#tw: pain
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Tw: pain kink
Anakin who makes you fuck yourself until you're sore and raw because he wants to watch. Then and ONLY then, is when he decides to slide in and fuck you with his cock. You're wet, god you're so fucking wet, a mix of arousal and your own cum, but you can feel how raw you are, every thrust makes you whimper and wince.
"Fucked yourself good, didn't you? I can feel it you're so fucking wet, are you bleeding? If I reach down there am I gonna see blood? Oh, my poor baby," His body betrays his sympathetic voice, his hips are moving faster, your eyes are squeezed impossibly shut and your fingers are digging red angry marks in his skin. "Hey, hey open your eyes look at me, look at me, there you are. Oh angel you're crying, are you mad? You mad at me? I know, I know it fucking hurts you fucked yourself so good for me, I know, Angel. Maker, the things I make you do for me, huh?"
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Not me thinking about Miguel taking care of you during a migraine attack 🥺
He would be so soft and caring because he understands. There would be no downplaying of your symptoms, no “Why can’t you just take some painkillers?”, no “Stop being so dramatic!”.
He would notice the first signs even before you do. He may not be in possession of *the* spidey sense but when it comes to special senses about you, his abilities know no limit.
And while you still try to argue that it might just be a regular headache and anyway you should try to get as much work done as possible before you are no more use to anyone, he has already picked you up to carry you to a quiet and dimmed place.
Which is usually his room. And even though it is the darkest and most silent room of the station to begin with, he still scans the vicinity for potential noise makers. Not even Lyla dares to disturb you when Miguel starts to take care of you.
In addition to placing a bucket right next to the bed, he meticulously covers the pillows in soft towels. It’s not that he fears any accidents should you have to throw up, it’s just that he knows how much you worry about making a mess.
In case you do have to throw up, he gently holds your head while giving you the softest of back rubs. If you have long hair, he’ll carefully brush it out of your face and put it into a protective style that doesn’t add to your pain.
Even though he knows how hard it is for you to drink under these circumstances, much less eat anything, he always has a tray with water, tea and your favourite snacks nearby. He knows exactly how frequently and how much of your medication you need to take and makes sure that you do so.
Despite your protests he puts away any electronics and devices that require you to look at a screen because he knows how much they would aggravate your condition.
He gently places a damp cloth over your eyes and regularly checks whether it needs replacing.
As soon as you start to shiver, he wraps you up in a fluffy blanket. If you start to feel too hot, he’ll get some fresh and cool blankets instead.
Though no blanket can match up to him, of course. He’ll snuggle up against your back ever so slowly and carefully, always checking whether he might overstimulate your aching senses with his need to take care of you. Slowly letting his hand caress up and down your arm in the most gentle and comforting manner, he somehow manages to hold you just as tight as you need him to.
Sometimes, when even the softest of hugs by him are too much for you, he’ll just lie down next to you and hold your hand, drawing soothing circles on its back with his thumb.
When the pain becomes so unbearable that you can’t stop your tears from falling, he does his best to comfort you, holding you and mumbling soft and soothing words. Reassuring you how brave you are and how he is there for you and how he is going to watch over you.
And as you finally fall into an exhausted sleep, already knowing that you are going to wake up feeling so much better, you can’t believe how loved you are 🥺
#miguel o'hara#across the spider verse#spider man: across the spider verse#atsv#miguel o'hara x reader#tw: migraines#tw: throwing up#tw: pain#chrissie rambles
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TW: blood, implied torture, obscured torture, pain, Dottore being Dottore...Lots of Scaramouche's tears.
Dottore's segment taking liberties with Wanderer and Lumine showing up to shank him like the rat bastard he is. Did this for dear @venranae and because I have had an absolutely awful week.
This is PART ONE - PART TWO will be coming shortly and will involve less of...well...all this.
#scaramouche#wanderer#genshin impact#dottore#pain#this is just pain#this is what happens when I have a shit week and I take it out on sad bois#comic#genshin impact fanart#tw: injury#tw: implied torture#tw: pain#tw: crying
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So today I was driving to my dnd game as I do every week, in my husband's brand new car, and someone crossed in their car right in front of me when I was going full speed. I barely had time to hit the brake before I hit him.
Let me tell you a full impact wreck at highway speeds, with all the airbags going off is an experience. Not a good one.
I stopped finally on the side of the road, having taken out a metal sign post as well, opened my door and crawled under the inflated side air bag to get out of the car, grabbing my phone on the way, my brain telling me it was Important Somehow.
I was super dazed and in shock, unable to answer questions for a minute, but I knew right away my right ankle was hurt.
Eventually police and then EMT arrived and took me to the ER. Where after being swarmed by people intent on getting me naked, after begging them not to cut off my dress that I sewed myself, I was eventually diagnosed with a broken bone in my heel.
It still took many hours of tests before they would let me go, yet they totally missed the injured ribs I definitely have.
Anyway, I'm home now and have been dealing with a truly ridiculous amount of pain and many things are very bad, but I'm alive and I only hurt my foot (and probably some ribs), which is thanks to modern cart technology.
Our new car is doubtless totaled, which sucks but also it probably saved my life or my health.
So uh, hope everyone is having better days than me. It's hard to keep in mind how lucky I am when I'm screaming in agony but uh, I guess I am. (Also for some reason I've just discovered putting my foot down on the ground helps the pain which is sus but hey.)
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MCR Headcanons - they find out you’re in hospital
Summary: How the MCR members would react to finding out you’re in hospital after an accident
Reader: can be read as any gender (no pronouns used)
Warnings: hospitals, mentions of pain
A/N: Don’t worry, in the future I’ll stick to proper one-shots, but i just wanted to share these thoughts, and with 60+ stitches in the face i don’t feel like writing much more. Written on my phone and not proof read. I'm literally laying in a hospital bed rn. While I was in the middle of writing this they gave me a syringe to the stomach and man, it fucking burns. Also i just sneezed for the first time since Monday, and it’s not an expierence i need to repeat any time soon.
Frank
Surprisingly calm. Worried af but surprisingly calm
Packs a few things he thinks you might need before going to the hospital (mainly snacks)
Frank's been in hospital often enough to know that snacks are rare and make everything better, so he only brings your favourites
Will give your door a very gentle knock and wait for an answer before he enters
If there's none (maybe you're asleep), he'll wait outside your room in the waiting area and try again after 30min
If you have an injury in your face, he will tell you how badass you look (if anyone else would have told you that, you might have tried punching them, but you know that it's just Frank's way of trying to process things)
If you're in hospital for a few days or longer, he brings his guitar and plays soft songs to you. Not necessarily singing, just plucking strings (you think he's secretly composing)
Absolutely will try to crawl into bed with you, especially if the room is cool. So you don't get cold (that's his argument, but you both know he just want to hear and feel you breathe)
Makes sure you don't fall out of bed by wrapping his arms and legs around you as good as your injuries allow, and tucking his head underneath your chin
Even though he's calm, he needs to be comforted just as much as you do. So if your lips work you better kiss his hair
Ray
Panics.
Not the headless-chicken-running-around kind of panic. But the cold, internal one, freezing his heart over
But he tries to stay calm.
