slightest.

Then again, she amends, he doesn’t exactly look well either. The longer she studies him, the better she can see it: something about him is distinctly and unmistakably off, like if you took everything in a room and shifted it over two inches to the left.

The medbot leaves, but it might as well be invisible for all the attention 22 has paid it. His eyes have been on her from the moment she set foot through the door, and as she comes nearer that gaze sharpens—into the trademark unblinking uncanny fixed stare that all of the operatives have, the one that is just shy of predatory and that to this day still sets all her hair on end.

She bypasses this inconvenient primal reflex with practiced ease, fixing him with a measured stare of her own.

“When I received the operative health crisis notification,” she says mildly, in lieu of a greeting, “you were the last one I expected it to be.”

Predictably, this garners no discernible reaction. He sits there, watching, looking for all the world like a bot awaiting a directive.

“Nor, I must confess, was said health crisis anywhere within the ballpark of my expectations,” she continues, seeding the words with just the slightest measure of reproach. “Sudden-onset acute upper respiratory infection?” Reproach up a fifth of a degree. “A broken nose?”

This last finally seems to get through, if infinitesimally. A sea change stirs in his unnaturally pale eyes—the barest glimmer of…something. Not shame, not embarrassment or alarm or unease. Annoyance.

“A miscalculation,” he says, and the ever-present behavioral-scientist-backbrain part of her points out that he does not specify to which affliction he is referring. “It will not happen again.”

The lethal certainty baked into this statement sends a chill through the whole of her, scalp to soles. She muscles the fight-or-flight response down and smothers it. Lifts a brow, lips pressed in a thin smile of quiet regard, and inclines her head.

“Walk with me.”

She leaves the room without a backward glance, his presence behind her like a weight at the top of her spine. The staccato click of her heels drowns out the faint swish of his socks on the tile of the hall, and when she clears the personnel from the nearest diagnostics room he’s there beside her, silent as death.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the row of recently-vacated chairs facing the bank of assorted lab equipment.

He does not. He stays put by the smartwall just inside the door, standing: spine perfectly straight, shoulders square. If he’s tired or symptomatic it isn’t presenting in either facial expression or body language.

A lab tech pushes a bundle of clothing into her arms with a jumbled apology as they scurry out the door. The Director takes a look at it, huffs a laugh through her nose, and sets it on a table.

“I see they’ve managed to get the blood out of your jacket,” she says, taking it from the pile and handing it over to him.

He doesn’t even glance at it. Just accepts it wordlessly and slides it on over the thin black smart fabric undershirt he’s still wearing, his stay in Medical too brief to warrant an in-patient tunic. She frowns, just slightly, and hands him his boots and utility belt, which are received in identical fashion.

He reaches out for the gloves as she holds them out next, the extensive knotted trails of scar tissue beneath his skin visible under the harsh fluorescents. She pulls her gaze away, up to his face.

“It’s unlike you.” She speaks softly, almost gently. She wants to say she can see him brace for whatever is coming, but if she’s honest with herself any read she has on his expressions is guesswork at best, twelve years and multiple facial analysis lens apps be damned. “To lose to Nicholas, of all people.”

To this, though, he again telegraphs annoyance to a degree she can pick up with reasonable confidence.

“I was still assessing his condition.” His voice, quietly brittle, is even harder to pick up than usual. “It was a mis…” He pauses, swallows. Immediately her interest is piqued—22 is not given to speaking without premeditation.

“Miscalculation,” she supplies.

The briefest of hesitations, then a nod.

“Yes, so you said.” She narrows her eyes. There is significant overlap between his current expression and the one he makes when he violates censorship parameters—only, this can’t possibly be that. Even if he is thinking about the undoubtedly forbidden behaviors that landed him in this situation, the array filter does not censor thoughts. Not that any of the operatives were explicitly told this, of course.

In any case, hesitation in 22 historically amounts to weak spot in defenses, and the Director is by no means above using this to her advantage.

“Speaking of miscalculations.” She casts his vitals monitor up on the smartwall behind him, alongside data from the medbot’s report. “Can you tell me what this is?” She gestures to the image on the right, a cluster of vaguely hexagonal blobs stained bluish against a pale backdrop.

He looks at it a moment, then shakes his head, watching her sidelong. He’s starting to look just the slightest bit bleary—which, given his readings, would hardly be surprising if not for what and, more importantly, who he is.

“Human adenovirus,” she interjects into his telling silence. “HAdV-B14, to be exact. Known to cause acute upper respiratory infections ranging from mild to severe, occasionally fatal, especially in the young, elderly, or immunocompromised. Present specimen imaged twenty minutes ago from a throat swab of yours.” She folds her hands, watching his face.

“I’m not critical.” This is not a question; and the way he holds her gaze as he speaks is more than a little unsettling, as is the subtle note of satisfaction in the husk of his tone.

“....No.” She regrets the admission immediately and hastens to regain her ground. “However, there is still plenty of time and opportunity for you to become so, given the tenuous state of your health, as you are well aware.” She pauses, meeting his blank gaze unflinchingly. Recalibrates, casting new data to the smartwall with a flick of her wrist. This time it’s a building schematic, overlaid with a scrolling list of names.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you,” she continues, selecting an entry on the list, “of the extensive measures we have to take to ensure your safety and wellbeing.” The name she selects is random, one she only vaguely recognizes as one of the researchers: a time punch with a small box beside it that reads health check complete. “We screen everyone who enters the building,” she adds, when he doesn’t respond. “The air filtration system is top of the line, especially—” she sidesteps the words down here, carefully—“for sublevels A through D.”

If any of this means anything to him, he gives no indication. He simply watches her, and the screen, and waits.

She pulls up a portion of his file to overlay the schematic. Name, number, age, birthday. Date of initial autoimmune disorder incidence. Dates of subsequential flare-ups. Number, type, and dates of corrective therapies and procedures. List of current medications. He barely glances at it.

“You’re more than old enough to understand the delicate balance your immune system is suspended in. The immunosuppressants you’re on alone would make you more susceptible to infection, never mind your lack of acquired natural immunities—and I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that the former cannot be discontinued under any circumstances. Unless, of course, you would like another liver transplant.” She waits for him to flinch. He doesn’t.

Her jaw tightens. Waving away the display, she closes the distance between them, picking up a package of antibacterial wipes along her way.

“Given everything I have just shown you,” she says, tipping his chin down, bracing a hand—a gentling hand, a warning hand—against his jawbone as she begins wiping away dried blood leftover on his upper lip, “the only logical conclusion is that at some point in the last seventy-two hours, you or one of your fellow operatives spent a significant period of time outside of this building.”

He stays still—stiller than should be possible—as she works at the staining on his skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. She’s not sure he’s even breathing, come to think of it. If it wasn’t for the warmth radiating off him, for the pulse in his neck, even she might be inclined to think him more machine than human.

“Of course,” she continues, “none of you were under directive to do so, meaning this excursion was unauthorized.” She gives him a meaningful look. A don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble as long as you confide in me look. “I already have the security feeds to confirm this, by the way,” she concludes, conversationally, pulling back to admire her handiwork. “I’m simply giving you the opportunity to tell me the truth before any more…” she pauses, delicately— “...final decisions are made.”

He says nothing.

She presses her lips into a flat line, patience beginning to wear thin. “I don’t think you understand,” she begins, waving a grainy blow-up of a lens-captured photo from some customer-citizen’s social that depicts 06 and 22 huddled together in the middle of Greenleaf Square over to the blank smartwall, “how much is at stake here. Not just for you, but for her, and for Nicholas as well. So if you have any information for me, it is in your best interest and theirs to share it now.”

Minutes pass, silence and eye contact unbroken.

Irrational anger seizes her, product of the history between them—of the incomprehensible long game she suspects he’s playing but can’t even approximate the shape of; of the way he’s the perfectly obedient foil to 06’s rebellious streak, yet something in his eyes is anything but; of too many unfruitful conversations just like this one.

“I didn’t want to do this, but—” she stops short, distracted by a sharp movement from 22. More of a twitch than anything else, but the sheer uncharacteristicness of it puts her immediately on high alert. His pulse simultaneously spikes, incongruous with the absence of any detectable motion from him.

She glances sharply at him when he does it again, some kind of spasm that has his vitals feed going momentarily haywire with each one.

“Something the matter?” she says, eyes narrowing—and when it happens a third time, his expression contorting in an obvious flinch before he forcibly schools it back, it suddenly makes sense.

“Gesundheit,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “I’d advise you not to keep trying to stop them like that, by the way. If you give yourself an aneurysm, I can’t help you.”

The contempt in the look he brings to bear on her then is enough to curdle her blood, though in a moment it, too, is wiped from his face with a hard blink and the faintest hint of a sniff.

She feels a headache coming on.

“Or Kit, for that matter,” she adds, in a sudden fit of inspiration, probing for sore spots that exist if one knows where to look. “Is she faring similarly after your little excursion, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.” His response is as instant as it is flat.

“I believe you,” she concedes finally, after another long moment of not quailing beneath his stare, “but only because if she were severely ill you would have brought her to me.” She pauses. He doesn’t quite blink under her sudden scrutiny, but he doesn’t quite not, either. “Unless, perhaps, you’ve got her sequestered away somewhere on sublevel D.”

This, finally, visibly strikes a nerve. As well it should—he came out of the incident she’s referencing with a double concussion, a punctured lung, fourteen broken bones, twenty-eight mishealed ones and a stress-triggered flare up. He was in the ICU for almost a month.

…But then, of course, she doubts that’s the nerve that was struck. She remembers all too well how Kit flatlined no less than eight times during her liver transplant, and she’s certain he remembers it too. The only times he had surfaced from delirium during his own harrowing recovery were to ask if she was alive—and with such uncharacteristic distress that multiple personnel broke protocol to answer him truthfully, in case it would improve his chances of pulling through.

She had, regrettably, been one of said personnel.

In the end, obviously, both operatives had survived, and if it was by virtue of the tenacity of their fucking bonds she did not care to know it.

When she glances at him again, his face is blank, any trace of a reaction wiped clean from it.

A spike of frustration nearly claims her before she tamps it down.

“If neither of you are in critical condition,” she says evenly, “and if Catherine does not choose to join you in the next, let’s say, five minutes—” she makes a show of checking the time on her lenses— “then I’m afraid you’re going to have to take full responsibility for the consequences of your actions, with or without her participation.”

He remains silent. If she didn’t know him better, she’d almost think he was exhibiting the faintest air of impatience.

She sighs. “We both know whose idea it was to leave the grounds,” she says, softening a degree or two. An olive branch. A final offering before she drops the other shoe. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“Risk assessment,” he says crisply—and oh, there’s the infection. Raised just a little louder now, she notes that his voice is nothing like itself, thick and raw like he’s been gargling knife blades. Interesting. “She would have left regardless. I followed her according to the buddy system protocol.”

Listening to him makes her want to clear her own throat. She fights the instinct, instead pressing her lips together in the approximation of maternal concern she’s honed to perfection.

