#Deep repetitive injuries more like

[satinestales]

❝self destructive tendencies❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

● this is a 3rd pov, if you want to read 2nd pov, here●

summary: A week has passed since the battle on Khofar and the startling reveal of her former friend. Qimir, the man behind the mask and the murderer of her comrades took her to a remote island, far away from the Republic's surveillance, after she sustained severe injuries. She's been keeping her distance from him, trying to ignore her hidden feelings. Yet, when his thoughts merge with hers, the vow she made to herself becomes almost impossible to keep.

warnings: english is not my first language, sexual tension, lots of sexual tension, corruption, sexual themes/dreams, E Y E C O N T A C T, qimir, mentions of blood and injuries

author's note: I could not be a jedi I'd turn into aquaman if he asked me to join him

now playing, love in the sky by the weeknd

*:..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡౨ৎ 🍓｡˚🍰♡ ˚..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡ ︎

The moon hung low over the horizon, casting an eerie glow on the waves that lapped against the shores of the ghostly island. Qimir’s silhouette stood out against the backdrop of the night sky, his presence a constant reminder of the blood and carnage he left on Khofar. As she lay on the rough sand, the pain from her injuries pulsed faintly, and she could not shake the mixture of fear and thirst that his proximity stirred within her. The island was a planet unknown to her, and as much as she tried to examine the surface, its location remained elusive. She supposed it might have been somewhere in the Outer Rim or beyond. Somewhere where the Republic would have a difficult way of finding her. World away from the Republic’s watchful eyes, and here, with only Qimir for company, she felt both vulnerable and strangely contented.

She decided to relax on the beach, further away from Qimir’s constant presence that melted her thoughts. However, luck wasn't on her side; minutes after settling in, he walked past her to his favorite bathing spot, smirk on his face as he acknowledged her presence. It was late at night, her legs and arms sore from the repetitive training she put herself through. The island offered few diversions. Waiting for Qimir’s next move or for Sol to find her wasn��t her idea of a perfect day. The injuries covering her body were difficult to ignore, and she refused to let Qimir get close enough to her to heal them. She told herself she would rather bleed out than feel his touch on her skin. Deep down, though, she knew the real reason for keeping him at bay.

So, she lay there, absentmindedly playing with a rock she found, irritated by his presence but too weary to consider moving again. She had to admit her fault; she had set up camp right in front of his favorite spot. Over the past week, she had seen him bare many times. First unbothered but lately it had gotten under her skin. She had been friends with Qimir for some time before discovering his true identity behind the mask and his responsibility for her friends' murders. Their deaths pained her, but the betrayal and realization of his deception cut deeper. After many years, she thought she found herself a friend outside the temple. One that she could share her interests and secrets with, without the fear of being judged by the Jedi. She told him about her fears and likes. Her doubts in the order and her wish to help people as much as she could. About her hate and desire. The Sith emotions. Now he’s using them to lure her in and trap her on the other side.

She wasn’t the most perceptive, but his intentions were clear. He knew her feelings, her likes, and dislikes; she had shared them with him when she believed he was her friend and a supplier. Even a blind person could see his thoughts, and her strength in the Force allowed her to delve into his mind, revealing more than she wished to know.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he slowly shed his clothes to enter the water, a routine he seemed to relish. Despite her experiences in battles and missions, witnessing the horrible conditions and lack of hygiene, even her comrades didn’t bathe as frequently as Qimir did before her. She considered herself fortunate; at least he smelled good, even if the scent of sandalwood mixed with citrus fruit drove her mad. She smelled it when she woke up, during meals and training, and before sleep. She felt him everywhere. She wasn’t sure for how much longer she could endure it.

She studied the muscles of his back as he swam slowly, admiring them from her vantage point. He was undeniably strong, scars marring his skin a testament to the pain he had endured. She observed how his dark hair moved with his motions, how he ran his long thick fingers through it while washing it gently. His biceps tensed as he splashed water around his neck, and she noticed the way he caressed his chest, attempting to cleanse away the day’s dirt.

It was only when she accidentally crushed the rock in half that she realized the intensity of her stare. Clearing her throat, she sat up and leaned against the mossy bank behind her, feeling shame wash over her. She was convinced his own dreams had started to corrupt her.

One of the curses of being a Jedi was the ability to read minds, and Qimir was no exception. She saw his thoughts vividly, filled with bright colors that sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wondered if he wanted her to delve into his mind, to make her believe he desired her, or if he simply didn’t care. She feared he could read her thoughts too, despite her lifelong ability to block out others with ease.

She lied to herself, convincing herself that she was immune to his ideas, desires, and magnetic charm. But every time he looked at her, towered over her, or she smelled him in the air, her knees buckled, her stomach tightened, and she fought against the need to press her legs together. She felt sick, and his mind brushing against hers didn’t help.

She felt it every time he drew near. He visualized her hands in his mind, how they caressed his scars and shoulders. She saw his hair falling down as he towered over her, gently pushing her against the cold floor of his cave. She felt his breath against her neck, his fingers pulling her hair, his skin pressed against hers. In his dreams, she never resisted. He was corrupting her in his dreams, and she never once objected in them. She was embarrassed he got her mannerisms right.

She was so lost in their shared thoughts that she didn’t notice Qimir making his way out of the water, his eyes fixated on her with dangerous intensity. He carefully leaned down to grab a towel, amusement playing on his lips. He didn’t want to wake her from her thoughts, whatever they may have been.