Unlike Mikey he doesn't drop everything. If he's cooking he's making sure to finish cooking and packs away the food before getting on the way
Definitely shakey voice when he asks for your room number at the information desk
He's just really glad to see you
Depending on how bad you are, he will definitely try to hug you but if you warn him that you think it might be hurtful, he will completely understand and only gently smile at you
Headpats and forehead kisses / hand kisses !!! (Depending on what's possible)
Will try to stay until you fall asleep, but if he notices you need some alone time, he will leave earlier than he wants to. Your comfort is his top priority
On his way out thanks the nurses and doctors he meets in the hallway for taking care of you
Gerard
Lowekey panics the moment he hears you're in hospital
Trys to stay calm
Fails
But he's very polite to the people he interacts with while asking for your room
Before entering, he asks the nurses how you're doing and tries to mentally prepare to see one of his favourite people hurt
The whole time fidgeting around with a sleeve of his jacket or something until he sees you
Knocks before he enters
Highkey relieved if you're awake and can talk to him. He was preparing for the worst case scenarios
Will read comic books to you. Or Tolkien. or your favourite books. Or tell you about any and all story ideas he's recently had. Even if you heard about them 100 times already
When you're eventually asleep, he draws you as a superhero. Because that's what you are to him
Mikey
Super nervous to go to the hospital, but nothing and no one can stop him
I can't imagine him liking hospitals (who does really)
But he gets to you as soon as possible
3am? Who cares. Middle of band practice? Band practice is over now
Definitely stopping at a shop on the way to get a plushy
Hospitals are very anonymous and can be really lonely, and he needs to know someone or something is keeping you company after the nurses will kick him out inevitably
Will be really concerned about how you are, but resists the urge to constantly ask
Which you're really grateful for
Trys to stay in physical contact with you the whole time. If he can't brush over your hair or cheek or hold your hand, he will pat your knee.
Stays until the nurses kick him out so you can have some rest, and he leaves behind one of his hoodies for you to cuddle bc the plushy isn't enough in his opinion
Taglist:
@alexstyx @jayloverthe3rd @robinruns @lookalivefrosty @butterflycore @omgsuperstarg @fivelegance @deadlovers @casmustdiee @cmtryghoul
#gerard way x reader#frank iero x reader#ray toro x reader#mikey way x reader#tw: hospital#tw: pain#ray toro x gn!reader#gn!reader#gerard way x gn!reader#frank iero x gn!reader#mikey way x gn!reader#headcanon#mcr headcanon#mcr hc#my chemical romance headcanon#my chem headcanon
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he aged like a fine whiskey
but they spilled
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Request for Anonymous
Gif Source: Haymitch
Imagine you're in a secret relationship with Haymitch, and a victor from another district. You end up in the 3rd Quarter Quell and you were left behind and captured with Peeta and Johanna. And Haymitch rushing to your side after you're rescued.
------- Imagine -------
You were at least still on your feet when they brought you back. Emaciated, tired, and in so much pain you felt like you could scream but you were on your feet. You don’t know why that mattered to you so much as the medical teams moved you, Peeta and Johanna to the hospital wing, but it did. You were grateful for it to, it made it that much easier for Haymitch to run to you and take you in his arms as he came rushing to your side. Your body still hurt but you wouldn’t break out of his hold for any amount pf pain.
#my imagines#gifs not mine#female reader#the hunger games imagine#haymitch abernathy imagine#tw: torture#tw: pain
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Comic
They always stole her blood. As if there was something special about the fluid, something innate that wasn't found in simple hair, flesh, or bone.
They were surprised when it hurt, too—back when pain still mattered to her. It felt as bad as the vivisection would, but they assumed that bleeding wouldn't hurt, that this part of her could be stolen with ease.
It took ages for her to learn how to control it, that first time, but the pain had spurred her on. Every moment it was apart from her had been ongoing agony. She needed it back.
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Doodle Batch 4
tw: injury , abuse , bruises , pain
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I meant to come back and start replies today
It's been a tough recovery and the dentist told me it would be. I'm very sensitive to antibiotics and they always tear up my stomach and true to its usual behavior, it is torn to all hell. I am still in pain but it's manageable with otc painkillers which I'm glad for. My gums are still sore from all the extra cutting she needed to do to extract, but it will heal.
I was able to gently chew soft noodles today and it felt so damn good to eat solid food again. My mentality has been a mess over my stomach, my mouth, and a few other things.
But I just now found out the results of my grandma's biopsy. She has cancer again, and this time it's inoperable. She will be getting a PET scan soon and will be talking to her oncologist about what can be done, but considering chemo nearly killed her the last time...
This is. Very heavy news. I lived with my grandparents the first 13 years of my life (with my parents too, we all lived in the same house). When we moved, they moved within walking distance. She has always been like a second momma to me and has done so much for me. My mom is a mess (this is her mom) and I'm a mess. It's incredibly heavy news.
And tomorrow I'm meant to be going to my sister's to celebrate my grandma's birthday. I'm obviously going, but it's going to be a very sad and stressful trip. My grandma has ALWAYS been here and I cannot fathom life without her here. This is. Really hitting me hard.
Mentally, I need to get back on here and do some replies and I will do some small asks. But please understand that I may be scarce still for a while, until the dust settles.
I'm so sorry 💕
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Please pardon me if I already sent you this fic idea!
Roy/Jaime: Jaime takes a boot to the chest but assures everyone he’s ok and they go on to win the match. It’s only later that Jaime reveals he’s not that fine, the metal on the bottom of the boot tore him up good, his chest a bruised and bloody mess. Roy is pissed as he takes Jaime home with him and cares for him. As Roy's tending to Jaime's wounded chest, the air grows charged between them and things happen.
A/N: A bit shorter than most of my stories recently.
If you find a typo that changes the meaning of something, please let me know. I didn't do a re-read because it is late. But I promised I would post it tonight.
Ao3
Ted Lasso Masterlist
Word Count: 3k+
Paring: Roy x Jamie (Romantic), Roy x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Isaac (platonic), Coach Beard x Jamie (Platonic) Jamie x AFC Richmond Himbos (platonic)
Content Warning: Blood, Injury, PTSD, Mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, pain, bruising, mentions of head injury, anger, cussing/swearing/cursing.
You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself
Roy felt dread pool in his gut as he watched Jamie Tartt take what seemed initially to be a well-executed but poorly landed shot. The ball found its target in the back of the net, but Jamie’s boot slipped, and he ended flat on the pitch. The defender that had been attempting to stop him didn’t have time to adjust his path, and his boot connected with Jamie’s chest. Jamie had the wind knocked out of him when he first hit the pitch. The boot connecting sent searing pain through his already screaming lungs. But the look in the defender’s eyes as moved to try and help Jamie sent a pang of guilt through him as he managed to catch his breath. The guy hadn’t done it on purpose. And Jamie’s dazed brain didn’t want him to feel bad. That feeling, in addition to the tiny voice in the back of his head that always sounded suspiciously like his dad, telling him not to be a weak pussy, had him getting up. Accepting the player’s hand and waving off his apologies as he did. The crowd cheered as he got back to his feet. He went to the sideline and insisted he just needed to catch his breath and get a drink. The game went on without him for a few minutes. He accepted the bottle Will gave him and checked the clock on the scoreboard. 7 minutes til half.
“Sit the fuck down,” Roy had told him. And he did. He bunched up his hands in his kit. It stung as the chilled air hit a sticky mix of blood on his chest that was clinging to his undershirt. He’d have to change it during the half.
When the team headed to the locker room, he grabbed his bag and headed to the loo. He waved off the concerns of a few of his teammates. Saying he was going to try and clean up his kit. He was glad he habitually kept a first aid kit hidden deep in his bag. A holdover from the days his old man had taken his frustrations out physically on Jamie, and he didn’t want to have to go to the treatment room and get asked a million questions. It had always been easier this way. The team didn’t need to know then, and they didn’t need to know now. Jamie could handle it. He always did. When he was in the solitude of the toilet, he removed his kit and made quick work of peeling off the long sleeve undershirt he had on under his kit. It was a fucking lost cause. He’d toss it. He was on the clock. If he took too long, someone would come looking, and then he’d have to explain everything. He didn’t want that. He wanted to get back out there and finish the match. So he rushed through bandaging and covering the bloody boot print that caught the edge of his left peck and obliques. He huffed a laugh at himself, thinking at least his abs were fine. He put on his new undershirt and tried to get as much off his kit as he could. On his way out, he tossed his undershirt in the bin. Hoping no one would see it.