“If you tell me where she is now,” she says carefully, eyes fixed to his, “I will leave you both in the green. Just this once.”

It’s a bluff, all of it. Whether he knows this or not, whether his obstinate lack of cooperation is inspired by this, or his loyalty to Kit, or his compromised state, she couldn’t be fucked to guess; but whatever the case, he does not budge an inch. They stay locked in this stalemate of a stare before finally, hating herself, she blinks first.

“Time’s up,” she says calmly, though her mind is anything but. “Unless you can somehow summon her in the next ten seconds, I’ll be sending you out to do street cleanup.” She pulls up the appropriate communication channels and information packets on her lenses. “When Catherine is found, she will be assigned to SCQ for the remainder of the month.”

SCQ—what the operatives dubbed “the box” when they were children, despite all her efforts to shut the pejorative down—is Catherine’s least favorite punishment, and she knows as well as 22 does that expecting her to spend a full thirty days in it is absurd, even dangerous.

“I’ll go,” he says without batting an eye, in what appears to be utter disregard of both his own failing health and the guaranteed wrath of his partner. As if in some involuntary acknowledgement of the first, however, he sneezes again, stifled to silence against the flat of his fist.

“Be careful.” Her tone is part admonishment, part threat, his name threaded onto the end of the phrase to seal the warning. As it leaves her lips his eyes snap to hers again, unnaturally quick, and something that looks disturbingly close to dangerous flashes in the depths of them, there and gone.

She musters every ounce of her will not to flinch or look away and the moment passes almost before she can register it, leaving him looking distinctly more tired than before.

“Let me be clear: I’m assigning you to clear 13th through 17th Street, alone, before curfew,” she says tightly, unsettled in a way she can’t quite parse. “No assistance, no excuses. If you fail to comply, I’m sending you to the community services department in the morning. Do you understand the directive?”

“I understand.” His tone, beneath the layers of fatigue and congestion, is ice and steel. Worse, though his expression does not change, somehow she gets the distinctly uncomfortable impression that he is, against all sensible logic, pleased. “Will that be all?”

It feels entirely too much like letting him have the last word. She grasps at the straws of the resolve she’d thought was airtight, coming up with little more than a ghost of a threat, the last cast of a baitless hook. “Not quite.” She folds her arms. Realizes the defensive nature of the posture and almost unfolds them, forces herself to remain in the position for consistency, taps her fingers against her arm. “I’m sure you’re as concerned about Catherine as I am. Would you like me to notify you when she is found?”

His eyes when they lock on hers are baleful, a coldly burning gray that pins her like a butterfly to velvet. “That,” he says quietly, “will not be necessary.”

She takes a breath, but by the time the words come he is gone.

|part 9|

#firebreak book #06/22 #fanfiction #kasey writes #consequences fic #boxcar thing #diana reyes says no to the power of friendship send tweet #hoo boy this one was A Challenge lmao #it took so long bc i ended up rewriting it #it's been a while since i wrote the first version and i understand their weirdo nuanced dynamic a lot better now so here we are rip #the director has almost no idea what's going on in his head lmaooo but she thinks she super does.#meanwhile he's using every scrap of his willpower to refrain from murdering her #especially whenever she touches him. or uses his name. sorry 22 #lmao he got exactly what he wanted in this scene but. I wouldn't call it winning lolll he's gonna regret it next scene

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caroleyre · 2 years

Text

self para // mom, i'm tired, can I sleep in your house tonight?

A JOURNEY OF HOME, SPIRITUALITY AND STILLNESS

Mom, I'm tired Can I sleep in your house tonight? Mom, is it alright If I stay for a year or two?

Mom, I’ll be quiet It would be just to sleep at night And I’ll leave once I figure out How to pay for my own life too

Mom, would you wash my back? This once and then we can forget And I’ll leave what I’m chasing For the other girls to pursue

Mom, am I still young? Can I dream for a few months more?

Mom is sat kneeling next to the washbasin, hands deep and soothing into Carol’s hair. It got long again, she notices in silence and smiles to herself. Carol stays lowered under the water jet, chin glued to his chest. He feels like a clogged up sink, like a midday migraine.

“I can wash my hair myself, you know?” he points out, but there is no real bite behind his words. He doesn’t mind human touch. He’d been so neglected that he craved it, even, in the simple forms. His mother tucking a wet curl behind his ear with gentle caution. The hug from his father upon seeing him for the first time since winning. His childhood friends, shaking his hand like he was something else now.

Mom looks at him like at a fragile thing. This is not the same boy who spilled blood and poison everywhere, just a little over a year ago. In front of her is a boy who came home, who had to have had a change of heart about his sins, even if he’d never admit to it. In front of her is a clever boy who is doing his best. She wants to kiss the soap off his forehead, but she doesn’t. She knows her son’s limits, what he can and cannot live with.

The cold water snakes all the way to his eardrums. For a split second, Carol can swear it sounds like that demonic music from the arena. He presses his hand against his ear, to remove it, and it’s all just an illusion clouding the clear sound of water pouring, fresh and harsh. Here, you can hear the birds singing. Here, things have a sweet nuance of lime, grass and juice and roofs. Carol has never liked it home, but he also never felt this calmness anywhere else. Like nothing bad could happen to him. Like nothing really counted, and the days just passed, one after the other, like giggling girls holding hands. He could have gotten old without notice in this village.

Once the shampoo all drips, mother twists the wheel handle and the water jet stops like a knot in the throat. Drops are sliding down the faucet, lazily. Carol looks up at mom. Water rains over his white shirt. Mom takes a towel and wraps it swaddle-like, trapping Carol’s locks in. He lets it. She then rubs her hands against the tower, and when she removes it, Carol looks more mess than human. With a brush, she patiently starts unknotting, knees now glued to Carol’s back, straightening it with gentle, motherly firmness. Silky hair is now hanging above his shoulders, almost pitch black when wet. She stands up. “I’ll let you shower.”

They have a shower outside, no roof, just the sun leaving its kisses into bare skin. Carol loves that shower, made of wood painted white, even though he was ashamed of that shower when Rio visited, long, long ago. He steps inside. Mother is long gone. He takes off his shirt, takes off his shorts, he takes everything off, and he turns on the water. Cold like a beating. He doesn’t tremble under the jet. He waits there, for lukewarm water. Then, he starts rubbing with a sponge, as if he’s cleaning himself of his own skin.

***

Dad finishes mass. In spring, they pray outside, by a lake. A lake is quieter than the sea, thinks the pastor. He is wearing light blue robes, no ornament. He picks his words carefully. Everybody deems him as wise, and, as a community, everybody loves the Eyres. He slides his bony fingers over the holy book spine, wooden and yellowed by daily reads. A woman with a scarf coiled from an ear to the other asks for advice. They hold hands. The woman laughs gently, and the sunlight falls unassuming on her bright face and round cheeks.

Everybody is pretending not to have been looking at Carol all along. Most of them cannot remember the last time the pastor’s son attended liturgy. They’re not bad people. In fact, they don’t even hold resentment for him in their hearts. Everybody is in their Sunday best, with their patent leather shoes -- those who can afford it. A teenage girl is carrying a big toddler in her arms. They scatter, one by one, after the farewell prayer.

Carol looks only at her, when he is not watching his father. Carol is wearing black. He blends in. He waits in the back. He doesn’t disturb the mass and doesn’t wish to capture his father’s attention. Instead, he listens and thinks on his own. Something about crosses to bear, about eternal hope, about faith in the lord. There is truth to it, as dumb as it all was. He is surprised to find new senses to his father’s ancient words, the ones he long ago deemed as thick and silly.

Dad is facing the lake. He listens to the birds’ trill. Almost, he listens to the wind. He is a very sharp man with quick eyes. Intentionally, he looks through half closed eyelids. Out of nowhere, he parts his lips to talk. “Thank you for being with me today, Carol.” He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed.

“I think I want to confess,” Carol numbly murmurs. The words surprise him too, as much as he had been thinking them for long. It’s not belief, it’s a search for ease. Sometimes, he can feel his sins in his chest, like a knot where Medea’s knife had dug. Maybe his father deserves an explanation, even. Carol knows he judges him while being the best at pretending not to. He deserves it too -- the judgment. It doesn’t redden his cheeks.

For once, dad is surprised, touched even. He welcomed his son under his roof, but the two haven’t spoken yet. Eaton Eyre is short on words to say to him, not out of malice, rather than due to that feeling deep in his gut making drowning feel comfortable. He was out of his depth, happy Carol was alive, and deeply pained he had to volunteer, and kill, and take pleasure from it.

There is a brief pause. Carol wants to take it back. His father reaches out, his hand held up for Carol to grab. The young man hesitates, but he steps ahead next to his father and he does take it, formally, without any real squeeze. “I killed by intent and mistake.” This was the easy part. For what comes next, he rolls his eyes before delivering, knowing all about the right phrasings and not wanting to use them properly. “Impure thoughts. Impure actions.” Blah, blah, blah. He bites inside his mouth, letting his cheek slip between his teeth. “Homosexual activity?” he inquires, as if to check whether it counts. Carol taking it seriously comes almost as a surprise.

His father shakes his head. He softly motions for him to keep going, eyes still and endlessly patient, pointed at his son. He doesn’t interrupt, and he doesn’t make suggestions, even though he knows much about Carol’s sin. Instead, he lets him.

“Indifference to good and evil. Blasphemy -- oh, I committed so much blasphemy. I deliberately chose evil. I... volunteered for the Hunger Games by will. I was proud.” Carol grins. He hopes his father would grin back. “Really, insert all of the deadly sins in here. They sort of became my brand.”

His father doesn’t grin back. He prays in his mind. It stings, to hear it. But he doesn’t want to run from the factual reality of it. It heals, to hear it. This is more important to Carol’s soul than Carol knows. Wind sweeps over the surface of the lake. It all glimmers in the sun. “Do you feel this is enough?”

“Do you feel there is more?” Carol laughs briefly, but, for some reason, his imagination twists embarrassingly as he considers what his father can possibly think of everything. What is shameful is never shameful to him, but at home, he gets a little less immune to it.

His father clicks his tongue. In this light, he resembles Carol a little too much for both their tastes. His raveny hair is cut short, and threatened with whites. He went white in the past year, and they both know it. “Only you know what’s in there.” The man gently pats at his chest with one finger.

Carol passingly thinks it’s something full of shit to say, but it oddly touches him. His mind goes arrow to Rio. He is disarmed, suddenly inadequate with his hands. He hides them in his pockets. When he talks again, it’s a ripple. “I... don’t care about any of the other things. I killed him.” Something ties in his throat. Carol steps out of eye contact, and walks a couple of steps to face the lake and not his father’s careful gaze. He cries and is trying to make it tiny.

The pastor doesn’t turn immediately, but he eventually follows Carol’s lead and approaches, a little taken aback. Not in his heart, though. He remembers his son’s excited and endless stories of Rio from years ago. He remembers them ending, and nothing about him coming up again. There was a lot, then radio silence. At that point, Carol stopped talking to them about anything of importance entirely. But he touches his shoulder in light comfort, and sits in considerate silence.