As he gently dried himself with the soft cloth, not taking his eyes off her, he tried to read her mind, even if he failed millions of times before. He never had difficulty reading someone; one look at them and he could see their whole past. But with her, he had no idea what she was thinking or planning, or what images played in her head. She was strong, stronger than the ones he had met before, and he admired that. He praised her strength in the Force and her ability to protect herself from her nemesis. Like him.

But he could read body language. He noticed how she tensed around him when he walked past her. How her chest started rising faster whenever he stared her down. Her goosebumps when they brushed against each other. How she pressed her legs together when he towered over her. And how she was now crushing the rock in her hand, gazing in his direction.

“You can always join me, you know that.” He breathed out, letting the cloth fall to the ground, replacing it with his long blouse. She almost wanted to take the top from him just so she could continue her view, but when she finally recollected her thoughts, she wanted to slap herself. “It would help with your wounds when you don’t let me heal them.” He uttered, dressing himself, not breaking eye contact with her. He liked her stare. He liked how she fought with her emotions and how they reflected in her eyes. It pleased him.

“I’m okay,” she faked a smile, swallowing the ridiculous amount of saliva in her mouth. She forced herself to look somewhere other than his strong forearms or how he dragged the pants up his muscular legs. She found a cute shell, admiring it from afar.

She didn’t catch the grin on his face as her face turned pink and she clenched her fists. He was amused with her reactions, but her ripped bandage and the blood revealing itself underneath caught his full attention. His face froze, along with his movements while buttoning up his shirt. He would never touch her unless she wanted him to, but her leg was nowhere near being healed and with the lack of medical supplies on this island, she’d lose it long before she’d be able to leave the island.

“Let me help you.” It wasn’t a question, more of a subtle order. She didn’t miss it. A week ago, on Khofar, Qimir had stopped himself before fatally hurting her, but he still landed a strike on her leg that had trouble healing. She was stubborn enough to push him away when he offered his help, and now she started to slowly regret it.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she hissed at him, catching a glimpse of his unbuttoned blouse.

“You’re a powerful Jedi, and I don’t doubt you’d be still as fierce as you are now without your leg,” he murmured, making his way towards her, leaving his bag and shoes near the water. “If you want to risk it.” She watched him tilt his head as he slowly approached her. She could only see the images in his mind, his plans and ideas. But underneath it all, he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He wanted to help her. In his own way. He was her friend; he knew her weaknesses and strengths. He knew what she wanted, and he was willing to give it to her. But she couldn’t erase the lying and murder of her friends. She wanted her friend back. Maybe something else this time, but her trust in him had faded. Now it was just Qimir, confusing her thoughts and making her rethink her morals. She felt as disgusted with him as she felt with herself. But she understood him. Or at least tried to.

So, she didn’t oppose, letting him kneel in front of her, his hands carefully reaching out to her ripped bandage above her knee. He was so close she could smell him again. His hair fell into his face, covering his eyes that were focusing only on her wound. His fingers worked fast but tenderly as he lifted her thigh to unwrap the bandage. She swallowed hard, feeling his veiny hand below her leg. She was scared he could feel her burning skin, hoping he would mistake it as a result of the injury.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you on Khofar,” she heard him whisper, gripping the sand below her as he threw away the bandage, the cold air kissing her open wound. She almost heard pity in his voice. She was certain she imagined it.

She begged herself to look away, but her eyes betrayed her as they glared down at his hand that was almost as big as her thigh. He covered the wound, not touching it fully, concentrating on restoring her cells.

She was fascinated by how quickly the wound closed up, leaving only a small scar across her thigh. She had wanted to learn how to force heal ever since she lost her friend to a fatal injury as a kid, but the Jedi never taught her. No matter how hard she pleaded. Whenever she asked, they gave the same answer: only dark side users possess this power. She always felt it was ridiculous.

“How do you do it?” she managed to ask, ignoring Qimir’s confused stare as he picked up his head and drew his hand away from her. But he didn’t move position and kept kneeling between her feet. “How do you force heal?” she felt embarrassed asking, but he was one of her only chances to learn.

A soft smile crept to his lips as he moved his eyes from her face to her hands. She suddenly became aware of her vulnerable position.

“In order to heal someone,” he started, softness in his voice, no signs of mockery. “You need to focus on your own energy, imagine it and visualize it. Imagine its color, like you do with the Force.” He continued, his hands moving in motion with his words.

She could feel the warmth radiating off him as he sat centimeters away, his wet hair framing his sharp features. His eyes were dark, only the light of the moon reflecting in them. His lips were full, stretched as he shared his knowledge with her. She didn’t move a muscle and returned his stare. It was only the two of them.

“The Jedi teach only one way. Physical way. Taking your physical energy and giving it to someone who needs it,” he whispered, leaning his head to the side, giving her a view of his sharp jaw. His neck was thick, his collarbones defined. “But there is another way.” He stopped to look at her, examining her expression. She was listening intently, breathing fast, and her eyes bored so deeply into him he was certain she could read everything he was thinking. He let her.

“Below the surface of consciousness are powerful emotions. Anger. Fear. Loss.” He started listing, his eyes twitching between her eyes and her lips. “Desire.”

Her leg muscles twitched, her core burning up. She wanted to bury herself.

“Only Sith feel those emotions,” she whispered back, denying herself. She saw a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth before he lowered his gaze.

“You can draw energy from them, direct them in any way you want,” he purred, looking back at her, letting her feel his emotions. “However, whenever you want.” He lowered his voice as he stretched the last words, reading her face.