“You good?” Isaac asks when he rejoins the team.
“Did fuck all to clean it, don’t envy Will’s job,” Jamie joked as if anyone would give a fuck about his actual kit if they knew he was actually hurt. Isaac studied him. And for a second Jamie thought he might not be playing it off as well as he thought he was.
But Isaac just shrugged. “He’ll manage. Paid to deal with it,” Isaac says. “Not like it was intentional, bruv.”
“Arse on the pitch was not what I intended, but still a beautiful fucking goal, yeah?” Jamie says.
Isaac laughs and claps him on the back. And Jamie has to bite his cheek to keep from shouting. But Isaac must not notice his change because he is off with the team as they all head back out.
“You good to stay in the game?” Beard asks.
“Course,” Jamie says. Beard looks unsure. “I’m good, coach. Let’s win this, yeah?” And Beard must trust his judgment, probably shouldn’t, but he does. So Jamie gets back out on the pitch for the second half.
Roy knows something is very wrong when Jamie winces slightly as Jeff hugs him after the game. Jamie is good at hiding pain. He has years of practice at it. Roy does too. That's why he can see it. He doesn't hug Jamie as aggressively as he normally does. But if Jamie notices, he doesn't act like it. But Roy watches his every move now. The way Jamie is holding himself and avoiding certain movements. The way Jamie is drawing to the back of the team as they head inside. Slow, calculated movements. He sees Jamie actually sidestepping some of the celebration, and that has the final alarm going off in Roy's head. And Roy takes action because he knows Jamie is dragging his feet and avoiding the showers.
But he can’t sit back and do nothing after Will pulls him aside.
“Coach, you need to see this,” Will had told him and waved Roy into the boot room.
“What?” Roy demands. He was annoyed at the distraction.
“Pretty sure this is Jamie’s,” Will holds up the blood-stained undershirt. “Was half in the bin.”
Roy lets out a litany of curses. This just confirms Jamie’s injured and hiding it.
“What should I do?” Will asks.
“Bin it,” he says, since Tartt clearly intended to. “I’ll deal with Jamie fucking Tartt.”
Will just nods and Roy leaves. He goes straight to Jamie.
"Let me see," Roy says as gets Jamie’s attention.
"See what?" Jamie says.
"Don't play fucking dumb," Roy says.
"Roy, behave, don't make me report you to-" Jamie tries to joke, but Roy is not fucking having it because he knows Jamie well enough to know humor is often a defense mechanism. He knows Jamie. So even if Jamie might get angry at Roy, Roy doesn't care. Roy reaches over and raises the hem of Jamie's kit and lets out a string of curses before dragging Jamie to the treatment room. Jamie knows he is caught now. No getting away now that Roy knows.
"You weren't going to say a fucking word, were you," Roy posits, and Jamie doesn't answer. "You were going to go home and patch yourself up and ignore the fact you could already be halfway to an infection by not getting this treated, and then I find your ass half dead or worse when I show up for training tomorrow morning. What the fuck, Tartt?"
"Let me explain. I-"
"Don't fucking lie to me," Roy cautions as moves around the treatment room, gathering everything he thinks he might need. He washes his hand and finds gloves. "Fucking off with it," he gestures to the top half of Jamie's kit and undershirt. "Will showed me your fucking shirt.” Roy glares. And Jamie feels like a kid that has been caught stealing sweets. “You won't let the actual med team help, but you aren't fucking getting out of this room until I am sure you're not going to fuck your whole career with staph or sepsis or fucking tetanus from a dirty fucking boot."
"Kit didn't even rip. And the league wouldn't let me play if I didn't-"
"Off." Roy glares. "Now." Jamie winces as he takes it off. "Jamie...fucking hell." Roy actually sounds pained, and that catches Jamie off guard. "How did you finish the match like this?" Roy didn't even know where to start with helping Jamie. So he starts by trying to clean him up the mess of slapdash bandaging, partially dried blood, and swelling bruises. "This is going to fucking sting."
An hour later, Jamie is as patched up as he could be with just Roy's help. Jamie goes to change out of the rest of his kit. Apologizing to Will as he does that he took so long.
"It's fine, Jamie," Will tells him. "Glad you're okay, was a nasty hit." Roy grunts and disappears into the office.
"Be fine in a few days," Jamie shrugs off as he finishes changing and tosses his kit in the cart. "And we won. That's what matters."
Will just nods because he just knows Roy Kent is listening. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing.
"Ready?" Roy says, and Jamie looks confused as he looks away from the kitman to his coach.
"For what?" Jamie asks.
"To fucking leave," Roy says. Annoyance is clear in his tone.
"Sure," Jamie says, but it sounds almost like a question. He is still very confused about why Roy is asking.
"Going to celebrate with the team?" Will asks.
"Fuck no," Roy says. "You either." He looks at Jamie.
"Wasn't exactly going to," Jamie says as he grabs his stuff. "Too fucking sore."
"Don't Fucking doubt it," Roy says. Jamie is shocked when Roy takes Jamie's stuff and ushers him out the door.
"I can carry my shit," Jamie says.
"So can I," Roy says.
"Roy," Jamie goes to take it when he goes to pass Roy's G Wagon to his own car. And Roy just tosses it in the boot, and Jamie has no idea what is happening. "What are you doing?"
"You're fucking coming with me because you can't be trusted to ask for help when you fucking need it, and I have a fully stocked first aid kit assembled by an actual medical professional. Someone has to keep your arse alive."
Jamie is too stunned to say anything. Roy hadn't just insisted on patching Jamie up, but now he was insisting Jamie go to his home so Roy could look after him.
"You fucking hit your head and not fucking say anything?" Roy says as he moves closer to Jamie, concern clear on his face.
"I'm wondering the same thing because this is very weird for me," Jamie admits.
"Fuck off," Roy says. "Get in the fucking car before I make you."
And Jamie does because he has zero doubt Roy will do it. He has a very low opinion of Jamie's ability to take care of himself at times. And Jamie knows that.
At his flat, Roy makes Jamie shower and insists on redoing the bandages. Jamie already feels like he's intruding, so he does not put up as big of a fight as he might normally.
"Here," Roy hands him a cup of tea once Jamie sits on Roy's sofa.
"You really don't have to do all this," Jamie says.
"And?" Roy says as he sits at the other end of the sofa. And Jamie doesn't know how to answer that. "Just fucking accept that some people actually care about you and fucking drink your tea." Roy turns on the TV to see what the press is saying about the match. The kick that resulted in Jamie on his sofa was brought up before they even finished their tea. Now that Roy sees the close-ups, he looks over at Jamie.
"The fuck were you thinking, not telling anyone you were fucking bleeding?" Roy asks.
Jamie sighs. "That it wasn’t an underhanded play. Shit happens. The lad felt shitty enough already. And we really needed this win, and any more stoppage in play might fuck up the momentum of the team."
"And your suffering didn't matter? And what? You did fucking bandages in the fucking toilet?"
"I managed," Jamie says.
"You shouldn't have had to," Roy growls. "You could have worsened your injury playing like that. Tore something. So close to your fucking heart, Jamie.” A pained look crosses Roy’s face before he schools his features. “I am your coach, you can’t fucking-” Roy stops and takes a breath. “Listen to me, Jamie. You cannot do this again. Fucking ever."
Jamie does not respond.
"Jamie," Roy shifts closer. "How would you feel if it was one of the other? Like Sam or Dani."
"They wouldn't-"
"Fucking right! Because that is insane, and you could have really gotten injured."