“I don’t need comfort,” he shakes his head and makes a useless attempt to step out of his father reaching out. He doesn’t. He stays put, he prefers it like this. Sometimes, even steel cracks. This is cue for straight-up crying. The tears climb down his cheeks hot, and he still refuses to acknowledge them. He is angry at them.

Dad has no words about Rio. To him, it’s caprice to cry after a man you killed. He has no understanding of what is boiling in Carol’s heart, but he is rich in tolerance and compassion. There is no pleasure from seeing your child cry and struggle. “I can’t absolve you if you don’t regret. I can be with you as you learn to.” He’s always been too veracious of a man.

He doesn’t say this is not about forgiveness. He doesn’t explain that his reasons for trying to squeeze some feeling out of the confession is to identify the slightest peace of mind, egoism for fuel, more than guilt. Carol shakes his head, and tries to go for a smile, but it comes off weak and transparent. “I’ll leave you to pray,” he concludes, instead. Whatever he is looking for, it’s not of this world, nor of the faith his father preaches about.

***

Carol lies with his head on the porch swing. It rocks him gently. His eyes are closed. He only mildly tolerates the presence of other people. It feels as though they come to see him in lack of a museum, in lack of excitement in the village life. He forgives it, though. He would have done the same, had he stayed local and boring.

Arabella watches the thin sunlight over his features. When she was a child, she loved him and imagined they would get married. Nowadays, she pities him with a heavy heart. She still loves him like a childhood memory. Even when she feels she is annoying him, even when she feels he grew too big to hear the sounds her mouth is making, even though she knows she sometimes is saying the wrong thing, Carol is important to her. Though they’ve never been friends, his mother was her teacher, and they did play with some of the same toys before that. When he was in the arena, she hadn’t slept at all, watching him sleep, instead, as if the guarding kept him safe. It worked, though. It had worked. “Your life is so precious, Carol.”

He doesn’t ask why, with snark, though it’s on the tip of his tongue. It must mean a lot to live when twenty-five others died. To him, it only matters because Rio died. He appreciates the comment, though it makes him feel nauseous. “It’s nice you came to see me. I’m bored out of my mind. I think I need to return.”

“You don’t want to because of the Odair family?” This is an unfair mistake, but she doesn’t sense the gravity of it. She has loved before, but never to death. She is actually about to get married, not to Carol. In the chair she is sitting on, she holds a basket with raspberry muffins, made personally and delivered with care.

“Yes, I don’t want to because of the Odair family,” he chooses this partial truth, because nuances are difficult to explain. It was true enough to stand, true enough for him to own it. Sometimes, they sit in silence. Sometimes, he thinks of Holland. Sometimes, he answers all of her questions with patience he didn’t know he had in him.

Eventually, at some point, she gathers the courage to ask about Rio. For the longest time, she watches him go silent. She regrets every syllable, by now knowing she took the wrong step, that it was private, that Carol was not ready for that name to drop. Still, Arabella is curious. She needs to know, to understand. This isn’t love to her, and so, it makes no sense. Neither to Carol, but she can’t know that.

“I’m not mourning his life,” he finally says, as if to redeem himself, to claim back some dignity. The rest falls flat and lame, and he wants to swallow his own words, instead. “I’m mourning mine.” But it’s the pathetic truth. They smile with bitterness at each other. None of them knows what to say to follow that. He sniffs. He rises and throws an arm over the backrest, off-handedly. He plays pragmatism with his eyes in tears. “It’s not about him and feeling sorry for his life, and blah, blah. It’s about what I lost when he died.” This is not the truth. This is a bedtime story that fools only Carol.

She stops dropping by after the third visit. She has a wedding to plan. “I hope you can come to my wedding.” Unlikely. They both know it. When Carol gets to the train station, he doesn’t look back.

#self para #129 #mom i'm tired can i sleep in your house tonight?

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earliebirb · 2 years

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a world of our own

I know it’s no longer Christmas, but here is the Christmas fic I wrote back in December for @omg-just-peachy as part of the 2021 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange. Enjoy!

a world of our own

steve/tony, fluff, getting together, 2890 words

“Just go.”

Steve tears his gaze away from where he had been surreptitiously combing his surroundings, head whipping back around to face Sam, who is smirking at him.

Okay. Maybe not so surreptitiously.

“Um.” Steve clears his throat, self-consciously rubbing the back of his own neck and finding it warm to the touch. “What?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude. Please. Just go find him, you’re killing me.”

“But—”

“You’ve already been looking for him with your eyes this whole time, anyway.”

Steve hesitates, but eventually smiles sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, Sam. And thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been itching to talk to Rhodes anyway.” Sam takes a sip of his drink and pushes at Steve’s shoulder. “Now go, lover boy.”

The back of Steve’s neck heats up again, but he squeezes Sam’s shoulder and finally turns to leave.

He makes his way across the floor, still looking around in the hopes of spotting a certain genius. It’s Christmas Eve, and the annual Avengers Christmas party is in full swing. People are dressed to the nines, and the room is filled with loud chatter and cozy Christmas jazz.

Steve isn’t exactly aware of who makes it onto the guest list beyond the people he actually knows, but he thinks he recognizes some vaguely familiar faces he has seen in passing—some junior SHIELD agents or members of the Tower’s security team.

Carefully weaving his way through the crowd, he finally turns the corner into an empty hallway. Almost immediately after escaping the hubbub, some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He has never been fond of highly social situations. Now, he just needs to walk to the end of the hallway, turn left, and the elevator will be in sight. Then he can very casually ask JARVIS about Tony’s whereabouts in the elevator. Flawless plan.

If it were up to him, he’d much rather spend Christmas watching movies and playing board games with his family. The thought makes an involuntary smile bloom on his face, and his mind conjures up various memories of the team’s rowdy game nights. He can picture it so vividly in his head: Bruce’s small yet triumphant smile whenever he manages to win a round of Battleship, Nat’s terrifyingly flawless poker face, Thor’s boisterous laughter as he watches Clint and Tony scream at each other during rounds of Monopoly, and—

Steve pauses in his tracks. He has yet to reach the end of it, but he sees a sliver of yellow light spilling into the otherwise dark hallway. It comes from where the double doors to the Tower’s library have been opened just a crack. Curious, he steps closer, peeks through the gap between the doors and sees—

Oh. There he is.

Tony is lying on the couch, wearing only his white undershirt and black dress pants. He has taken off his dress shirt, tie, and suit jacket—all three haphazardly thrown over the back of the nearest armchair. One of his hands is also covering his face, presumably to shield his eyes from the already dimmed library lights. A short distance away from him, a lively fire crackles in the fireplace.

Raising his fist, he gives one of the doors a gentle rap. “Hey.”

Looking up, Tony removes his hand from his face and squints at Steve. “Hey.” He starts to sit up. “Sorry, I was—”

“No, don’t get up. It’s okay. Can I come in?”

Slowly, Tony lies back down on the couch. “. . . Sure.”

Steve walks in and closes the doors behind him. He steps closer to the couch and gets a better look at Tony. “So this is where you’ve been this whole time.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I know this makes me a terrible host, but I’m suffering from this massive migraine right now and—I just had to lie down. Honestly, I felt like I was about to pass out.”

“Tony.” Steve frowns, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Don’t apologize for that. You should’ve said something. Have you taken any meds?”

“Nah, it’s not that big of a deal. I took some pills earlier, I’ll be fine. Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. His gaze then drifts downward to stare unabashedly at Steve’s sweater, lips splitting into a gleeful grin. “I see your Christmas spirit is still alive and well. Still can’t believe you’re actually wearing that monstrosity.”

Steve looks down at his ugly Christmas sweater, one he ended up having to wear after losing a bet with the team. Tony had specifically picked it out and purchased it for him. It's a gaudy piece of clothing whose color scheme consists predominantly of bright red and yellow, and most importantly—it’s Iron Man-themed. The front of the knitted wool sweater features a caricature of a smirking Iron Man wearing reindeer antlers, lying down on his side, head resting on his propped up elbow. Below the illustration is the word HORNY in big, white, capital letters.

It took a while for Tony to convince Pepper to let Steve wear the sweater. Even now, Steve is still not sure how he managed to do it. After all, he could see how the sight of Captain America wearing a sweater with the word HORNY plastered on it would cause problems.

Steve suspects there might have been promises of new pairs of shoes involved—those beautiful but frighteningly high heels Pepper loves to wear. Jimmy . . . Shoes? Jimmy something.

Despite the sweater’s tacky design, the material is actually quite soft and warm, so Steve doesn’t really mind. Besides, the sight of him wearing the sweater makes Tony smile, and, well—

That’s all Steve really cares about.

“Speaking of Christmas spirit, shouldn’t you be out there? What are you doing here?”

Steve blinks. “Um.” I was out there, but then I noticed you were gone, so.

Tony stares at him questioningly.

Steve clears his throat. “Uh, I just wanted to step away for a second. You know how I feel about crowds.”

Tony hums and offers a commiserating smile. “I am well aware of your love for crowds, yes.” Then something shifts in his eyes and he gets a weird yet inscrutable look on his face. “But, uh, won’t your V.A. buddy miss you? What’s his name—Wilson? You seemed like you were having fun, the two of you. You’ve been talking all night, by the pool table, at the bar, and—”

Abruptly, Tony turns quiet. He stares at Steve for a few seconds, jaw hanging open wordlessly. Then his mouth snaps shut with an audible click and he looks away. “I mean, not that I’ve been watching you the entire night or anything like that, because that would be, like, super creepy, right?”

Steve very carefully does not think about the fact that he has practically been following Tony with his eyes all night.

“Right,” he says instead, voice a touch breathless.

“Right.” Tony nods vigorously before freezing with a wince. One of his hands comes up to nurse the side of his head, thumb pressing into his temple.

“You okay? It still hurts a lot, huh?”

“It’s okay.” Tony tries to reassure him with a smile, even as he cradles his head in his hand. “Seriously. Just go back to your friend. I’ll be fine.”

“Um,” Steve swallows, “I’d like to stay here with you, actually. If you don’t mind.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ll keep you company.”

“Well, I don’t mind. But are you sure? ‘Cause I’m serious, you can totally go—”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts with a fond smile. “I’m very sure.”

As a matter of fact, there is quite literally nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Okay,” Tony relents. “Thank you.” He then lets out another sigh and begins massaging his right temple with his thumb.

“Can I do that for you?”

Tony stills. “Uh, sure.”

Steve smiles. “Thank you.”

Tony moves to sit up, but Steve stops him. “You don’t need to do that. Um, maybe you can just put your head down on my lap? And I can massage your head that way?”

“Oh.” Tony blinks. Once. Twice. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds great.”