He knew she read his mind. He knew she saw the images that kept him awake and his wishes. He had had them since he met her months ago, and when he sensed her attraction toward him, they only intensified. He wanted her and was simply waiting for her to admit the same to herself, no matter how long it would take.

[kazumist]

THROUGH THICK AND THIN .ᐟ

✩ — in which soshiro had forgotten the lengths of your love for him.

✩ — request: hi, can i pls request an argument with hoshina and how u resolve everything 🥹🥹🥹

✩ — includes: hoshina soshiro x gn!reader. hurt/comfort, angst if u squint. cw: arguments, implications of soshiro being injured but thats just it, soshiro is kinda mean Uhm, ooc!hoshina this is another experimental fic help me. wc: 1440. reblogs and feedback are much appreciated !!

if there was one thing sharper than the blades hoshina soshiro wielded, it would be the words that escaped his lips.

hoshina knows how to sugarcoat his words. he considers himself a good talker—negiotiator, if you would. however, when it comes to more sensitive topics, that’s when it all starts to crumble down. 

he never expected for him to catch feelings, especially with the line of work he takes. it’s too risky. dangerous. worrying. but he fell as deep as the ocean could get for you. you accepted it. him and his line of work. him as a whole.

yet soshiro seems to forget that sometimes.

getting out of a mission unscathed was impossible. he would always have at least one injury planted on him. it was a repetitive game of russian roulette where either his injuries would be severe or light. and unfortunately for him, today was sadly the former. 

a knock was heard at the door of the hospital room he’s staying in. a mission had recently just finished—about three days had passed, and soshiro was unconscious for the first two due to how he overexerted himself. “come in,” he says. and to his surprise, he saw you opening the door.

soshiro hasn’t told you about him being hospitalized yet—so how?

“captain ashiro told me.” oh. so that’s how. well, he was aware that you had also built a friendship with his commander. and that was completely fine with him. it was awkward when you walked over to the bed, pulling out the chair for you to sit on. you refused to make eye contact with him while soshiro just stared at you.

neither of you has an idea of what to say.

“i wish you told me as soon as you woke up. i was worried sick when i heard the news about the kaiju attack and all.” you said, keeping your gaze focused on your fingers as they played with each other. he flinches slightly as guilt starts to bubble up inside of him. it was already five in the afternoon and he’s been awake since ten in the morning. he wishes that he told you as soon as he woke up as well.

however, there’s one thing that has started to creep onto soshiro lately—fear. insecurity, perhaps. he gets haunted by the thought that you would definitely be happier in someone else’s arms and that you would be more happy being bathed in someone else’s affection. being with a man like hoshina soshiro was dangerous, as if it were a gamble to play.

because you never know if you’ll still wake up to him being alive the next day. and believe it or not: hoshina was scared—terrified of that possibility. he doesn’t want you to be sad, he crumbles at the thought of you crying in the first place. so he made it a task for him to push you away. to be distant.

to be someone you would hate.

that’s the only way he could keep you safe.

“sorry. i didn’t want to disturb you.” bullshit.

“why…” you trailed off. soshiro noticed that you werent playing with your fingers anymore and that you were now clenching your fists. “why would you think that? soshiro, your health matters to me.” his heart also clenched when he heard the slight crack in your voice. “why would it matter to you? i could die any day.”

“are you being serious right now?” he hates it. he hates the way that the first time he saw your eyes today, they were filled with such negative emotions. anger. hurt. confusion. “do i look like i’m kidding?”

“soshiro, why are you acting like this? did i do something wrong? i know we haven’t seen each other a lot because we’ve been both busy.” no, you didn’t. this is my fault, but this is also for the best. is what he wanted to say—but he just swallows up his words. “it’s nothing.”

“no, it’s not just ‘nothing.’ tell me what’s wrong, please? so we can fix it. it pains me when we’re like this.” it pains him too—it pains him so fucking bad. but hoshina soshiro is stubborn. so he will find himself accomplishing his task, whether it pains him or not.

because all he wants is the best for you, even if he wouldn’t be able to provide that.

— — — — — — — — 

he doesn’t know how things got so heated between the two of you. and he’s sure that you both might disturb the other patients who are confined in the room next to his.

“why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong? i feel like an idiot, soshiro! what am i?! some fucking mind reader on what goes on inside your head?!”

“like i told you, it’s nothing for you to worry about! what can’t you understand with that?!”

“what can’t you understand with me saying it’s not just nothing?!”

“and what can’t you understand with me implying that you shouldn’t care anymore?! dp i have to spell it out for you?”

you weren’t sitting down anymore, and hoshina doesn’t dare to speak anymore. fighting with you was the worst. and this time, he fucked up real bad. “i… it’s getting late. i should get going.” you say, and soshiro could feel a part of him shattering when he heard you hold back a sob.

the next time soshiro saw you, he was on his day off (a day off he didn’t really want to take but captain ashiro forced him otherwise since the doctors told him he shouldn’t be making his body engage in strenuous activities just yet). and the first thing he did? he visited you. he knew you get off work early on fridays, making you free for the rest of the weekend earlier.

he knocks on your door, although hesitantly. he’s nervous as he waits for you to open the door.

and he’s grateful that you still opened the door for him in spite of your last conversation with each other. you didn’t say anything as you opened the door further, inviting him in. the awkwardness gave hoshina a rush of deja vu about the awkwardness in the hospital room.

“i’m sorry.” although these two words don’t just cut it so easily, he thinks.