"Says the guy that-"
"And I fucking paid the price!" Roy was now on his feet, looking down at Jamie. "I won't let you make the same fucking mistakes. What kind of fucking coach would I be if I didn't aim to make you a better fucking player than I was. Fucking teach you what not to fucking do. And this." Roy tugs Jamie's shirt up to show the bandages. "This is not fucking okay. A win is not worth your fucking future or your fucking life. Now fucking swear to me this will not happen again. If you don't, I'm going to insist the medical team checks you over after every fucking slip, every foul. I will not let you kill yourself for a fucking game. We’d be better off losing a fucking match than you. No, we’d be better off losing every fucking match this season than losing you fucking permanently. The lads would probably prefer relegation again."
“Doubt that,” Jamie says.
“I fucking don’t!” Roy shouts.
"Fuck," Jamie says. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Like a fucking car wreck," Roy says.
"Okay," Jamie says. "I'll fucking tell someone if I'm injured again. Will you sit down and fucking relax now?"
"Fucking good," Roy says, and the tension leaves his shoulders. "Contrary to popular belief, I fucking care if you live or die, you fucking prick."
"That's the nicest thing you have ever said," Jamie says.
Jamie must move wrong in his sleep because he is gasping in pain as he wakes up. The room is dark, and he looks at his phone. 2:26 a.m. Fuck, he hurts. He gets up to try and find a way to make it hurt less. To get some painkillers. He looks around and remembers he is at Roy's. He didn't know where Roy kept anything. He headed to Roy's kitchen to at least get a glass of water. He had just sat down at Roy's table for a breather when Roy entered the kitchen. And Jamie thinks he might swallow his tongue because he has seen Roy without a shirt. He had seen it often when they were teammates. But this was a half-asleep Roy, in just pants, hair a mess from sleep. And fuck, Jamie had not expected to feel the urge to kiss Roy fucking Kent at 2:30 in the morning.
"Here," Roy hands him a pack of paracetamol. He then goes to his freezer and gets one of the ice packs he usually uses on his knee.
"Thanks," Jamie says as he takes the pills and accepts the ice pack. "Sorry if I woke you."
"It's fine," Roy says as he sits down at the table.
"I know but-"
"Jamie, I brought you here so I could help you with this shit. So it's fine."
"I know but-"
"No fucking buts, Tartt," Roy says firmly. "Just like with training, I want to help you."
"Okay, but-"
"Fucking hell," Roy says before he stands up. He pushes Jamie's chair and holds out his hand to help Jamie up. Jamie takes it. To his surprise, Roy doesn't step back but stays in Jamie's face. Roy continues. "I don't actually enjoy the idea of you suffering alone. Fucking lose sleep over it."
"You lose sleep over me?" Jamie says with shock.
"I lose a lot of fucking sleep over you, Tartt," Roy admits. He glances down at Jamie's lips.
"Why?" Jamie asks. Roy is so close Jamie wonders if Roy can hear how Jamie's heart beats insanely fast. Roy's face is so close Jamie could just lean forward and kiss him.
"For fuck sake," Roy mutters before closing the distance a bit. "Because you drive me fucking insane." Jamie can now feel Roy's words against his lips, and Jamie's brain must reboot because, without thinking, he pushes forward and closes the small gap, and presses his lips against Roy's. And Roy responds in kind. Jamie doesn't want this moment to end because Roy Kent is kissing him back, and his life could not be better. He never thought Roy could have feelings for him. Jamie had thought his feelings were one-sided, but clearly, he was wrong because Roy was pulling Jamie closer. Jamie goes willingly. At least until he shifts wrong, and it pulls at the healing cuts on his chest, and pain hits him. He must make a noise because Roy recoils like he was burned and puts enough room between them so he can see if Jamie's bleeding again. Jamie tries to brush it off and goes back to making out in Roy's kitchen at almost 3 a.m. Roy curses Jamie's lack of self-preservation and ends up dragging Jamie into his own bed.
"You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself," Roy grumbles as he gets into bed beside Jamie.
"You up for the task then?" Jamie asks.
With a growl, Roy gently pulls Jamie against him. Jamie takes advantage of the situation and snuggles right into Roy's side.
"I'll take that as a yes," Jamie chuckles.
"Get some fucking sleep," Roy says. Jamie hums and falls asleep fast.
Jamie hurts like hell the next morning. Angry bruises now take up most of his chest now that the wounds have closed for the most part. Roy does not let him leave the bed most of the day. Insisting he will reopen them if he does. And Jamie thinks he'll be bored out of his mind, but Roy stays with him for most of it. He leaves for a few hours to go over match tapes with the other coaches, but he comes back with takeaway, and Jamie thinks he might be the luckiest man alive because he is in Roy fucking Kent's bed, being taken care of by Roy. After they eat, they end up making out like fucking teenagers. Jamie is annoyed that Roy won't take it any further because Jamie is now filled with bad ideas, and Roy refuses. Not because he doesn't want to but because he doesn't want to hurt Jamie or delay his healing process. No matter how much Jamie begs or pouts, Roy doesn't cave.
"Not fucking risking your health, Tartt. Get fucking used to it."
Jamie gets looked over by the med team and is not allowed to train with the rest of the team for almost two weeks, and Jamie hates it. Roy doesn't care because Jamie's health is too important to him. And that is the only reason Jamie hasn't lost his mind. Roy cares about him. A lot. Roy fucking Kent has spent most of his time keeping Jamie busy. Cuddling and kissing. It's been beautifully frustrating. Frustrating because he wants more. Really wants to show Roy he cares just as much but has no way to do it because Roy is holding Jamie back. It might be for Jamie's own good, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
The first match Jamie gets to play after the injury, the Richmond fans lose their shit. They scream for him, and he takes that feeling and uses it. And Roy is so fucking proud of him that it hurts. They win, and it's so different from his last match. Jamie is right there with the team celebrating. And it's not until Roy pulls him aside and kisses him that Jamie draws away from the team. And Jamie cannot remember ever feeling this happy. Roy promises that when they get out home, they can celebrate their own way, and Jamie trips over his own feet in a rush to get changed so he and Roy can leave. And Roy, of course, thinks that's the most amusing fucking thing he has ever seen. It becomes the second most amusing thing later that day because watching Jamie goes to fucking pieces at Roy's fingertips is fucking amazing, and Roy thinks there's no going back now. He is lost on Jamie Tartt. And Jamie realizes Roy's attention is something he is absolutely addicted to and never wants to live without. It won't be an easy journey having a real relationship between them, but neither of them has ever shied away from a challenge, and they agree it's worth trying.
#tw: Blood#tw: Injury#tw: PTSD#tw: Mentions of abuse#tw: mentions of violence#tw: pain#tw: bruising#tw: mentions of head injury#tw: anger#tw: cussing#tw: cursing#tw: swearing#roy kent#jamie tartt#jamie x roy#royjamie#roy x jamie#ted lasso fic
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I fucking hate cramps it makes me want to claw off my stomach and it makes my dysphoria act up SUPER badly when its a he/him-they/them day (aka today) and I just feel like a blob that is lazy even though I'm in pain?? I hate my brain/body😭😭😭
#vent? kinda#tw: period talk#tw: periods#tw: pain#tw: gender dysphoria#may or may not delete later idk#feel free to ignore this :))#just needed to vent
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Home Sweet Homesick | AO3
Characters: Clavis Lelouch, Chevalier Michel
Genre: Angst, Comfort.
Summary: Two brothers. One month. The final autumn before Bloodstained Rose Day.
Word Count: 5.8k (grab a mug of your preferred warm beverage, friends)
A/N: It has come to my attention that I have never written a fic with these two interacting. Yes, I am shocked, too. This is a franken-fall-fic for the following challenges, many warm hugs to the awesome writers who set them up!
Prompts:
Getting warm in their sweater - Cozytober hosted by @randonauticrap
"Your hands are cold." - Pumpkins & Fireplaces 2022 hosted by @chaosangel767
Treats - Fall Fluff & Autumn Angst CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess
Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, mild descriptions of injuries and pain (no blood), mild Clavis route spoilers.