Steve ends up sitting at one end of the couch with his thighs pillowing Tony’s head and his fingers pressing into Tony’s scalp, moving in small circles. He exerts enough pressure to hopefully help alleviate the pain, and judging by the way Tony seems to melt further into the couch, he thinks it might be working. He hopes Tony falls asleep. He clearly needs the rest, and Steve certainly isn’t going to complain about getting an excuse to stay close to Tony for a long, long time.

Just when Steve thinks Tony has finally drifted off, however, he reaches up to rub at his own exposed shoulders.

“Are you cold?”

Tony lowers his hands, crossing his arms on his chest. The entire time, his eyes remain shut.

“A little bit,” he says, but when Steve takes a closer look, he sees that goosebumps have broken out across his skin.

“Why did you take off your shirt and jacket?”

“I was in a lot of pain, and the dress shirt and jacket, the way the fabric felt, it was just—it felt suffocating. Made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. So I took them off.”

“Hm.” Steve pauses.

“Nooo. Why did you stop? Don’t stop,” Tony pleads mournfully.

“Sit up for a second?”

Tony opens his eyes, confused, but eventually does as instructed. Steve reaches down to grab the hem of his own sweater and starts pulling it upward.

“Uh, Steve? Not that I don’t appreciate the show, but I’m not really in the mood for a striptease, you know, considering that right now I feel like my head is about to ex—oh. You’re wearing a shirt. Underneath. Of course. Why wouldn’t you? Silly me.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You sound disappointed.”

“In my defense, disappointment is a perfectly reasonable reaction to this particular situation. Have you seen yourself?”

Shaking his head with a fond chuckle, Steve carefully puts the sweater over Tony’s head. Once his head is through, Tony blinks.

“What are you doing?”

“Dressing you in my sweater.” Steve helps Tony’s arm into one of the sleeves.

“What about you? Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really.”

“You hate the cold.”

Steve guides his other arm into the remaining sleeve.

“I’m fine.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Telling the truth, I promise. I feel fine. I feel warm.” And he does. Being around Tony has that effect on him. Besides, even if he did feel cold, he hates Tony being cold even more. “It’s soft, isn’t it?”

“Surprisingly so. And—”

Steve waits for Tony to continue his sentence, but he remains silent.

“And?”

He wonders if it might be his imagination, but he thinks Tony’s ears are turning slightly red. Steve frowns. He must be feeling colder than he lets on.

“It, uh, kinda smells like you.”

“Oh.”

“In a nice way! In a good way. You smell—really good.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Mm-hm.” Tony nods rapidly, eyes looking somewhere over Steve's shoulder. Unsurprisingly, the sweater looks big on him—almost like he is drowning in it. The sleeves go past his wrists and down to his fingertips, giving him adorable sweater paws.

It also makes him look smaller than he actually is. Steve suppresses a smile. Of course, he knows better than to point out this particular fact.

“Okay, now lie back down.” Steve pats his own thighs. “I’ll massage your head again.”

Once Tony’s head is settled comfortably on his lap, he sweeps Tony’s hair back away from his forehead and is rewarded with a content sigh as the man closes his eyes.

Steve is a few circles into their second massage session when Tony speaks again.

“You know, it’s stuff like this that makes it hard for me.”

“Huh?”

“You’re so kind and you always take care of me, and it's just . . . I know you’re just being nice, but it makes me think that you like, I don’t know, pay special attention to me or something. Like you like me. Like, like like me. Even though I know that’s obviously not the case here.”

Steve stills, staring down at Tony with wide eyes. In his shock, he has stopped massaging Tony entirely and his fingers hover with uncertainty in midair, inches away from Tony’s head.

Tony’s eyes blink open. Upon registering Steve’s expression, he promptly closes his eyes again with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck. Look, never mind. I’m sorry, can we just pretend I never said anything? Let’s pretend I never said anything. In fact, let’s go back to where we were a few seconds ago, when your fingers were still in my hair. I kinda liked that a lot, so—”

He cuts himself off and plants Steve’s fingers back in his hair, eyes still shut. This time, however, he is anything but relaxed, his body taut with tension.

Steve’s throat works as he struggles to swallow. His heart is pounding in his chest, so quick and loud that every beat seems to reverberate through his entire body, all the way to his fingertips. He takes a deep breath, and says:

“I’m not just being nice.”

Cracking one eye open hesitantly, Tony peers up at him. Then he opens both of his eyes, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. “Oh. Did—did you want something? From me? You can just ask, you know, you don’t need to bribe me with head massages or by bringing me lunch when I’m down in the workshop. Just say the word, and—”

“No, Tony, that’s not what I meant.”

“No, it’s okay, Steve. Now that I think about it, it makes so much sense, you know? Because it’s either that or you like like me, which is frankly a ridiculous concept, because why would you, you know? But I’m serious, you just need to ask, Steve, no need—”

“Why would me liking you be a ridiculous concept?”

“Because you’re you. And I’m . . . me.”

Steve furrows his eyebrows. “. . . What?”

“Um.” Tony blinks. “You know.”

“I’m afraid I really don’t.”

“Uh. Look, it’s fine. That’s not the point. My point is that there’s no need for you to—”

“No, Tony. My point is that you were right, the first time. To think that I’m paying special attention to you. Because I am. Paying special attention to you.” Steve brushes the side of his thumb against the soft baby hair along Tony’s hairline, looking down at him intently. “Because I like you.”

Tony’s brown eyes are wide open, staring up at Steve like he just discovered the answer to every unsolvable math conundrum.

“Tony, I take care of you not because I want something in return. I take care of you because I enjoy doing it. Because I hate seeing you upset or in pain. Because I like to see you smile.” He lets his thumb migrate down to Tony’s lips, caressing the corner of his mouth with a feather-light touch. “You have a really lovely smile, Tony. Did you know that?”

Tony swallows.

“I take care of you because I care about you. Because I like you. A lot.”

“As a friend.”

“As someone whom I would very much like to kiss right now, if I’m allowed to.”

"On the cheek?"

"On the lips."

“Friends can kiss each other on the lips.”

“Tony.” Steve sighs, exasperated.

“This . . . isn’t happening right now.”

“What isn’t happening right now?”

“Steve Rogers. Steven Goddamn Rogers. Is this a love confession?”

“Well, yeah. I wasn’t finished, but also—”

“Fuck me. Fucking fuck fuckity fuck me—”

“—the G in my name actually stands for Grant, and yeah, I’d love to, but—”

“—I’m sorry, did you just say you’d love to fuck me—”

“—I was thinking that maybe we could go out to dinner first—”

“—my God, this is a Christmas miracle—”

Steve covers Tony’s mouth with his hand, and the rest of his sentence comes out in the form of unintelligible muffled sounds.

“So I take it that you like me too?”

Tony nods.

Steve’s lips break into a helpless smile, sighing in relief as he takes his hand off Tony’s mouth.

“Oh, thank God. Otherwise that would’ve been really awk—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Tony suddenly surges upward to capture his lips in a kiss. Tony has to grab the back of his neck to pull it off, pulling his head downward at a terrible angle. It results in a quick press of the lips, barely there and gone.

When Tony’s head falls back onto his thighs, though, Steve is pleased to see a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“Always wondered what that would feel like.”

Steve’s lips twitch, even as his heart flutters at the admission. “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

Tony grins, mischief dancing in his brown eyes. “Even better. Definitely need to explore more of that later.” He then snuggles down into a more comfortable position. “But for now, I just want to fall asleep with your fingers in my hair.”

Just like before, in true Tony fashion, he grabs Steve’s hand, places it atop his head, and closes his eyes expectantly as he interlocks his fingers over his own stomach.

Steve chuckles, helplessly fond. A Christmas miracle indeed.

“Your wish is my command.”

#stevetony #stevetony fic #stony #stony fic #superhusbands #steve/tony #steve x tony #mine #earl wrote something #user: omg-just-peachy #cap im holiday exchange #cap im holiday exchange 2021

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wearywinchester · 3 years

Text

Cursed

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When a hunt for a witch leaves you cursed with a fever almost too hard to break, Dean does his best to make things better again.

Requested by Anonymous: “Hi! Can I please request a fic of dean x reader. She gets cursed by a witch and at first she just gets sick a little bit in the way home, but as soon as they arrive, her condition gets worse and her temperature keeps rising to a dangerous level. Dean is trying everything he can while Sam tries to find a way to get rid of the curse.”

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: angst, illness/fever, vomiting, swearing, mentions of food, comfort, fluff

Hunting witches were always some level of difficult, required you to think one step ahead because they always have something up their sleeve just ready and waiting to get you with. Most times it was when you least expect it no matter how much the three of you tell yourselves you know their tricks by now. But you don’t.

It’s that familiar unfamiliarity this time that got you.

The hunt hadn’t gone terribly, the three of you were alive and breathing and that’s always a win in your book. But they were vengeful, though, and they put up a good fight that left Dean especially with more than a few bumps and bruises. It went fine until it didn’t, or at least until things started to go south once everything was said and done.

Now, you were in the car headed back home and you couldn’t have been happier about it. You sat up front with Dean as Sam took a nap in the back, something Dean would never complain about because now he could keep a better eye on you.

You woke up at the motel with a terrible headache that morning, one that lessened a fraction with the way Dean woke you up with the softest sweetheart and the sweetest kiss. He knows you haven’t quite been feeling yourself since that hunt the night before and it was an open opportunity to give you some extra lovin’ to make you feel a little better.

He saw your frown as you sat there, no matter how subtle, inches from leaning on him as you looked at the road ahead. He hates when you get headaches, he knows how miserable they make you and to see you hurting is something that he hates more than anything.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks, your gaze shifting to him as he glances over at you briefly.

“Mhm,” you hum, feeling as though it may have been too soft to hear it. “Just a headache.”

A good nap in your own bed and some Tylenol would do you some good, and hopefully that’d do the trick, it always seemed to work in moments like these. It’d been a long drive round trip and a stressful hunt, you had plenty of reason to work up a migraine and the colder weather wasn’t helping your cause. That’s all you chalked it up to and you found yourself thinking about that memory foam mattress you’ve got back at the bunker and the older Winchester you share it with. That and a nice, comfortable flannel sounded like some good medicine to you.

He looked at you once more before he sighed, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he continued on down the road.

The bunker was a sight for sore eyes the moment you pulled into the garage a little while later. It was much warmer than the weather outside, the rain drizzling steadily and the breeze chilly as it seeped through your jacket. You have to admit, this kind of weather is always preferable rather than having the sun shining in your eyes. It’s all the more cozy and far more comfortable than that.

Your room, that was something entirely different. The mere sight of the golden eleven on the door had you sighing with relief, more so when you stepped inside. It was the perfect mix of you and Dean, a space of your own to come home to on a day like today.

That fleece and flannel blanket was splayed across the bed just waiting to be used, and a flannel of Dean’s lay over the back of the wooden desk chair. Unbeknownst to you, he puts them there on purpose. Before every hunt, he’ll always set aside one of his flannels on that very chair because he knows you put them on when you get back. Before you leave, he’ll put one there every single time.