“do you really mean it? what you said in the hospital?”

his breath hitched as he found the right words to say. if hoshina was going to be honest, he hasn’t thought much about what to do at this point. surely, he had achieved his goal that night, right? “yeah.”

“liar.”

he turns to you immediately, and you were already looking at him to begin with. “you’re lying, and i could tell that because you’re nibbling on your lip. you always do that when you lie. just tell me the truth, soshiro, please.”

why should he? would you accept his reason? would you accept the insecurities that haunt his every waking thought? would you accept him even though he said such mean things to you the last time you saw each other?

would you still love him despite it all?

you would. you always would. 

and so he explains from the very start—when and where these thoughts started in the first place. and you listen to him intently, absorbing every single detail he says. once he was done, you took a deep breath. 

“god, you’re so stupid. did you know that?” soshiro lets out a weak chuckle at that, avoiding your gaze. you cup his face with your hands, making him face you. “look at me,” he refuses. “soshiro, look at me.” he then complies, slowly trailing his eyes across your features before resting them on your gaze.

“you don’t get to decide what’s best for me when it comes to this type of thing, okay? i love who i want to love. you don’t get to decide that i’d be happier with someone else. because i love you. i love you more than you could ever imagine, more than you could ever feel. remember that. engrave that inside your mind so you can never forget. you are the one i am helplessly in love with, soshiro.”

i love you. i love you. i love you. it repeats inside his mind. you are the one i am helplessly in love with. it echoes. soshiro feels stupid for attempting to become someone you hated in the first place. there was no way he could ever bear the possibility of you actually hating him.

how could he forget? you had already accepted him as a whole. through thick and thin, you will stand by his side.

[samkerrworshipper]

massage therapy | mapi leon x reader

mapi gets injured… reader tries to resolve some of the tension in her body

warnings: injury, hurt/comfort, smut, cunnilingus, fingering

“Maps, baby, I swear to dios just let me massage your knee, I have to, hermosa.”

María just glares at you from her position sitting on the couch.

She’s been next to unbearable ever since her meniscus injury, rightfully so, you would be two if you had no choice but to stop playing the sport that you loved for months.

But the whining, the wayward glares, the constant anger and tension is beginning to get to you, beyond it making you annoyed at your lover, you were worried about her more than anything.

Mapí had her fair share of mental health problems in the past, the two of you had gotten through them together, but whenever something like an injury arose it always seemed to signify the start of a rougher patch in her mental health.

So that had been your main focus, making sure that María’s mental health stayed intact, you thought you’d done a fairly good job, mentally she was doing well, but attitude wise she was acting like a little bitch.

Always snappy and critical, always annoyed about her lack of mobility, always refusing your help.

Alexia had attempted multiple times to reign her in on your behalf, the Catalan woman had practically moved in as soon as the news of the injury had come in, insistent on being a support system for her best friend, but it worked to no prevail, Mapí was angry with the world, with her knee, with everything that moved or breathed.

“Estoy bien.” I’m fine

Her words are forced out, gruff and croaky from her spot on the couch.

You’re pretty sure there is a half permanent Mapí shaped dent in the pillows that your girlfriend had been living in the last week or so, ever since her surgery.

“María, when are you going to stop being so stubborn and just accept my help?”

For a person who had some fairly serious surgery just over a week ago, Mapi was a menace, trying to do everything on her own, which was fairly hard when you were hopped up on pain meds and hardly mobile.

“Estoy bien, ni siquiera estoy adolorida.” I’m fine, I’m not even sore.

It’s a complete lie, Mapí’s been moaning and groaning for the last half hour as she tried to find a comfortable position amongst the pillows and blankets.

She’s practically crafted a nest on the couch, a big pile of blankets absorbing her completely.

“María, por favor.” Maria, please

Your use of Spanish seems to draw her attention, it’s not your first, or second language, you don’t speak it very often.

Both you and María understand each other's languages, just find it harder to speak them, so it just works that you normally speak in English and she normally speaks in Spanish, it saves either of you from having to awkwardly translate all of your words every time you want to talk with your girlfriend.

“Pequeña, estoy bien.” little one, I’m fine

Estoy bien seems to be at the forefront of Mapí’s vocabulary recently, it’s always I’m fine, even when she’s lying through gritted teeth and teary eyes.

You stand up from your spot sitting at the kitchen table, tiptoeing towards Mapí slowly, a deep frown set on your face.

Mapí’s watching some Spanish soap opera, something you're unfamiliar with, which makes it seem like it's more background noise for her than anything of interest.

You walk around the couch, until you’re standing in front of her, blocking her view of the tv so she’s forced to look at you.

“You can’t tell me your knee isn’t killing, the physio said it needed to be stimulated daily, let me help you, love.”

Mapí bites down on her lip, there is so much frustration playing across her face, so much anguish.

“Estoy bien.” i’m fine

It’s like being repetitively punched in the face, hearing the same two words fall from her lips, it’s incredibly aggravating, all consuming.

“María, you aren’t fine, hate me all you want, push me away, but give me the respect of not lying blatantly to my face over and over again.”

Mapi’s whole body tenses, her face scrunching up at your brutally honest words.

“Princesa, no es así.” princess, it’s not like that

You don’t give up, not when you know that this might just be your opportunity to get something back, anything at all.

“Maps, just a massage, we’ll go at your pace, your muscles need to be strengthened and that starts with loosening them up, por favor.”

María’s face is stubborn, unmoving.