“Recent activity west constitutes a growing concern, however full-blown mobilization of troops would be premature at this juncture—”
“Yaaaawn!”
“—No significant changes to report. Although such an extended pause may suggest possibility of attack—”
“Sn-ore!”
“—Our swiftest horse and rider are prepared to head out on-call with detailed instructions, should any perturbing developments arise—”
“Some perturbing development better arise in the next five seconds before I die of boredom!”
Tent flaps crack as a sharp gust bursts in unannounced, causing the stacks of paper and envelopes piled on top of our makeshift oakwood desk to flutter longingly underneath the stones I arrested them with. Three of the four candles illuminating my side blow out instantly, but the last one manages to hold on to its wicker as the mini tempest fades out as quickly as it started. It flickers feebly before bouncing back to its previous height, as though the wind was but a slight inconvenience.
I want nothing more than to grab that candlestick and plunge it straight into the desk.
But I don’t do that. I straighten my back, brush the windswept hair out of my face, and assess the damage. Luckily I had the foresight to restopper the ink bottle, because it was rolling halfway across the table by the time I spotted it. I manage to snatch it and my quill before they tumble over the edge and lay them atop the slightly wrinkled letter I was penning. Oh well, wrinkled doesn’t mean illegible, and I would know that better than anyone. Besides, the thing will get folded and stuffed into an envelope anyway. What’s one more crease in its cap?
I lightly tap the last word I wrote and lift my finger. No stains. Amazing how some good came from that nimble nimbus, considering all the damage its friends did to our tent. A large dollop of water trickles through a rip in the top and drops onto my hair, a casual reminder of the rainstorm that bucketed our camp this afternoon. I shake my head and peek through the still-swaying tent flaps to the citadel stationed at the bottom of the hill.
Golden fireplaces and candelabras illuminate the dozens of windows scattered across the fortress walls. Up here they look like tiny fireflies waiting to be captured.
I would like to go down there and catch them.
But I am technically still on duty. Yes, being a scribe is a duty of mine, and one I take rather seriously, despite what some nosy naysaying ministers may claim. Despite the fact that I prefer to be buried beneath a stack of dry blankets than wet letters, next to one of those shimmering fireflies. Despite the fact that our shabby little tent is one gust away from flying off to oblivion.
I mean Obsidian.
Either? Both? Beyond?
I do not like our shabby little tent.
But it doesn’t matter what I like because Chevalier likes it. Or rather, he likes its location. High above the tallest hill, the perfect vantage point overlooking both Rhodolite and Obsidian’s movements. Close enough to the citadel to relay any new perturbing developments as soon as they occur. Far enough from the border to dispel any accusations of militaristic intent.
Were this hilltop not the size of my closet, I bet Chevalier would move here permanently.
I wish Chevalier would move here permanently.
“Though it would be ardent to begin preparations at present, for the tides may turn mere moments after this letter leaves our base—”
“Now hold on, I haven’t caught up yet!” I say, quickly picking up my quill again. Did he say “preparations for presents”? I didn’t realize we were throwing a party. Yves’s birthday was a few weeks ago, but he’s back at the castle.
This makes no sense. And “tummies may turn”? Jin would sooner swear off women than Chevalier utter the word tummy in any context. Though mine has been spinning in circles since we started nearly two hours ago. It is long past midnight now, and I’d really like to lie down. But if Chevalier isn’t tired, neither am I.
I’ll just write down my best guess.
Like the candle, Chevalier only paused for a moment then instantly resumed his blathering as soon as the wind ceased. It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. I’ve seen my brother cut his dinner with a steak knife, stab an assassin with said knife, and chew his brisket all in the same breath.
And people say I’m the batty one.
Keeping my head hanging low over the paper, I steal a peek at Chevalier at the other end of the tent. He twirls a red stone figurine of a soldier in his left hand as he studies the large map laid out on the table, his back towards me. Not even his hair looks disturbed by the wind, and for some reason that angers me more than his refusal to slow down enough for me to catch up.
“Stop that,” he snaps, plunking the red soldier on the map with a sharp thwack.
“Stop what? Writing for your lazy behind?” I say.
“That nettlesome tapping. It is disrupting my thoughts.”
I unconsciously halt tapping the quill. Now do you understand what a blessing it is that I am still sane, dear reader?
“Well, you’re disrupting my process with your ugly mug,” I say, resuming the tapping, louder this time. I wish I could see his face right now. His eye is probably twitching like it does when I interrupt his reading, and that always makes it worth the mental trudge it takes to see him.
I will not be rewarded for my efforts tonight, it seems.
“You’re welcome to pick up where I left off if my way bothers you so much,” I say.
Chevalier hums and reaches for another figurine from a box. This time he pulls out a black one.
“And what would you do then to occupy yourself?” he asks, flicking the tip of the soldier’s miniature sword with his finger. “Tap your quill? Twiddle your thumbs? Sleep? When you’ve hardly managed to catch a wink this past month?”
And whose fault is that? I want to say, but I force my lips into a tight grin instead. A gentleman does not complain when faced with adversity. He powers through with grace and dignity and an unyielding smile.
But my cheeks are seriously starting to bear the toll of weeks upon weeks of these fake smiles. And my eyes have long since run out of tears following all those late-night jumpscares whenever I do manage to fall asleep. And my limbs are screaming from the grueling daily training rounds from dawn to dusk. Even if the days are getting shorter, they’re getting colder as well.
And I haven’t told Chevalier this, but earlier today I sprained my wrist while sword training. It really isn’t that big of a deal, to be honest. I was only squeezing in some extra swings before training officially began because a nasty nightmare woke me up too soon again. I figured I’d practice on the ancient oak tree we secured our tent to, and maybe set up a scenario where I’d “accidentally” sever the ropes and let the thing collapse on top of snoozing Chevalier, but I ended up tripping over one of the massive roots in the dark and tumbling down the hill.
He just had to choose the tallest hill.
“You are thinking of something asinine again,” says Chevalier.
“Definitely not,” I say, turning back to the letter. He is very lucky I injured my illegible hand.
I stuff said hand into my pocket and slowly stretch my fingers one by one, starting from the thumb, but my index finger only makes it halfway up before I have to muffle a grunt from the pain. I masterfully mask it by coughing into the crook of my good arm.
Another thwack of a figure placement, and Chevalier is back to reciting his correspondence. If he is upset that I just coughed on his sweater, he doesn’t make an effort to show it.
Yes, this is Chevalier’s sweater I am wearing. My shirt is all in tatters now after a certain fall down a hill (that I cannot believe I am bringing up twice in the same sitting). And my backup shirt is currently hanging outside, still dripping with this afternoon’s downpour. Chevalier took one look at me after I returned from practice and tossed me the sweater before I could get even one foot in the tent.
How very considerate of him, forcing his exhausted and sopping younger brother to change outdoors after sunset in October so his precious maps and documents wouldn’t get drenched.
I think I’ll leave a great big sneeze in the collar next, just to show how much I appreciate his prospective.
But I’d end up inhaling more wool than medically recommended before Chevalier would ever bother to tell me to stop.
I’m actually still in shock to even be wearing it, to tell the truth. I figured it was buried at the bottom of his closet half-eaten by moths. It had been years since I’d last seen the thing, when his grandfather gave it to him at his mother’s funeral. One of those events I figured Chevalier deemed not worth remembering.
But I remember.
I remember the way Chevalier stood in front of her grave after they buried her, pale and stiff and dry-eyed, like a flawless stone figurine. I remember how the Lord Michel walked up beside him and almost put his hand on his shoulder, but pulled away at the last second when Chevalier turned to look at him. And I remember how he looked back. How he shakily drew the folded sweater from his other arm and trembled as he presented it to his grandson, a boy not half his size.