The room smelled of that maple cinnamon wall plug-in that Dean insisted he hated oh so much, but you know a Dean Winchester lie when you hear one. You saw him buy a refill for it a number of times but you’ll keep quiet about that one, he’s too sweet for his own good even if he refuses to realize it. He’s a stubborn one and he always will be.

You sighed as you dropped your duffel bag to the floor, shrugging off your rain dampened jacket and putting it over the chair in place of his flannel. You didn’t worry over untying your boots this time as you slid them off instead, nudging them halfway under the bed as Dean put his coat over top of yours.

You hadn’t felt any better, your head still aching and your stomach churning as nausea began to simmer away. It was definitely worse than when you were in the car and you were happy that it’d at least held out until you got home. You could deal with it better here but it didn’t make the way you felt any better. But you shook it off as best you could as you looked up at Dean.

He sees the way you look at the less than ideal scrape along his cheek, and the way he kept rubbing at his shoulder in discomfort. The way your brows furrow and the corners of your mouth turn downward in the softest of frowns when your gaze lingers over the small cut that’s slightly swollen across the bridge of his freckled nose. He sees it and he knows what’s coming.

“Y/n.”

“I’m patching you up, De.”

“‘M fine,” he says, lips pursed as he looks at you. “You need to take a rest, sweetheart. Don’t try and pull that ‘I’m okay’ crap either.”

“You mean the crap that you just pulled?” You challenge, brown raised and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious,” he huffs, grabbing the corners of the blankets on your side of the bed and tugging them back. He turns to you once more, to you who’s still got that stubborn look on your face. He wipes away a smudge of dirt on your cheek with the pad of his thumb, his expression much more soft. “You looked miserable the whole ride home and I know your head’s buggin’ you. You need some sleep, Y/n/n.”

You tilt your head a little as you look up at him, seeing the concern pooling in his eyes. You leaned on your toes and kissed him softly, giving a kiss to the tip of his nose for good measure.

“And I will,” you start, the crease between his brows deepening. “Right after I patch you up.”

His jaw tenses as you turn and walk away from him, his head tipping back as a huff leaves his lips.

You walk down the quiet hall towards the bathroom, the lights dim for the evening just as they always were. The sound of your foot falls were the only source of noise in the place save for the regular crack of thunder as the storm rolled in. But even then, even with the low lighting it was still proving to do your headache no good. Nothing was, it seemed.

You wince as you turn the bathroom light on, taking a moment or two to adjust to the brightness that was too harsh to keep up with. With a narrowed gaze you make your way to the counter, squatting down as you pull open the cabinet door. You made a note to stock up on toiletries as you glanced around for the first aid kit, your hand gripping the edge of the counter to steady your balance.

After a second, you spot the well-used kit and snag it from its shelf, standing to your feet. Maybe you should’ve stood up a little slower, maybe you shouldn’t have even turned the bathroom light on in the first place, you weren’t sure. But what you knew very well was the rush that came down over you, swift and unforgiving as you set the kit down on the counter with a clatter.

Your heart and your head pounded all the same, and your already fragile balance had wavered so much so you’d fall over if it weren’t for the way you leaned against the cabinets. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath to try and soothe the nausea swirling around in your stomach. Your eyes were wide as you blinked, hoping to blink away the beginnings of the double vision making its presence known.

It wasn’t unheard of for you to get a little dizzy upon standing, but this felt different. This felt off.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, saw the light sheen of sweat glimmering across your face despite the lack of reason. The crease between your brows deepens at the sight, at the worsening feeling in your stomach. The taste in your mouth wasn’t even close to being desirable, the queasy feeling you’ve got going on feeling as though it tripled in the last few seconds that’d passed.

It rapidly became unbearable as you rushed to the toilet, your head disagreeing with having turned far too quickly to keep up with, but that didn’t matter as much as you fell to your knees unceremoniously. They ached in response as you clutched the cold porcelain bowl, what was left of the slice of apple pie from the diner earlier having emptied into it.

Your head hung low as you caught your breath in time for round two, just as tiring as the last as whatever was going on wreaked havoc on you.

It didn’t take Dean long to realize something was wrong, he knew it wouldn’t have taken nearly ten minutes to snag the first aid kit from the cupboard. It didn’t take long before he headed straight for that bathroom and confirmed his concerns as he spotted you hunched over the toilet looking as miserable as ever. The sight made his heart squeeze in his chest.

You hear his footsteps, hear him call your name in a muffled voice as you cough and spit, grabbing a nearby washcloth and wiping your mouth with a shaky hand. You can feel him run his hand up and down your back, can feel his presence close to you. It’s when you turn to look at him that he sees just how drained you look, just how upset you look.

“Something isn’t right, Dean,” you nearly whisper, your lip quivering as you slump against his chest.

He pulls you close with a few soothing hushes, noticing the way you’re trembling in his arms. That queasiness lessened some but it was still there, still there just waiting to wash over you once more and the mere thought of it had the tears welling in your eyes. You knew crying wouldn’t make the situation better, you knew it’d stuff your nose up even worse too, and the kiss Dean pressed to the top of your head lightened some of that pressure.

“‘S okay, sweetheart. I’m right here and I’m not goin’ anywhere. You know that, okay?” He said, pressing a few more kisses to your hair.

You nod softly and sniffle, your eyes squeezing shut briefly. When you open them once more, you see him bring the back of his hand up, noticeably cooler as he presses his hand to your forehead and you make a noise of discontent when he pulls it away. You can see his frown, can see the deepened crease between his brows as he runs his hand over your head, you can feel his shoulders stiffen and tense.

“What is it?” You ask quietly, too tired to speak any louder.

“You’re warm,” he says softly, taking a moment to take in your expression with concerned eyes. You were still sweating, and he could feel the heat burning in your cheeks. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

He puts on that smile, that smile he always gives when things are worse than he lets on, that smile he gives to comfort even when things aren’t good and he knows that. He gives you that smile as he scoops you up with ease and care to not move you around too much.

He knows exactly what’s going on. This isn’t some run of the mill headache, he knew what those looked like for you and he knew exactly how to handle them. This was far different from that.

He always knew witches had a trick or two up their sleeves, and he should have realized sooner what she’d been doing, what she’d been saying under her breath. He couldn’t hear just what it was she’d been saying, just what spell but that’s exactly what she’d done. She’d gone and cursed Dean Winchester’s sweetheart for the sake of hitting him where it hurts because just about every monster in the world knew you were his sweet spot.

She cursed you and there’s not a single chance he was going to let it get the best of you.

He set you down gingerly in bed, splaying the sheet over you and up to your shoulders. He didn’t want all those blankets on you despite how much you may have wanted it. He didn’t want your temperature getting any higher than it surely must have been and it’s taking all he’s got not to give in to those eyes you’re giving him, that frown you’ve got on your face.

“Will you stay?” You mumble, looking up at him as you tuck yourself deeper under the soft sheet he’d covered you with.

“I will, I’ll come back. I just need to go tell Sammy somethin’ and then I’m all yours, okay?” He says, waiting for the softness of your hum before he leaves the room.

He’s angry, he’s beyond angry as he makes his way through the hall in hurried steps and it shows on his face. It showed on his expression the moment he knew you couldn’t see him as he searched for Sam.

He found him in the library much to his relief, he didn’t want any more time wasted because there isn’t much time to spare in his mind. He’s rapidly becoming a nervous wreck over this the moment he realized what was happening to you. He was a nervous wreck but all Sam could see was the anger written all over his brother’s face as he barreled into the library looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What is—”

“Freakin’ hocus pocus back there put a spell on Y/n,” Dean said before he could even finish, that very same frustration transferring into his tone.

“What?”

“She’s workin’ on a fever, Sam,” he says, running hands through his hair and back down his face. “We need a cure for this like yesterday.”

Sam could see the worry in his brother’s eyes, can hear it in his voice, and he swallows thickly as he moves to snag all of the related lore books he can find revolving around witchcraft. He doesn’t know how to break it to Dean that he doesn’t know where to start, but the more he stands in the same room with him, the more he feels the tension of his worry, the easier it is for him to decide against letting him know that.

“Okay, okay. Did you hear any bits and pieces of the curse she used?” Sam asked, flipping through pages.

“No. No I didn’t hear anything,” he said, trying his hardest to recall something, anything. “Damnit.”

You sat up a little more in bed, that nausea creeping its way back up the more you laid down like that. You gave in and pulled all the blankets up to your chin, feeling as though you were freezing despite the way your cheeks burned. You don’t know how things went from bad to worse, you had no idea, but your mind was too fuzzy to make sense of much else other than the way you felt as though you’d been hit by a train a hundred times over.

You can’t remember the last time you got sick, not really, but it’s been a long while since it’s been this bad and you felt as though you should’ve enjoyed being healthy a lot more than you did. Being sick was something you knew could progress quickly but this, this was something else entirely.

You leaned over and grabbed the small trash bin for good measure, the mere action itself having you whine at the nausea it stirred up. Your head still pounded and your heart did the same, your skin prickling with sweat and dampening your clothes.

You weren’t quite sure how long Dean had been gone, too worked up to think about it but it didn’t matter once he walked through that door, his attention set on you.

“Hey, sweetheart. How you holdin’ up?” He asks, voice softer than soft as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

His tone is much gentler, his expression much less hardened with worry for your sake, less showing of his anger and upset for your sake. But you see it, of course you do, you knew Dean Winchester like the back of your hand at this point and there was no hiding his emotions when it came to you. He could try all he wants but it just won’t work on you.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” You ask.

You see the way his lips pursed and his shoulders slump, can see his hesitation and reluctance to tell you what’s going on but that look you’re giving him leaves him no other choice.

“Tell you what, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re better. Sound like a deal?” He says, his hand settling on your cheek as his thumb brushes along your skin.

You exhale a soft huff, pushing his hand away softly as you look up at him.

“I’m cursed, aren’t I?” He gives you that look, the one that screams how did you know without actually saying it. It’s one that has a soft smile tugging weakly at the corner of your mouth. “You’re not so quiet when you’re angry, De. Your poker face isn’t so great either.”

He chuckles then, half humorous as he nods and looks down at his lap. That’s one thing he knew for certain, you could read him like a book more so than anyone else. Even when you were sicker than sick you knew it. His attention on his boots doesn’t last very long when he hears you cough, one turning to two and two turning to a fit of them as your head hangs low over the small trash bin.

His brows furrow deeper if that’s possible, scooting closer to you as his hand rubs your back in soothing circles.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, talking you down from it as he snags the glass of water from the nightstand.

He stiffens when you look up at him, swallows thickly when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, stains of crimson smearing across it as you do so and smudged at the corner of your mouth. He tries to mask his worry, tries to reign it in with a clench of his jaw as he hands you the glass and grabs the dampened wash cloth, wiping it around your mouth gently. If you see right through him, you don’t say anything that time.

“De?” You mumble, barely above a whisper and it catches his attention and steals it from his thoughts. “Please cuddle me.”