She’s fairly good about recovery, doesn’t need any reminders to do her exercises or move her knee as often as it needs to, the massaging is the only thing she can’t do by herself, and because its Mapí that you’re talking about, she’d never ask you to help her with it, or accept a offer from you to help her.

You take her recovery seriously though, and you’ll be damned if she misses out on a crucial part of her recovery just because she is too bullheaded to ask for some goddamn help.

“No necesito ayuda.” I don’t need help

You scoff, it’s the biggest lie ever, Mapí can’t walk without crutches, can’t stand for much longer than a minute, she needs help with almost everything.

“Maps, I love you so much, no matter what, but this whole independence thing is just getting annoying. I’ll make you prawn paella for dinner if you let me give you a massage, how’s that for a deal?”

It’s Mapí’s weakness, you know it, it’s one of her mothers oldest recipes that she taught you when she was still alive, whenever Mapí’s having a particularly hard day it’s always your go to, it’s her comfort food.

“Promesa?” promise?

You nod your head, smiling to yourself as you realise that you’ve managed to somehow convince Mapí.

“I promise, I’m going to go and get the massage oil, can you try and take off your sweatpants for me, please, love?”

Mapí nods at you, a little smile teasing at the corners of her lips as she watches you walk off into the direction of the cupboard where the both of you keep all of your recovery related items.

You were quick to find the oil and creams that you required, returning back to Mapí to find her sitting on the couch, her sweatpants pushed to the side leaving her in just her boxer shorts.

Her knee was the only part of her legs that weren’t visible to you, hidden by a brace and plethora of bandages and gauze.

You perched yourself down on the pillows beside her knee, ditching the items in your hands and gently reaching for Mapí’s brace.

She flinched away from the contact, her knee jerking at the feeling.

“Maps, baby, just relax for me, yeah?”

She nodded, her teeth gritted, her eyes watching your every move around her knee, trying to gulp down her worries and discomfort that originated from places beyond her knee.

Once she’d relaxed a little bit more, you reached for her brace again, she still flinched, but it wasn’t as major, and you decided to continue, reaching for the velcro, exaggerating your movements so Mapí had a clear view of everything you were doing.

Once you’d managed to undo the velcro straps you gently un tightened it and then slid it down her leg, leaving gauze and bandages as the only thing covering it.

“Deep breaths Maps, if anything hurts or feels uncomfortable just tell me, sí?”

Mapi nodded at you, she looked like a woman who had just run a marathon, her face all scrunched up and red.

“Sí, gentil, por favor.” Yes, gentle, please

You smiled at her, nodding, like you’d ever be anything else.

“Sí, I’ll be gentle, how about I tell you what I’m going to do before I do it, just so you have some warning, would that make you feel a bit better, love?”

Mapi nods like your words are her saving grace.

“Okay, I’m just going to unwrap the bandages now, just let me know if anything hurts.”

Mapí nods her head, so you continue on, finding the tucked in part of the bandages and beginning to unwrap them, your touch and movements feather soft.

You flex her knee a little bit and notice how her face crunches up a little bit, you hate that she’s in pain, that something that should be so simple and basic for her has become a struggle.

She doesn’t tell you to stop though, so you continue, slowly unravelling the gauze and bandages until you are met with the sight of her bruised and swollen knee.

The stitches had been removed two days ago, so the scar is risen and red, but luckily, not infected.

You notice how Mapí’s eyes suddenly drift from her knee, you know she’s been struggling to come to terms with her injury, that she’s been denying it as much as one could.

“Maps, I’m going to apply some oil, I’m just going to start with your lower leg, nothing near your incision, just tell me if anything is uncomfortable, okay?”

Mapí nods, so you reach for the oil bottle and a towel, gently lifting her knee to slide the towel under her near and then dripping some of the oil onto your hands and then gently pressing them to Mapi’s shin, snaking your hands behind to her calf and working your fingers into her muscles.

The only thing you know is that she’s extremely tight, her calf and achilles practically pushing against you as you lightly apply pressure to the skin.

It takes a generous amount of time working up her calf, working out all the kinks and knots, María is lenient enough though, she looks like she’s in a different place, normally you’d probe her, check if she was okay, but you know that you’re winning right now by having her allow your to do this, so you count your wins and not your losses.

“Maps, baby, I’m working up to your knee and incision now, I know it's going to be uncomfy but the muscles need to be jostled, tell me if anything hurts, okay.”

María’s eyes are glossed over, but she nods absentmindedly.

So, you daintily and carefully begin the trek up to Maria’s knee, your fingers dancing around her non incision side, gently giving the tissue and muscle a rub before moving your fingers to the other side.

You start by just hovering your fingers over her scar, something that seems to capture her attention, and has her throat bobbing as she looks down at you with wide eyes.

“Maps, honey, talk to me.”

It’s clear there are words waiting on the tip of her tongue, and if you can get her to voice them that you will.

“Por favor.” please

It breaks your heart how vulnerable Mapí sounds, it truly does.

“Please, what, love? I’m going to need more than that.”

Mapí pushes her tongue out against her front lip, a fairly clear tell that something is turning the cogs in her head.

“Por favor, no me hagas daño.” Please, don’t hurt me

Your heart clenches at her words, your fingers removing themselves from the scar and gently resting down on her thigh, your palm flat and open against Mapí’s skin.

“María, I’m not going to hurt you, and definitely not on purpose, I’m trying to help you. I know it might not seem that way, but if you relax for me it’s definitely going to feel better.”

Mapí scoffs, sarcasm seemingly ready on the top of her tongue.

“Maps, you need to relax honey.”