“She’d want you to keep warm,” he’d said. I remember how cold his words sounded that day.
I remember how cold my mother’s hand was, too.
“Ow!”
The quill clatters on the desk as I furiously rub at my temple. When I open my eyes, a black knight lays atop my letter, shimmering dully in the single candlelight.
“What was that for?” I growl.
“You misspelled ‘accommodate’.”
“What?” I push the knight aside and count the letters of the last word I wrote. Two c’s and one m stare back at me in glossy ebony ink. I glance back at Chevalier. His hand is rummaging through the box again, but his eyes never lift from the map.
I pick up the quill and start to squeeze a mini m by the first when a second figure bounces off my head.
“Stop that!” I yell.
“Start over.”
“No way, it’s just a tiny fix. And I was almost done!” I hold the nearly-filled page up to him, but he still refuses to look.
“Then you should have been more attentive.”
“Who cares? It’s just going to Leon.”
“With my signature.” He slams another figure on the map with finality.
But I’m not finished.
“You rewrite it then.”
No response.
My seat flies back as I stand, but my cheek is pressed against the dirt before it reaches the ground.
My wrists are trapped and suspended in the air, but this time I can’t hide my roars of pain. They’d be louder I’m sure, but the knee jabbing into my back limits the airflow into my lungs.
My vision spins. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to breathe deeply through my nose. Wet, molding tent mixed with the unwashed stench of two teenage boys who haven’t bathed in weeks burns my nostrils, but years of experience taught me this is the fastest way to calm my nerves in these situations. Years and years and years of experience. My head is still going fuzzy though, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion.
I pry my stinging eyes open and focus on the closest thing to me. The candlestick rolls a few inches away, the shape of my clenched fingers imprinted in the wax column, its flame still burning.
I must look positively feral, but no more feral than the beast pinning me down.
“I expected more,” says Chevalier.
His fingers dig under the sleeves and into my wrists as he yanks, pulling my face a few inches off the ground. I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced from a lake, and crane my neck as far back as I can to meet his piercing stare. He’s waiting for an explanation.
His palms are like ice, and my teeth chatter as I bite back the urge to scream.
“Your hands are c-cold.”
That’s it? One month of endless belittling, cold-shoulders, and sleeping outdoors. My fingers are brittle from writing dozens of letters. My elbows and knees bruised from constant repairs to this tent. My hand drips with searing wax from my latest failed payback attempt. And the best I can come up with is your hands are cold?
I expected more, too.
He stares a bit more, longer than he has all day, before finally releasing me. I fall back to the ground and bury my face in my collar —Chevalier’s sweater collar— heaving breaths in and out my nose until my head stops spinning. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push myself onto my knees and inspect the damage. I had grabbed the candlestick with my good hand without thinking, and my palm is now almost entirely covered in the waxy sticky stuff. At least it’s quickly solidifying in this cold, but I don’t dare peel it off yet. I might end up pulling off skin, too.
My injured wrist, on the other hand, looks even darker than it did this morning, with splotches of blue and purple climbing up my forearm. I hold my breath and nudge it with a finger, but to my surprise, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I don’t feel anything, except for the sensation of frigid digits tapping my skin.
“Get that checked and be back by noon,” Chevalier calls. Another surprise, he’s not at his map but at my desk corner, chair back upright, scratching away with my quill at blinding speed.
“Noon?” I repeat. “You mean tomorrow?”
“I mean six hours from now. The numbness will wear off soon, and you’ll hassle the medics with your obnoxious blubbering if you do not hurry.” As if on cue, the first specs of dawn trickle in through the tent flaps.
“I’m not missing training,” I say. “If you’re going, so am I.”
“There is nothing more foolish than a dying man demanding poison over cure.”
“I’m not dying!” I march over and pull my good arm sleeve up to my elbow. “See? You’re just being dramatic.”
Again he refuses to look my way, instead focusing on folding the paper he was writing on into thirds. He retrieves the fallen candlestick, elegantly prepares a stamp, and, as soon as the seal cools, stacks it and the other letters I prepared onto my outstretched hand.
“You will deliver the post and return in time to memorize this new battle formation before afternoon practice commences. With the correct hand bandaged,” he warns, pushing past me to his maps. “Do not fall short of my expectations again.” He picks a red soldier from the box and resumes his planning.
I push through the flaps before the thwack reaches my ears.
Even though the tent is meager at best, it still mostly protects us from the harsh winds that pound every night. The approach of dawn hampers the air, but a brisk rush still uncomfortably tickles down my spine as I approach the edge of the hill. The numbness in my hand starts to fade as I stare down at those jagged rocks, almost goading me to trip again, and I back up until my boot bumps the oak tree.
Chevalier did say I have six hours.
I stuff the letters in my armpit and start climbing the tree, slowly as it is still quite dark out and my hands aren’t exactly in best form. I also try to keep quiet, in case Chevalier won’t approve of my little recess.
Once I reach the highest branch that can support my weight, I throw my legs over the edge and lean my cheek against the trunk. It is cool and covered in morning frost; a welcoming sensation to my welting face. Not so much to my tense thighs, but if I learned one thing on this trip it is to hold on to any good happenstances because they are rare to come by. Or last long.
I pull the letters out again and straighten them. Leon’s is first, a tiny detailed rose drawn directly underneath his perfectly-penned name. That’s the code we came up with for documents that need to be read with high urgency. Chevalier likes his papers to be ordered by importance, both outgoing and incoming, and as I leaf through the rest I see he’s arranged the next one to Sariel, followed by Jin, and then to various nobles and ministers back at the capitol.
I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles?
My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination.
I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind.
It’s really not so different from Rhodolite. We each have rocks and grass and bushes. Storms hound us both, the rising sun does not discriminate, and we both settle at night under the same starry blanket sky. This little sample of land shows even more, with our matching fortresses and battle posts, and there’s a high hilltop mirroring our own. It even has its own matching oak tree, though while mine still brims with flittering leaves of reds and browns, theirs stands thin and bare. So bare, it is impossible to miss the dark figure seated on the top branch.
Frostbite stabbing my thighs jumpstarts my senses, and I manage to hook my leg onto a knot in the trunk before the shock sends me tumbling down. I hug the letters and straighten my shoulders, looking back at my tree twin. How long has he been there? Has he been watching me? There’s quite a bit of foliage surrounding me. Does he even know I'm here?
I tentatively stretch my free leg, both to see if he’d respond and to encourage blood flow in case I need to make a hasty exit. A minute passes with nothing, but as soon as I start to lower my leg, a shadowy appendage protrudes from the figure.
So he can see me.
I raise my arm. This time the figure waves back almost instantly. Could I interpret that as neighborly? I don’t want to raise my voice in case Chevalier investigates. Instead I shrug my shoulders and wag my head from side to side. My neck is still sore from Chevalier’s little “rebuttal” earlier, but I hope the message is still understandable.
What do you want?
Another unresponsive minute goes by before the figure raises both arms. The first points a finger at me. The second beckons in his direction.
I look over my shoulder as though I expect someone else to be there. This can’t be serious, is he asking me to cross the border? The Obsidianite border? When we are at the cusp of war? Does this guy even know who I am?
I don’t have the time to conjure a reply before I hear my name called from below.
“Well met, Prince Clavis!”
So much for that last question. And for keeping Chevalier in the dark.
I scan my surroundings and locate a horseman at the base of the hill, waving a scarlet flag with a rose up at me. The postman has arrived.
For the first time on this trip, apart from the daily workouts, my palms pool with sweat. But this is a different kind of perspiration. Chevalier could pop out any minute, and my head whirs with what to say back to the stranger across the border before he does. Er—sign. Sorry, now’s not a good time? I’ll think about it? Can we talk later?