He’s quick to take the trash can from you and set the half drank water back on the nightstand in favor of sitting himself back on the edge of the bed. You feel as content as you can be when he tugs you into his side and tucks you under his chin. You’re tired as you rest your head on his chest, the best of his heart in your ear. You can feel the way his leg bounced as the heel of his boot tapped against the floor, can hear it.

But you don’t say anything. He’s worked up and he always tries his best to keep that from you, so you keep quiet, you save the lighthearted teasing for later.

He notices the fistful of his shirt you’ve got in your palm, and the way you’re still shaking. He notices it all and it’s killing him that he can’t fix it with a simple snap of his fingers.

But he can’t.

He can’t. All he can do is sit there on the edge of that bed and let you hug on him as tight as you please, all he can do is kiss your forehead and worry about what if it’s too warm yet what if you’re too cold with the way you’re shaking.

The grip you’ve got on his hand is tighter than tight as you let your eyes fall closed, cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his t-shirt and he couldn’t care less how bone crushing it may be. He doesn’t care about that so long as you’re comfortable, even just a little. That’s what matters to him and that’s what will always matter to him.

He can’t help but sit there and stare at the door, at the door he hopes opens soon with Sam and the promise of some sort of cure that will make everything better. He sits there with a steady grip on you that puts you at ease, green eyes flickering between you and the dormant doorway as he bounces his leg in anticipation that only gets worse by the second.

“Dean?” You murmur after a little bit of time passes, tipping your head back though your cheek still rests on his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“What about those scrapes you got on your face?” You ask, the thought still on your mind that you never got to patch him up.

You feel his chuckle, you can hear it too.

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. ‘M good.”

You smile softly, eyes closed once more as you listen to his words. “I’ll bet you are, De.”

The softness of his smile goes unseen, that bittersweet smile he’s got. Even when you’re cursed by a witch, even when you’re sick as ever, which he knows must feel worse than you let on because that’s just how you are. But even then, you’re still fussing over him, still worrying about him when you’re the one that deserves to be fussed over.

That’s one thing he never seems to understand. Dean Winchester never grasps his importance to other people, never thinks he is important to other people. He’s got that self loathing thing dialed so far up that he doesn’t ever think he’s deserving of it. But that’s one thing you’ll always do, you’ll always remind him that he’s the glue that holds everything together because that’s more than true. You’ll always remind him of it even when you don’t realize you are.

You don’t see his smile as you lay your head against his chest, trying your hardest not to think about how your stomach is twisting and churning in itself. Or the way you’re so hot yet so cold. That sheen of sweat seems to be constant, your clothes sticking to you in the most annoying of ways and you’re so far beyond uncomfortable it’s almost unbearable. But it stays at almost because you’ve got your Dean with you and he makes anything bearable.

You feel like you’re on death’s doorstep, and you very well could be with what this witch put on you, but it’s bearable with him.

“Get some rest sweetheart, I’ll be here.”

The rest you got was as good as none, having spent who knows how long being on the brink of sleeping but never quite getting there because you were far too uncomfortable to even think about it. Your nose was completely closed and your throat was sore from breathing through your mouth not to mention how raw it’d felt from throwing up, your head pounded as though you’d been experiencing the worst hangover of your life and you were starting to favor that idea over this.

Your stomach was in knots and it rumbled and rumbled, but you knew the moment you ate some food under this curse it’d just come right back up. You were sure your clothes were wet, your hair dampened as you continued to sweat.

You did feel Dean get up at one point but you were too groggy to say anything about it, didn’t mind it because he came back like you knew he would. Unbeknownst to you, while he was gone he checked on Sam and how that cure was coming along, Cas having arrived to help. He got a pot of tomato and rice soup going with hopes you’d get to eat it soon, with the hope you’d be all better soon. He also gotten ready the one thing he knew you would dread the most but he knew he was running out of options. He knew that wet washcloth on your forehead would only do so much.

You didn’t realize how deep into a sleep you were until you’d been woken up, half by yourself and half by an urgent Dean. You’d been coughing again, that dreadful cough that worried Dean half to death. But it turns out that was the least of his concerns as his hand pressed to your forehead once more, clammy and hot to the touch.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he said, patient as you coughed and he tried not to get worked up over the pale crimson gathering in the corner of your mouth once more. “Hold still for me, Y/n/n.”

He sticks the thermometer under your tongue and holds his fingers under your chin, and you see the color drain from his face at the reading.

“Alright, baby, c’mon,” he starts scooping you up with that smile, that laugh he does when he’s nervous as hell but refuses to let you see that. You’d think about it some more if you hadn’t realized what was coming next as he headed towards that bathroom.

“Dean, please. I don’t…” He doesn’t like the way you’re too tired to finish your words, trailing off as you grab a fistful of his shirt once more. But you gather yourself again, gather your train of thought as you swallow thickly and shake your head. “I don’t need that.”

He sees the way you’re eyeing that tub, the once that’s full of cold water and a bag or two of ice. He sees the dread on your face and he hates to have to do it but your temperature will skyrocket if he doesn’t and that’s not an option. He hated it when he drew that bath and he hates it even more that he has to use it.

“I know this ain’t gonna feel too good, sweetheart. But please, please trust me that it’s gonna help you. You can hate me all you want for it, you can, I’ll take it over lettin’ you burn up any day.”

You gasp as he dips you in the tub slowly, immersing you in frigid water up to your shoulders and any trace of fatigue you may have felt dissipates in that moment. You can see the way his face scrunches in dread and you know it’s tearing him apart without him saying a word.

Your teeth are chattering in an almost comical way, your tears hot as they spill down your cheeks one after another. You’re so tired, physically drained from everything that’s happened in the last few hours. Everything that’s not supposed to develop so quickly over the span of a few hours. The way you felt made you never want to hunt again, at least not one that even has a whiff of a witch. You’d take a million stitches or a twisted ankle over this any day. You’d even take a good toss into a fancy china cabinet over this.

But damn does Dean hate seeing you cry. He hates it more than anything.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, his hand running over your head that rests against his arm.

He doesn’t care that he got more than elbow deep in that water, doesn’t care at all. He’d get in completely a million times over if there was room for him, if there was time to kill but there wasn’t. All he could do was tell you he was sorry and wish he were in your place instead. His hand settles on your cheek as he presses a myriad of kisses to the top of your head, your jaw shaking against his hand with the way your teeth chatter without pause.

“Dean, if you keep apologizing, I’m gonna kick your ass,” you say through shivers, the thought of him feeling bad about any of this breaking your heart.

He chuckles then, bittersweet. “I know you will, Y/n/n.”

It’s then that Sam walks through that door, Cas hot on his heels with a mason jar full of something that looks less than appetizing and a look of hope in his eyes. Dean sits up a little straighter, snagging it from his hands. He’s quick to hold it up to your lips, urging you to drink it with all the patience in the world despite how urgent he’s trying not to be.

You do and you nearly spit it out with the way it tasted, absolutely awful as you squeezed your eyes shut. You’ve got three sets of eyes on you as they wait and see what happens, hoping for something, anything good. They watch and they wait with bated breath and at first you think it’s hopeless, that nausea and that terrible headache still very much taunting you. But after another moment or two you feel a different kind of burn, a different kind of warmth form and blossom through you in a way only a cure to a curse could feel.

It was prickly and warm and you hoped that it meant it was working, knew it did as that queasy feeling began to dissolve and that pounding in your head faded to nothing after a minute.

They waited and waited and you tipped your head back against the tub with a tired sigh, all they needed, all Dean needed to relax a little.

You sink into his lap tiredly as he sits in that leather recliner he loves oh so much, that flannel blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’ve got a clean flannel of his on and those ridiculous hot dog pajama pants of his too, and he’s got comfortable clothes on for the first time since he woke up in that motel room that morning. That morning that felt a million miles away.

The tv is on low as he holds you close, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. You’ve got a heaping bowl of soup and two grilled cheese sandwiches for good measure, and one of them you’ll definitely give to green eyes because he always goes overboard. He’s got the sheets in the wash with a change of fresh ones on the mattress when you’re ready to go to bed, but he knows you’ll end up falling asleep with him in that chair and he knows he’ll end up carrying you to bed.

But you’re okay now. No curses, no hexes, no fever. You’re okay and that’s all he’ll ever need and he’s perfectly content with that.

You tip your head back and look at him, smile soft and growing softer when he looks at you too. “Thank you, De. For everything.”

Your words are soft and he doesn’t feel like he deserves them, not when he had to dunk you in a tub full of ice water, not when he couldn’t keep you from getting cursed in the first place. He doesn’t feel he deserves any bit of that thank you but he knows you’ll give him that look you always do if it argues that. You already know the thoughts spinning around in that head of his full well.

He kisses your temple, lingering before he kisses your lips. “Thought you were gonna kick my ass about an hour ago.”

You see the corner of his mouth quirk up, those crinkles by his eyes appearing that you love so much. That smile works its way onto your lips as you laugh softly, your thumb brushing over the simple in his chin before your hand settles on his cheek momentarily.

“I guess you better watch your back, Winchester,” you smile, kissing him softly before finishing your soup. You feel his chuckle press to your temple, can hear it, and it puts you at ease.

You did end up falling asleep in his lap in that recliner, tomato soup in the corners of your mouth. You fell asleep tucked under his chin in the comfort of his clothes that smelled every bit like Dean Winchester, but no blanket in the world could beat the warmth of his arms. He’s got his arms around you with no intentions of letting go, not for a long while after the day you’ve both had.

He’ll take care of you, he always will, cursed or not.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @agalliasi @campingmonkey @deandaydreaming @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @taikawho

#dean winchester #dean winchester angst #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction

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father-time-and-baby-new-year · 3 years

Text

OFF WITH YOUR HEAD

PART 2 OF HEADS WILL ROLL

SYNOPSIS: Whenever school is in session, Eren will just keep finding new places to corner you.

PAIRING: BULLY! EREN x FEM! READER

DEDICATED TO: you guys, always you guys.

WARNINGS: unedited, slight dubcon, groping, degradation, bullying,

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

Gooooood Morning Paradis Birds! Remember to give a big round of applause to the football team for clutching the victory against reigning champion Marley High! We stay undefeated thanks to our excellent and hardworking team. Special shoutout to Captain Eren Yeager for guiding the team to another flawless victory-

You're half-heartedly paying attention to class, sleepily listening to the school announcements over the speaker until the mention of his name douses you like a shock of ice-cold water.

You can't catch the rest of the announcement because your class erupts into cheer, enthusiastically clapping their hands for the boy of the hour.

The only one not joining is you.

Eren's smile is brighter than 100 kilowatts. In the back of your mind, you wonder where he learned to smile like that. When his emotions became so practiced.

Mr.Berner tries to calm the kids down, especially Sasha who bangs on her desks and howls, creating even more hype and ruckus. The class, now in a chattier mode, excitedly breaks into little conversations.

"Man, thank god. That school is so pretentious, I'm glad we finally have something over them."

"Jeez, I know our team was good, but it's this good-?"