Mapí’s face scrunches up, her nose and eyebrows furrowing together.

“No puedo.” I can’t

You don’t doubt Mapí, which makes it so much harder for you to reply to her, because she genuinely looks like she’s struggling, and somehow frustrated.

“Maps, honey, why so tense?”

There’s an inkling of an idea beginning to form in your head, but you don’t want to read this wrong, and a part of you wants to hear what Mapí has to say.

“Tus manos están en mi muslo.” Your hands on my thigh

You snort a little bit, but then reign yourself in when you see the unfamiliar hopelessness on María’s face.

“Yes it is, what’s your point?”

You're toying with her a little bit, for your own fun and genuine curiosity.

“No puedes poner tu mano ahí.” You can’t put your hand there.

If Mapi wasn’t whining at you, you would remove your hand, but there’s neediness hiding behind her tone, that leaves your hand exactly where it is.

“Why not?”

You cock your head at her, pushing down into her thigh a bit and choking on air when an almost breathy moan leaves her mouth.

“No cuando no puedes terminar lo que estás empezando.” Not when you can’t finish what you are starting.

You smirked up at her from your spot hovering between her sore knee resting on the couch and her good leg which is resting off the couch.

“Why can’t I finish it?”

This is uncharted waters with injured María, ever since her knee injury all bedroom activities had been abruptly stopped, you were terrified of hurting your lover and Mapí was always tired or grumpy so it hadn’t really been an issues.

It was clear though, that the both of you were apparently desperate, and as fearful you were of hurting Mapi, you also knew she had given a lot of herself to be this vulnerable with you, so she probably deserved some kind of reward.

“Princesa.”

Mapi’s whining again and all you can do is smile up at her.

“Usted no quieres?” You do not want?

Mapi shook her head, her deep brown eyes sparkling down at you.

“Por favor.” please

You knew that was permission enough, but you were enjoying seeing her slightly vulnerable.

“Please, what?”

María’s almost glaring, a little twinkle in the corner of her eye.

“Por favor, ayúdame.” Please, help me

You would have probed further, if her eyes hadn't fallen down to the centre of her boxers, her hand resting on her hip gently tugging at the waistband of her boyshorts.

“You want this?”

Mapí nodded frantically, making you giddy on the inside.

“Pull your boxers down for me baby, I think it’s time I massage more than your leg.”

Mapi moaned again, her hands falling directly to the waistband and tugging it off with as much force a crippled individual could.

“So eager baby girl, how long have you been needing me?”

Mapí doesn’t reply to you, just continues to tug her black boxer shorts down her ass and carefully over her knee and ankle before tossing them somewhere.

When you look up, you're rewarded with the view of María’s dripping sex, her clit poking out of it’s good and her hole clenching around nothing, her hips canting up to you desperately.

“Look at that, you're all wet for me and I haven’t even touched you where it matters.”

The noises that leave Mapí’s mouth are completely sinful, her head leaning back against the couch, little pleas leaving her mouth.

You trail your fingers up from her thigh, gently grazing against the inside of her thigh until they finally make it to her lips.

You do the same with her lips, trailing wet and sloppy kisses up the inside of her knee and thigh, until your lips come into contact with her dripping and throbbing clit.

You don’t waste any time, trailing a single finger down to Mapí’s hole and swiping up some of the wetness before gently beginning to push it into her eager hole.

Mapí’s pussy practically sucked your finger in, you fell into a fairly easy pace, your mouth suckling gently on her clit whilst your singular finger worked in and out of Maria.

When there was absolutely zero resistance or stretch you began to ease a second finger in, slowly increasing your pace and your pressure on her nub.

Normally, in situations like these, when you and Mapí hadn’t been with each other intimately for so long you’d take your time, show her just how much you loved and appreciated her, but this wasn’t the moment for that.

Mapí needed love, she needed to be worshipped, but in this moment you were acting as nothing more than a relaxant for her, a tension reliever, which you were completely fine with, if it made her feel better than you would do anything for her.

You found her sweet spot, the little pad inside of her and began to target it directly, simultaneously sucking on her clit and caressing her g-spot.

It was a combination that never failed to work during a quickie, sending her directly over the edge in a matter of minutes.

This time was no different, you could feel Mapí tightening around you, her hands finding home in your roots and tugging you up eagerly into her.

Her moans all of a sudden stopped and her hands relaxed, not a second after that she tightened around your fingers and her thighs spasmed on both sides of your head.

You gently worked her through her aftershocks, only removing your fingers when all of the post orgasm shakes had left her body you moved you reached your hand up to her mouth, allowing her to suck her own taste off of your dexterous fingers whilst you lapped up any of her leftover juices and cum that was dripping out of her.

Once Mapí had sucked every last drop off your fingers and you’d salvaged every last bit of her pussy juices you lifted your head out of the apex between her legs, to be rewarded with the sight of a far less tense looking María León.

“Feeling a little bit more relaxed now, bebé?”

Mapu just gave you a little post orgasm grin, her eyes glassy in a completely different way as how she had been a few minutes ago.

“Si, muy relajada.” Yes, very relaxed.

[hcneymooners]

⋆ cellophane.

dance instructor!ambessa x muscular!f!reader. men & minors dni. synopsis: you are an athlete forced into retirement by an unforeseen injury. ambessa is the dance instructor who rehabilitates you through ballet. could it be any more obvious?

cw: mentions of injury, tall!reader, muscular!reader, angst, implied mental health issues, age difference because it's me, non-sexual intimacy, rehabilitation from an injury, ballerina!reader, soft!ambessa, emotional hurt/comfort, making out, getting together, implied praise kink, body dysmorphia.

notes: written completely for @for-sappho based on their post about ambessa's canon type. this is a drabble.