Do I even want to continue this conversation? I jerk my head back toward Obsidian, but the branch is just as bare as the rest of the tree.
“Is everything alright, my prince?” the postman calls, turning the direction I’m facing. “Is something happening across the border?”
“No, no. Everything’s fit as a fiddle! Just watching the sunrise,” I say, fumbling out of the tree. No light emerges from the tent, and I quickly poke my head in to confirm Chevalier’s sleeping form settled in a chair by his desk of maps. He lets out a long snore, and I let out a long sigh of relief.
After a slow descent of the hillside (I will not fall for the same fault twice in a row), the postman and I greet each other and exchange our stacks.
“I am very glad I ran into you, Prince Clavis!” His voice is cheery, despite the fact that he no doubt traveled the entire night. He isn’t originally from the capitol, I have everyone’s names and faces memorized there, but the flag he bears is reserved only for envoys from the royal palace. He looks about my age, with modest build and eyes not yet marred by the horrors of the battlefield. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say this is his first mission this close to the border.
“You are glad?” I ask.
“Indeed! I was instructed to hand-deliver those letters to Prince Chevalier. I feared it would be a great impertinence on my part to address His Highness personally, so I attempted to leave the letters with the general. However I was shocked to hear that you two were not staying at the fort! I was told your location was classified, but I really wanted to make sure I completed my first delivery. I never would have imagined royalty sleeping in a tent mid-autumn, of all places!”
Called it, but all I say is, “You and I both, lad.”
“But this could not be more perfect! I can trust you to pass these off to Prince Chevalier, then? Master Sariel said it is extremely important that he reads his letter as soon as humanly possible.”
I see now. This could not be more perfect because he ran into Chevalier’s middle man instead of the man himself. I stretch my cheeks into that wide grin and give him a polite nod. The boy looks pleased with himself as he bows and marches to his horse, and I take advantage of his turned back to drop my smile and peek at who’s top-pile today.
The deep purple seal pops in the faint light of dawn, rays sliding up and down the swerving curves of the embossed serpent like ethereal liquid, but it is the text on the other side of the envelope that locks my attention. Chevalier’s full name is elegantly printed in bold black. Below it, scripted in an equally flawless hand, are two roses.
My breath catches in my throat as I grip the paper tighter. The ink on the petals is slightly smudged, as though it was handed off seconds after drawn. Never before have I seen two roses, neither sent nor received, and the thought of what news they bear freezes the blood in my veins even quicker than the weather. Are we officially at war with Obsidian? Was a meeting held while we were away? Has Jade or Benitoite made a move, too? Or is it something domestic? Have the people finally started to revolt against this endless back and forth? Has something happened to the king? Has something happened to my brothers?
That last thought drives a final icicle through my chest. My eyesight blurs and my legs start to give way, but both are locked back in place as something large is shoved into my arms. It is still too dark to make out what it is, but I immediately register the residual heat it dissipates.
“And here’s the final package!” the boy says. I blink several times before I can make out the shape of the wooden crate. It is about the size of my torso, light as a practice sword, and feels like a tiny oven pressed against my chest. “It’s the other extremely important cargo piece.” He ends with a wink, mounts his horse, and departs before I have the chance to ask anything else.
My first instinct is there’s something alive in there, and I slowly lower the crate to the ground to not startle (or infuriate) it. It may be asleep, but there are no abrupt movements as I observe the box from all angles. If whatever it is was alive, it is highly suspect that it could survive the trip from the palace with only three tiny breathing holes. And the soury-sweet smell wafting out from them could not belong to a carcass.
There is no identification on the box, and I pull out the stack of letters again to solve this mystery. Sariel’s letter deadpans me with a scowl, almost like its author would, and I shuffle it to the bottom. It won’t make a difference if Chevalier reads it right this second or after I’ve figured out what’s in this crate. Each successive letter is from some general or marquess or duke, no doubt begging Chevalier for some fatuous favor because none are marked with roses, and I nearly resolve to just prying the crate open myself when a glint of pale pink catches my eye.
I grasp the final envelope in both hands and hold it up to the steadily rising sun, but my eyes are not playing tricks as the delicate figure of a cat shines back.
Why would Yves write to Chevalier?
Again, no roses adorn this letter, but I pull out my pocket knife and carefully lift the seal from the paper. I can practically hear Sariel squalling at me through the mouth of the discarded purple serpent, but I ignore it. This is a matter between brothers. Sariel could never understand.
My heart pounds in my ears as I unfold the letter to reveal Yves’s gossamer script, and I press one palm against the side of my head to steady it as I read.
Gladdest tidings, Prince Chevalier.
Thank you ever so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to write to me. It brought me the greatest joy to receive your letter on my birthday, I could not stop myself from shaking with excitement upon reading it.
Shaking with fear sounds more like it. That answers why Yves sent this, but drops a new more important question: Why did Chevalier send Yves a letter? Surely not just to wish him a happy birthday.
While your sentiments are more than enough, I truly wished you and Prince Clavis could have been present for the celebration. It was a small affair, as usual, but it was a welcome respite from the turbulence of the court since your departure. I am sorry to say our people are not pleased that your two-day inspection of the citadel has turned into a month-long station at the border, and many nobles are demanding your return to the palace posthaste. They fear your decision to remain may anger Obsidian and incite retaliation, but they only speak their minds so freely knowing you are so far away. I have no doubt you will have received letters from them asking for your return, but I beseech your understanding of their apprehension in your responses.
I scoff, the cooled breath materializing before me. Leave it to Yves to think the best of the people’s intentions, but he hasn’t read the novels of resentment Chevalier receives each week. And he hasn’t penned the curt, cold-blooded replies.
Then it hits me, Chevalier sent a letter to Yves that I didn’t write. The paper wrinkles as my grip tightens, and I have to squint to make out the next lines.
Ah, but I am getting off topic. I am sure you tire from talk of military and government, Sariel is currently drafting a lengthy report to you on both as I write this, so I shall make this as brief as I can.
It will please you to hear that despite the political climate, the seasonal climate has been rather generous. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and while the people’s spirits are not at their highest, their bellies are full and they are thankful. It took some help from the other princes, but we even managed to prepare the extra set of treats you requested. I must admit, I worried I would not be able to bake and pack the lot in time for the post. I had wanted the delivery to arrive as fresh as possible, and it was only with their assistance that we prevailed. Even with their pilfering hands snatching ingredients left and right, I ask that you thank them as well when you sit down to enjoy the sweets.
The tart aroma hits my nostrils again, and I have to hold back from clawing the sides of the crate apart. I limit myself to prying off two boards from the top, and am rewarded with a waft of warmth and a cornucopia of baked goodies. My mouth waters as I stick my face through the opening, letting the heat and the smell envelope my senses.
Home. It really is a piece of home right in front of me. So close I can touch it, smell it, taste it… but I hold off on the last one for now. What if Chevalier sent a specific numbered order? I pull my head out and rest my chin on the top as I read the last part.
And speaking of the others, it will also please you to hear that they are all well. Prince Leon and Prince Jin have placated the citizens for now, and while it is fortunate they are a team of two, I fear their efforts will not last much longer. I have spotted Prince Nokto speaking to nobles as well, and despite his age he harbors a magnetic quality that calms even the tensest of brows. Prince Licht and I have been handling paperwork in the background, and we have learned much about our kingdom and its operations in the process.
Furthermore, I know you did not ask, but father is in good health as well. Though he seldom leaves his room these days and only speaks with Sariel. I fear his spirits are lowest of all.
I have a little space left on this page, so please allow me to use it to ask of my brother. You mentioned he has not taken well to the extended stay, I hope he is at least keeping himself entertained. Even with the disquiet of complaints, the halls never felt so still in his absence. But I believe he can keep up with you, we all do.