"-Bro, year of XXXX is stacked as fuck. It's literally never been this stacked before. We have a whole team of prodigies, it's insane-especially Eren. "

"Yepp. My dad went to Paradis too and he said shit like this never happened during his time. The academic comps were one thing, but these footballs wins? We're being put on the fucking map."

The announcements are still going on, but it's hard to hear over the noise. You're only able to catch the tail end, a useless tidbit about the word of the day.

pre·mo·ni·tion a strong feeling that something is about to happen, especially something unpleasant. Here is an example: "She had a premonition of imminent disaster" Have a good day folks, hope it's free of any premonitions!

Overhearing the unceasing praise of the boy who pinched your thighs until they bruise blue and purple was a little painful-but you were used to it. After all, he's putting Paradis on the map. Whatever the fuck that means.

While you didn't love sharing this class with him, he was seated far across the room and surrounded by a gaggle of friends. You might as well have been invisible, the way he did not acknowledge you. Maybe you should treat it as a small mercy.

Unwittingly, your eyelids grow heavy. You're sitting in the back of the class, no one would notice if you took a little nap right? Assured by the fact no one will notice, you lower your head into your folded arms and let your thoughts float.

You dream of vaguely nothing but shadows of smiles, tufts of dark hair, and the smell of the wind at sea until a noise confined to the shape of your name breaks the harmony.

"[y/n?]"

You startle awake with pairs of eyes piercing their gazes at you. Swallowing thickly, you apologize to Mr.Berner who looks worried. He's a good teacher, and one of your favorites.

"I'm sorry Mr.Berner. I had a migraine so I laid my head down." You lie smoothly, with more grace than you knew you were capable of. Course, you could have just said you were taking an unprompted nap, but that would disappoint your lovely teacher.

He sighs, "Guess that can't be helped then. Go to the nurse ok?"

Bingo. The nurse was an understanding lady, she'd let you sleep the rest of the period off. You nod, and start to gather your materials, relieved the class' attention on you was beginning to dwindle.

"Wait, Mr.Berner, let me take her. What if she gets disoriented and falls in the hall?"

Fuuuuck. You should have known. You should have expected this because attached to the request dripping with faux concern was none other than the precious jewel of the kingdom. Eren's intrusion makes your peers perk up again at the scene unfolding in front of them.

You smile, lips tightly pressed, "I'll be fine. I don't want to distract anyone from the lesson and it's a short walk-

"It's still potentially dangerous.", Your teacher interrupts, pinching the bridge of the nose, "And while I'm completely surprised by Eren's sudden streak of altruism, he's right. Something could happen. He'll take you there safely."

A very convenient streak of altruism, all right. You think it over in your head, yeah the nurses' office is right down the hall, and once you're there, he'll leave. Sure, he'll taunt you but you can handle a few minutes worth of cruelty.

It's awkward getting up, and walking in front of the class while Eren props the door open like a gentleman. You know what a sharp contrast it must look like, you and him, you cowering into yourself, not meeting any eyes while he stands tall and confident.

"Do you have everything?" His tone is one of reassurance, and for the barest of the moments, feels too familiar. You know he's not being genuine right now, and for the first time, you question if he was genuine back then.

"You can hold onto my arm if you're too dizzy to walk." He says as you guys slip out of the classroom, purposefully a little too loudly. You hear coos from girls and a stray "She's so lucky!"

He must have heard it too, because he lowers his head to whisper into your ear, "Yeah, very lucky, aren't you?" Wisps of dark hair tickle your cheeks. You see the glint of tiny silver hoops and wonder when he had gotten his ears pierced. The illusion breaks and the performative charming prince's reassuring smile is replaced by a sneer.

"Didn't know you could lie like that, by the way. Some good girl you are if you're trying to ditch class like this." Fingers dig deep into your waist as he drags you along the empty hallway that seems to stretch on for miles.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, "How did you know I was lying?"

Viridian eyes narrow, "I've seen you get migraines before." There's a knock on your heart. As if realizing he was talking about something far away ago, a vindictive edge laces into words pouring out of his mouth, "I bet you wanted this to happen, didn't you? Wanted to get us all alone."

He's trying to get a rise out of you, that much is obvious. So you ignore him to the best of your ability.

...which quickly proved to be futile, as you suddenly find your arm pinned to your back, and your front facing the nearest walls.

"I asked you a fucking question bitch." He's practically growling, "Fucking answer me."

If there was a world record for the shortest temper, best believe Eren Yeager will have collected that accolade too. He's getting too worked up, and you could definitely feel his harness poking the back on your ass, as he grinds into you.

You manage to crane your neck, wanting to have your face shoved into the wall, and then venomously spit out, "You're not looking for answers. You just want me to repeat whatever you think is true."

This position brings back flashbacks to the library when he caged you in against the bookshelves, and like then, he spins you around to face him quite abruptly.

His smile is full of sharp teeth, "No. I know I'm right."

You don't respond. He moves in closer, his breath fanning on your earlobes. Your body can't help but let an involuntary shudder, and you close your eyes, not wanting to see his pleased grin or the way the fluorescent light makes his hoops gleam like silver bullets.

One calloused finger flicks your nipple, "Do you want to know why I'm right?"

At your lack of response, the dark-haired boy rolls your nipple in between his fingers before pinching it painfully, eliciting a small whimper out of your fuckable lips. "N-no", you answer finally. You're wearing your thinnest bra because of the seasonal heat, and you can't help but regret that decision right now. The fact he's only paying attention to one of your nipples is driving you insane. Not that you want it, but you're so fucking sensitive right now. You struggle in his hold, causing him to hold you tighter, and by now his nails were probably embedded into your skin.

He chuckles at your honesty, rewarding you with a thick stripe of his tongue over the collared shirt of your uniform making you gasp. Did he just-, over your shirt too-, you look down and see a very visible wet spot.

Taking advantage of your distracted state, a eager hand snakes under your skirt until it settles in the middle of your panties. He licks your earlobe before speaking, his voice like ice under your heels.

"You were so fucking wet that day in the library while saying you hated me the entire time," he pauses as his fingers scissor you through your panties, as if to drive the message home, "About as wet as you are right now."

There's a wet spot there too, also caused by him. You crush your eyes shut, "Eren...please just take me to the nurse." You're not even struggling anymore, holding onto him out of your own accord, worried that if you don't hold onto anything-you'd fall on your knees.

The very headache you lied about having seemed not so non-existent after all.

Eren hooks his arms under the plush of your thighs, "Yeah. Of course, that's what I came to do, right?"

You had hoped you'd be granted a reprieve in the nurses' office but you'd forgotten that luck was never really in your favor. Because while you guys had entered the squeaky-clean office, the nurse was nowhere in sight.

Instead, a note sat on her desk in unassuming frilly cursive that Eren read with glee.

Sorry students! Minor emergency to take care of, and I'll be back by the middle of the next period. If you're badly hurt, see Mr.Ackerman in room 203. If not, just sit tight! Feel free to take up the beds.

Thank you,

Ms.Ral

Eren had turned to you with shining green eyes, "Since no one's here, I guess I'll have to keep you company. Don't want you to hurt yourself."

There was something claustrophobic about how Eren stood in front of the door as if to signify to get out of here, you had to get through him.

"Maybe I can get Mr.Ackerman..."

Eren's sudden bout of laughter makes you wince and retreat inside of yourself, "For what? A fake headache? You really wanna inconvenience him like that? Mr.Ackerman?"

You take slow steps backward until the back of your knees hit the school bed, making you stumble as you clumsily take a seat. Eren's been marching forward with every retreating step you took, and it's no surprise when he pushes you down the bed, strong hands on the side of your head, while his muscular legs force your thighs apart so he can settle himself in between.

"We have some time to kill, you know." Strands of dark hair fall into his eyes, and without thinking, you reach upwards to brush them aside.

He grips your wrist before you make it that far, nearly gritting out a "What are you doing?"

You just stare, not really knowing why that was your impulse either. Finally, you mouth out, "I want you to leave Eren."

The grip on your wrist is tighter than ever, and you very well know that you're going to have new finger-shaped bruises before the old ones even finish healing.

"And I want to stay." He punctuates each word slowly, and all you can think is how being pinned to a bed is much less painful than having the hard surface of wood digging onto your back.

You're fully aware of the heat in your core, and having Eren on top of you doesn't make this it any easier because fuck, he is attractive. Maddeningly so. And maybe you want him to go away so bad because you're afraid that if his fingers are caught inside of you, you'll thank him for it.

As if reading your mind, he lets go of your wrist (making a mental note of your sluggish movements and slipping resistance) and massages your warm hole from your panties.

"Eren please" You grit out. He merely chuckles, "What are you asking for, whore?"

You could feel tears threatening to fall. This was so embarrassing. Did you want this? Yes, yes. yes, yes. You were so wet right now and had enough of the teasing.

He alternated his kneading from slow and soft to fast and rough, and you couldn't help but let out the prettiest little moans Eren's ever heard. Since you lose all pretenses of resistance, his other hand roughly brushes against your hardened nipples, straining against the fabric of your shirt.

Okay, he decided. He's going to make you beg.

"Beg." It's announced like a command, and while you hear it, you don't really register it because your hips are busy chasing the heat, and it's all too much of an utter disappointment when his long thin fingers leave.

"I said beg slut."

"Eren, please, please. I need you so bad." You're blubbering and you don't care. You just want his pretty fingers to shove aside your panties and rub against your folds. You think back to the library, how wet you were, how the stupid fucking phone call from his coach interrupted him pumping his fingers inside of you. And you didn't know if you were happy or mad he left. But now, all you crave is the blissful wave of pleasure- the very pleasure he's been denying you.

Eren looks down at you, green eyes scrutinizing. After a long while of what it seems to be him just staring, he wipes his fingers on your skirt, brushes back his hair with a wayward hand.

"Looks like I should head back to class. See you later."

Too numb to say anything, you watch him leave with a smirk on his face. When you're sure he's walked away, you curl into yourself and cry.

#attack on titan fanfiction #eren x y/n #tw dubcon #bully eren yeager #bullying #toxic eren #yandere eren x reader #eren x reader

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iwadori · 3 years

Note

Hiiii!!!! can you do like when you guys are supposed to meet up and they waited for about an hour or so and kept texting you you but you haven't replied so they thought you ditched them and got mad at you and stuff then they decided to go home and while on their way home not too far from their school they found you unconscious body with a large wound on you back and your head bleeding?.

can you pleaseease do tsukishima, yamaguchi, ushijima, bokuto (I'm sorry if that's a lot)

Haikyu Boys when you get hurt Pt 2 (Ushijima,Bokuto

Part One Part Two Part Three

Word count: 2.6K

Genre: angst, fluff

masterlist

Ushijima

You were having the worst week this week, from battling a cold and your boss making you do all sorts of extra jobs (that were definitely not under your job description.) As easter was swiftly approaching you and Ushijima had your annual plans of going to the local kids community center and helping them with an easter egg hunt. But you don’t think you can manage it this year.