“begin.” 

without opening your eyes, you began to let your body break down. surrendering was the only way forward. it had been years since you’d danced professionally, but the memory was still a deep instinct. you felt the ripple of your back, flexing under the easy weight of your instructor’s hand, and let it guide you, pressure you.

you’d started taking classes again, not for ambition but survival—something to give your defeated body a purpose. after the accident, the world felt permanently off-kilter, as if it had spun wildly and refused to settle. your days blurred into repetition: waking with the sun, curling into yourself to relearn how to move, then collapsing into bed again. sometimes, you’d coax your dog to lay on you, his solid weight anchoring you to the grave of your bed.

the classes were private. shame dictated that much. it wasn’t that the other dancers weren’t kind; they were. but you didn’t fit in, and you couldn’t bring yourself to try. bitterness clung to you like a second skin, a self-inflicted punishment for ruining the athletic future you’d worked so hard to build. and then there was your body—tall, muscular, powerful in ways that made you feel both monstrous and vulnerable.

you always thought you looked misshapen in a leotard, like a tree gnarled by time and trauma. yet the world, in its stubbornness, disagreed. magazines, headlines, strangers—they described you in words you never allowed to belong to you: graceful, elegant, divine. it only felt like another cruelty. but maybe if the world insisted on that truth, you owed it to yourself to try and believe it.

when you found the studio—medarda—you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t just the glowing reviews or the name that caught your eye; it was her. ambessa.

she was your instructor now, a thickly muscled woman with a commanding presence, her skin traced with scars that spoke of combat. there was no warmth in her gaze when she first met you; it was only a firm assessment as she took in the way you folded into yourself, trying to shrink in a body that refused to be small.

the first day, she scoffed when you requested to dance. instead, she stretched you.

that summer day still burned in your memory, slurred with heat and the bite of her hands cooled from a bowl of ice water she kept beside her. you’d been unprepared for the emotions that spilled out of you. 

tears slipped down your face as her hands worked along your body, massaging, lengthening, coaxing. when she pressed on your hips, one hand steadying your back as she bent you forward, the fire that licked through your thighs wasn’t just physical. it felt like grief unraveling. a gasp had shuddered from your throat as she bent you, wet and small. 

your head bowed, neck surrendering as you let go of something you hadn’t even realized you were holding. she said nothing, only pulled you upright and held you straight. her thumbs pressed deep into the curve of your lower back. and then she trapped you there, steady, until you stopped shaking.

you’d never felt so exposed. you hated her, desperately. the next day, you returned.

“are you here, or are you somewhere else?”

her voice brought you back, cutting through the haze as you spun into stillness. her sharp eyes followed your every movement; her hair was braided tightly away from her face. you let out a slow breath, fingers brushing over the loose strands of your own undone bun. your toes flexed against the floor, grounding you.

“i’m with you,” you murmured.

it was a bizarre thing, your deference toward her. the words in themselves were an odd thing to say, but she didn’t comment. she only nodded, choosing to save her sharper critiques for moments when she knew you could bear them. today wasn’t one of those days. 

she could tell from the way you moved—raw and sluggish—that you were caught in one of those moods where you turned on yourself, uselessly cruel.

“good,” she said. “that’s where you should always be.”

“yes, ambessa.”

“again.”

you spun out, arms lifting as you rose to pointe. your calves screamed, your ankles throbbed, but you didn’t stop. you wouldn’t. ambessa stepped toward you, silent and deliberate, her hand pressing firmly against your stomach. she guided you, her touch steady, pushing until your back curved deeper, the stretch pulling at your muscles with a delicious ache.

a sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a sigh and a sob, as you exhaled shakily. your lips parted in silent anguish.

“i understand,” she said, her voice softer now, her thumb brushing against your side like an unspoken promise. “just breathe.”

this body was a monster to you. 

it had betrayed you, defied you, broken you in ways that were undeserved. you had loved it, used it, but still there were days it felt foreign—like an unwelcome thing you had to drag through the hours, an intruder you could never escape. even now, as ambessa’s hands pressed against your trembling core, your knees chose to abandon you and buckled.

the ache surged too fast, too sharp, and you stumbled forward, your body instinctively seeking refuge. you fell into her.  

her arms caught you easily, steady and sure, and for a moment, you stayed there, leaning into the solidity of her frame. her body, like yours, was carved with power—muscle over bone, skin stretched taut from years of wear. it struck you, suddenly, how similar you were to one another.

“see?” she murmured, her voice low but unyielding, a vibration that traveled through you. “see how we are the same? this body you hate—this body you think of as destroyed—is no different from mine. you are not alone, and you are far from weak.”  

her hands didn’t let you go. instead, they held you tall, forcing you to bear the weight of her words.  

“i’m not a child,” you hissed, your voice trembling with frustration, but not at her. at yourself. at the world. “this was my life. once. i was strong. i was capable. and now…”  

you trailed off, the silence heavier than anything else.  

“it isn’t anymore,” ambessa said firmly, her words like a blade. “and you must make peace with that.”  

your head snapped up at her, anger flashing in your eyes. “make peace with it? how? how would you make peace with losing everything you worked for? everything you were?”  

her gaze softened—not with pity, but understanding. she tilted her head, her scarred hands moving to rest on your shoulders.  