Lastly, I do hope you are both keeping warm. The previous postman reported the weather is much colder near the mountains where you are. It was a bout of good fortune Prince Jin managed to hand you your sweater before you left, was it not? But as you said, a decorated mantle does nothing to light the hearth, so please enjoy the treats while they are still hot.
Take care of one another, and I pray for your safe return before the first winter snow.
Yves Kloss
The hand reaching for the crate is automatic. It takes a couple chews before I realize I have bitten into an apple strudel. It takes a few more before I realize I am crying.
Hot tears stream down my cheeks and smudge Yves’s words as I hug them and the pastry to my chest. Weeks… months… years of what I could never put into words rock my body as I scream into the crate.
I don’t want to go to war. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I don’t want to keep hurting myself climbing to catch Chevalier, because I know I will never make it. I just want to go home. Home where these treats were made. Home where these treats were shared. Home where these treats never fathomed a life outside their oven.
The sun is mostly up when the final cries exit my system. My body weighs like it ran to the palace and back, and I cannot even raise an arm to shield myself from the blinding rays or the chilling winds of early morning. The only thing I can do is bury my face in the collar of my sweater. Chevalier’s sweater.
Chevalier’s sweater is warm.
I wrap my fingers around the half-eaten strudel. It is warm, too.
Warm, like Yves’s hands when he pulls them out of the oven. Warm, like Licht’s cheeks as he stands tip-toed at the edge of the table and watches his brother set them down. Warm, like Nokto’s hugs when he ambushes his brother from behind, both in thanks and in distraction. Warm, like Jin’s ears as he swipes the top pastry and it disappears into his mouth. Warm, like Leon’s laughter as he prepares to pacify the situation.
Warm, like Sariel’s gaze as he watches the scene unfold. Warm, like my mother’s kisses that linger to this day. Warm, like Chevalier’s…
A sharp crack turns my attention back up the hill. The top of the tent rips and flutters in the breeze, waiting for me to patch it up again. Chevalier must be cold.
Pain throbs in my wrist. I peel the wax off my hand. I look back and forth between the citadel and the hill. Then between the border and the sun. I have many paths before me, and a good four hours left.
I stuff the rest of the pastry in my cheeks and collect the letters, careful to reseal Yves’s the way it was and return Sariel’s to the top. I grab the crate under one arm and start back up the hill. It is a long climb, yes, but one I know I can make.
*Nudges Yves* Get in there, Evie! You're the hero of this story! And uh, you can just stay where you are, Gilbert.
Tagging:@atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus
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#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#clavis lelouch#chevalier michel#ikepri clavis#ikepri chevalier#cozytober#pumpkins & fireplaces#fall fluff autumn angst ccc#scorchie writes#tw: mentions of death#tw: grief#tw: injury#tw: pain
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Kinktober 2023
Day 27: Hiro/Dagger/Ivarr--S&M, Double Penetration
*****
The warehouse hadn’t been used in some time, except perhaps by rodents nesting in the corners. Dusty shafts of moonlight are the only illumination, grime caking the windows, keeping the neon at bay. The usual murmur of the city is muted to a dull hum, save for the faint, occasional roar of an AV flying overhead. It’s of little consequence, and even less significance to him, distracted as he is.
“You sure picked a weird fucking place for a date.”
His scoff covers up nervousness. While he knows they wouldn’t really hurt him, not in a way he hadn’t asked for, he can’t deny it’s the sort of spot that someone would never find him.
“Or you’ve just skipped the date, and I’m getting sacrificed to a cult instead.”
Ivarr’s laugh is cruel, a mocking echo in the cavernous space. “Don’t want an interruption this time.”
The words settle strangely and he turns to look, a lurch as he catches himself hard, palms aching where they’ve hit the ground, tugged completely off balance, the bulk of the man an insistent pressure against his spine. Stubble scrapes at his neck, a parody of a kiss before the man digs in teeth, hard enough to make him hiss.
His brain hardly has the time to resister the sensation, a hand threading through his hair and yanking, enough that he can’t hold back a yelp.
“Eyes on me, Kitten.”
It’s instinct that guides him, eyes meeting Dagger’s, frigid blue in the dim light.
“See, wasn’t so hard.”
His voice is laced with affection, a knife’s edge of coldness beneath it.
“Still too loud, though.”
Dagger tugs him forward, enough that his cheek is pushed against the man’s bulge, zipper digging painfully into his skin, eyes indecisive about where they’d rather settle.
“You know what to do.”
It would normally be instinct to argue, see how far he can push before the other snaps, but he wants this just as badly as the man does, taking him eagerly, a soft noise around him that has Dagger’s hips twitching. It’s enough that he’s almost lost track of the other man, despite the bruising grip on his hips, cry muffled as the man slips his fingers inside, stretching him roughly. It’s scarcely enough but none of them are patient enough to wait, first thrust has him taking more of the man than he can handle, wishing he could see either of them—feeling as much as seeing Dagger shudder against him.
“That’s it brat, just like that.”
—
(Ft. @dreamskug's Ivarr, and @wraithsoutlaws's Dagger 🔪🖤)
#oc: hiro oda#nsft#cyberpunk ocs#my writing#mutuals ocs: ivarr#mutuals ocs: dagger#ship: trouble comes in threes#kinktober#kinktober 2023#tw: power dynamics#tw: cruelty#tw: pain
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And In Health
Ok, @mismaeve, here’s your request for Elrond and comfort, it’s on the shorter side, but I hope it’s what you expected. :) Love ya!
You sucked in the air through your stiffening jaws. The pain was not leaving you be, toying with your body like a beast, who wasn’t yet hungry enough to end your suffering nor generous enough to let go off the pray it didn’t need that much.
At times it dulled down to persistent ache, but those minutes were rare.
Another spasm shot through you, making you squirm in your armchair and lean your head down to hide the scowl your smile was turning into.
The feeling of a soft hand on your shoulder came more as a shock than a relief.
“You should leave, my heart.”
You didn’t look back, but the urge to relax into the touch was stronger than your self-discipline.
“I can bear it,” you sighed out without moving your lips.
“But must you?”
You had no wish to answer, and what could you say, after all? That your weakness was something you were ashamed of too deeply, as the thing that was not to exist in the place, where everyone was so content so naturally? That your determination to protect him reigned over more selfish considerations?
You could grudge him the failure to provide to your needs immediately - if only letting him sink into useless regrets wasn’t so unthinkable.
“I feel like I’m failing you.”
It was there, in his voice. The dolour of someone deeply caring in the face of their lover’s ailment still in full strength.
You forced yourself to shake your head and face him finally.
There was nothing your liked about the wrinkle of preoccupation between his fine brows. You’d done too much to erase it and fancied not its return now.
“It’s not urgent,” you reassured him through a cramp, “And our guests cannot wait.”
“It might be not, but now…”
His fingers, the wise fingers of the born and trained healer, strengthened their hold on your shoulder and loosened up again, and again flexed harder over your tight muscles. A wave of warmth spread down your back from where they pressed themselves into your skin.
You felt numbness, then painlessness, and then bliss rushed in, bliss and the ecstasy of a victim, saved out of the clutch of its torturer.
You took in an endless breath, rejoicing in the moment…loving him more than ever.
He was no longer touching you, but it wasn’t at once that you noticed it.
“We’ll see what else I can do,” whispered he with so much tenderness you could cry a river, if the duty didn’t require to hide your happiness as carefully as your agonies, “Wait, sweet.”
“I trust you will, Elrond” you mouthed back in a futile attempt to match his tone and take the weight off his mind, like he did it for you, “I do trust you.”
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funniest thing about german culture?: pain management. you have a headache? open the window. tummy pain? drink some tea! my ears hurt: no problem, here have an onion! i have period cramps: wait ill make you a hot bottle! my back is sore: have you tried listening to calming music?
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