Ushijima gets home from practice with 4 bags just filled with easter eggs ranging from all different sizes, “woah there Toshi, you’ve got enough there too feed all of england” you laugh

“I don’t think these eggs will be able to sustain England Y/N” he says seriously making you laugh even harder. As you were laughing, you felt another migraine come along making your cringe in pain. “Toshi, I don’t think I can do the easter egg hunt this year?”

He sits down next to you alarmed that something is wrong, “why what happened Y/N” he asks

“I’ve been feeling terrible all week, and I even have a migraine right now” you say to him thinking he would understand.

“That’s it?” he questions thinking what you said was a joke “I think you can handle a migraine, remember we’re doing this for the kids”

His words were making you feel slightly guilty since maybe you were being over dramatic. “Y/N if it’s really ‘that bad’, i’ll make you some tea so you can feel better,” he says going into the kitchen to start on your tea. You murmur a quiet “thank you” and you end up falling asleep, hoping that by the time you wake up your head stops pounding.

As you wake up, you realise you slept all the way through the night and over to the next day as when you look at your clock it says 12:32 pm. You look at your nightstand and saw that Ushijima wrote you a note saying:

Y/N I've left out early to set out the easter egg hunt, I’ve made you breakfast so eat up and get prepared for the event which starts at 4pm. Please don’t forget.

Sincerely – Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You chuckle at the fondness of the note, before realising your pain. Your brain felt like it was having a live concert inside that definitely was not going to end soon but you still got up prepared for the day. You didn’t want to let Ushijima or the kids down.

When you go to the kitchen , you see the cute breakfast that Ushijima made you consisting of all of your favourite foods and with another simple note of him saying ‘ I love you. ‘ Ushijima has always been a lovely boyfriend, treating you like the queen you are always making sure that you were okay. Of course, his bluntness and his lack of social cues was something to get used to but when you did get accustomed to it, it only made you fall in love with him more.

You got ready, feeling even more sick as the piping hot shower that you usual have, did not help as when you were showering you felt heavily faint. However, you persevered since you did not want to let Ushijima down.

You finally were prepared to leave the house, with the community center being on 15 minutes walk away you were leaving out at 3:50pm since you were planning to take your car anyways. When you leave your home, you realise that you forgot your car keys so you dash up the stairs (a bit too quickly) to go and find them. Scrambling through your draws, your head is pounding harder and harder and the more it pounds the quicker your moving making you even more faint. You eventually find your keys and you’re ready to zoom to the community center but your body gave out and you pass out tumbling down the stairs landing at your front door.

Ushijima was waiting outside of the community center waiting for you to arrive it was 4:05pm and he was wondering where you were (knowing that your place was only a 10 minute drive away) he sent you a few texts asking where you were but when you don’t respond Ushijima becomes slightly annoyed, plastering a fake smile on his face and entering the community center, starting the easter egg hunt.

The easter egg hunt came to a close at 8pm and Ushijima assumed that you would’ve showed up some time in the middle of the event, but you obviously didn’t show. After making sure that all the kids left safely Ushijima decided to call and text you more and when you continuously don’t respond and your calls go to voicemail he says ‘Y/N, im really disappointed with you right now. How could you do this to me? You said you would show up, the kids were really upset, how could you be so selfish?’

He walks to your house knocking on the door, but when you don’t immediately answer he knew something must be up now, since you haven’t responded to any of his texts and calls and didn’t show up he figured there was something deeper then you just ditching the event.

He used his key to open the door, surprised when the door hit something. He tried again hitting the ‘object’ that was laying at the door again. He carefully pushes the door to make enough room for him to fit through the gap. When he entered, he was startled at the sight of you, there you lay completely knocked out with a blood stain next to your head. He knelt down next to you and touched your cheek you were extremely cold, he had to get you to a hospital stat. He called an ambulance, panicked. Worrying about how long you’ve been out for since it would have to be atleast more than 4 hours he assumed.

You woke up in a foreign room, with your head slightly stinging. You place your hand on the back of your head and wince, then you remember you need to be at the easter egg hunt so you bolt up ready to move.

“I don’t think that’s wise for you to do that Y/N” Ushijima says to you

“Toshi, what happened?” you ask still in pain

“It seems you fell down the stairs and hit your head” after he said that all your memories come flooding back, and you remember rushing to the community centre, looking for your keys, and then falling down the stairs and everything going black.

“I’m sorry Ushi for missing the easter egg hunt, I really tried to get there,” you say with an apologetic look on your face

“It’s fine Y/N of course you wouldn’t of been able to get there after falling down the stairs” he says “Also, this is proof of why you shouldn’t run down the stairs”

You eventually get discharged with the doctor telling you all you need to do is rest and stay off your feet. Ushijima took the doctor's orders very seriously, becoming your loyal servant and waiting on you hand and foot, tending to your every need. He did also make you were eating healthy and taking all your medicine so you could have the best recovery possible.

Also, after realising that this could’ve all been avoided if Ushijima didn’t guilt trip you in the first place for having a migraine, he made sure to never ignore or dismiss when you say you are ill or have anything wrong with you even if it’s a migraine, a lost limb or a simple paper cut.

Bokuto

The Olympics were coming up and Bokuto couldn’t be any more excited than he already was. Everything he’s talked about for the past month he manages to find a way to relate to the Olympics, and as annoying as it got sometimes you were just as excited for it as much as Bokuto was.

Bokuto was heavily busy with extra practices so you were bored and lonely, since your boyfriend was at practice all the time so you chose to take up a new hobby. You decided to paint, although you weren’t an award-winning painter you still found joy in it. Being Bokuto’s girlfriend you had some slight unwanted attention on you: the usual fans of Bokuto that just followed you to have an extra aspect of him in their life's, or his fangirls that adored him.

You didn’t mind the fangirls for the most part since majority of them were pretty tamed and did fawn over your relationship. However, there was the minority of fans that did make it known to you that they DID NOT like you at all. When you started posting your paintings, it seems their hate for you amplified since they always found the need to leave an astray of mean comments on your post. But that didn’t mainly bother you since you thought that they only had that energy behind the screen.

The days went by getting closer to the Olympics, with Bokuto always asking you every day “Y/N you are coming to my games, right?” to which you always replied “Of course Kou, I’m coming” which always made him smile.

When the Olympics came, you’ve went to all the games cheering Bokuto and the team on as they were winning round after round. Whilst this was going on, the group of girls that were sending you horrible messages and making mean posts about you weren’t stopping. At first, you didn’t care for them but it seems their posts only gotten worse making comments about your artwork, your face, your body type ect.

You didn’t want to tell Bokuto as you felt that it would ruin his Olympic momentum and you thought you could handle it all on your own.

It was nearing to the final game of the Olympics, and Bokuto was ecstatic he made sure that you promised you’d be there claiming that you was his ‘good luck’ charm.’ You were excited to go too, the feeling of watching Bokuto play was exhilarating seeing him fully in his element was great for you to see.

On the last game day, Boktuo was already at the stadium since him and the team had to be there earlier to practice and you planned to meet him there just before the game started at 4:30. You went to a florist before the match getting Bokuto the biggest boquet that you could buy.

On your way to the stadium you here somebody whistle from behind you, you turn around and see a group of girls waiting behind you smirking. “Hi?” you say more like a question then a statement “do you want something from me?”

Some of them laugh, but the one standing at the front who you mentally lable the ‘main one’ steps closer to you and says “We want you to stay away from Bokuto” you realise that these were the girls sending you hate online for these past weeks.

Before you can even blink, the girls jump you, hitting, kicking and clawing at you. You are in pain, screaming and crying for them to stop and leave you alone. You lay there, letting them beat you up thinking that you’ll probably end up dead out of this. All you can think about is Bokuto, you didn’t get to wish him good luck, or give him your flowers (that you spent a fortune on) or even tell him that you loved him one last time.

You think the girls eventually stopped but you couldn’t tell because your body was throbbing and you hurt all over. You tried to get up still wanting to go to the match but you collapse going out cold.

Bokuto was scanning the crowd over and over for you, hoping to spot you there. But he couldn’t, he was wondering where you were getting sadder and sadder by the second since he really believed you were his good luck charm and he probably wouldn’t be able to win without at least seeing your face once.

They didn’t win. Bokuto knew he wasn’t playing at his best, since all his mind was on was thinking about where you were. You’ve never missed one of his games, so he was incredibly worried. After he accepted his second-place medal, he rushed out the stadium to go to your house but he was stopped by some fangirls ‘I guess signing autographs is the least I can do’ he thinks, the fans were being a bit odd today but he didn’t have time to focus on that as his mind was racing thinking about you and your whereabouts.

One of his fans did give him an alarmingly big boquet of roses which he appreciated ‘these must of cost a fortune’ he thinks. Although it was a probably a long shot, he decided to ask the fan if he saw someone who looked like *whatever you look like* to maybe see if someone else saw you. Which the fan replied “yeah I saw them with some guy at this restaurant whilst we were going to see you!” they exclaimed.

‘A guy’ he thought ‘that most likely wasn’t you.’ Seeing Bokuto’s confusion, the fan followed up with “I'm pretty sure it was her I mean we all know who Bokuto Koutaro’s girlfriend was.” Bokuto didn’t reply just walking away making sure to thank them for the flowers.

He was rushing towards your house on foot (since all the taxi’s and ubers were fully booked because of the Olympics) whilst running he stumbles across your passed out body all black and bruised with scratch marks and bleeding all over you. “what happened” he whispered, knowing you obviously weren’t going to respond.

He picked up your near-dead body, and cradled you in his arms taking you back to the stadium (since he knew that getting an ambulance to come here or running to the hospital would basically be impossible.) When he got back to the stadium, he did get odd looks from strangers but he didn’t care, his only agenda was making sure you were okay.

You woke up, and saw Bokuto pacing the room repeatedly you tried to get his attention by saying his name but your throat was damaged. He eventually notices you and runs to your side, stroking your face softly and giving you a gentle hug making sure not to hurt you.

“Who did this Y/N?” he asks with worry in his eyes

You ignore his question and look at the silver medal wrapped around his neck making you sad “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the match, I tried I really did try” you said with your voice sounding even worse after you said every word.

“Don’t be silly, I’m just glad that you’re okay babe, I was really worried about you.” he said

The Medic came in and said that you had multiple broken ribs, but beside that you were fine you just needed to rest your throat and let your bruises heal. You eventually told Bokuto that it was some of his fans, he was upset that you hid this from him for so long but he was just glad that he got to you as soon as he did. He managed to play at the next Olympics and you were there fully present, with your even bigger boquet of flowers watching win gold.

Authors Note: I tried to make it as close to your request as possible, but I hope you enjoy as I really do think this is my favourite work so far.... :3 Comments and feedback appreciated.

#haikyuu x reader comfort #haikyu scenarios #haikyu #haikyu angst #haikyu fluff #haikyu headcanons #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu-fluff #haikyu x reader #ushijima imagine #ushijima oneshot #ushijima angst #ushijima x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto angst #koutarou x reader #bokuto scenarios #signedwithane😌

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