“you rebuild,” she said simply. “you take what remains, and you shape it into something new. you let go of the life you had, not because it wasn’t worth something, but because clinging to it will destroy you. you are strong. you are still capable. but the strength isn’t what it was. it’s what it is now. and now, you are learning.”  

you closed your eyes against the sting of tears, your chest heaving brutishly.

“i don’t want to start over,” you whispered, voice cracking. “i want it back. i want to go back.”  

ambessa exhaled, a sound heavy with both patience and exhaustion. her hand slid to your jaw, tipping your face up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes.  

“you can’t,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “what you had is gone. but what you are becoming—what you can become—is something greater. and you will not do it alone.”  

her words settled into the silence between you. you didn’t have it in you to argue. instead, you continued to let her hold you, her strength bracing yours. 

then you pulled away. 

you sat on the studio floor, your legs stretched out awkwardly as you packed your ballet bag. your fingers fumbled over the soft fabric of your cardigan, the worn ribbons of your pointe shoes. the quiet felt heavy, pressing against your chest like a dead animal. your reflection in the mirror stared back at you, distant and tired.  

ambessa’s presence was impossible to ignore. she moved silently, a relentless force of nature, and before you realized it, she was there—lowering herself to the floor beside you. her broad frame folded gracefully as she settled next to you, close enough that her knee brushed against yours.  

you looked at her through the mirror first. her sharp, regal features were softened by the dim light, her expression unreadable. your chest ached at the sight of her, and you turned toward her fully, unable to stop yourself.  

your hands reached for her face before you could think better of it, cupping her cheeks with a gentleness that surprised even you. her skin was warm beneath your palms, scarred and beautiful, and you felt her gaze settle on you, an invisible blanket.  

“you,” you whispered, the word trembling as it left your lips.  

then you kissed her.  

it was tentative at first, a soft press of your mouth against hers, but when she didn’t pull away, you deepened it. your lips moved against hers, searching, desperate. your hands trembled as they slid from her face to her neck, to her shoulders, tracing the strong lines of her body.  

you kissed her neck, her hands, each touch more tender than the last, until the emotions bubbling beneath your skin finally escaped you. tears streamed down your face, silent and thick, as you pressed your forehead against hers, your breath hitching with the force of it.  

ambessa let you cry. her hands, steady and sure, came to rest on your shoulders, grounding you as she always did. when she spoke, her voice was low and steady, each word deliberate.  

“life,” she murmured, “is like a hive. at its center, there is both the bee sting and the honey. you sting yourself constantly, over and over, until you swell with pain. you must allow that to die off. only then can you taste the sweetness.”  

you shook your head, your tears falling faster now, but there was something in her tone, in her words, that stilled you. she studied your face for a moment, her thumb brushing lightly over your jaw, and her next words came softer.

“i will still want you,” she said, as if your desire had been sitting quietly between the two of you, open and magnanimous.

you pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, your hands still trembling as they rested on her shoulders. your voice was low, but the words came with a bruising force.

“there is no honey at the center,” you said, your voice breaking. “only you.”  

her lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the seriousness of her expression. 

“then i will be the honey,” she said, her tone steady and sure. “let me remind you of what you’ve forgotten—of who you are, and who you can still become. let me into your mouth,  let me drip across your teeth.”

your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your hands falling to your lap as you searched her face. the words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and vulnerable:  

“will you—can i be your favorite?”  

the question hung in the air, fragile and desperate, a callback to the days when being the judges’ favorite was everything. when it meant proof of your worth.  

ambessa’s expression softened, and she dipped her head.

“you already are,” she said, the words unyielding. “it is only natural.”  

her hand came to rest on your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “there is no need to compete. not for this. you are enough as you are.”  

her words freed something within you, a bird whose wings had been bound tightly for years. your breath hitched again, but this time, it was laden with relief.  

slowly, she picked up the cardigan you’d cast beside you, wrapping it carefully around your shoulders and tying it snugly over your chest into a perfect bow. then, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary.  

“you will always be my favorite,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure. 

you bent forward, listened to her heart. it didn’t skip a beat. she was honest and strong. you, for the time being, were weaker but wanting. 

© hcneymooners.

[chuulyssa]

Can I request a reader who is from the Port Mafia too with Chuuya who stays over at his house overnight as she was injured from a fight and wears his clothes after showering? I'm begging you 🛐

★ PROMPT ─ 1+15

!! FT. ─ chuuya

The night had been as normal as it always was for the city of Yokohama. Two executives of the Port Mafia had been in charge of a smuggling mission; a dangerous one.

An hour into the mission, Chuuya had knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he assessed your injuries. Blood had been seeping from a deep gash on your side, staining your clothes. Chuuya had torn a strip of cloth from his own jacket, wrapping your wound with shaking hands.

Thus, you had ended up in your co-worker's house, in his room, wearing nothing but his towel after taking a shower. What were you supposed to wear, anyway? Your clothes were completely covered in blood, and you hadn't brought an extra pair.

Chuuya was running around his room like a maniac, digging through his closet while you watched him tiredly.

"I'll find you something to wear," he muttered, rummaging through his clothes.

Finally, Chuuya handed you a bundle of clothes.

"Here," he said, his expression softening as his eyes met your injury. "They might be a bit big, but they'll do for now."

You took the clothes with a nod of thanks and disappeared into the bathroom to change. When you emerged, dressed in Chuuya's oversized clothes, he gave you a small smile.

"They look better on you," he mumbled, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink.

You smiled back, crawling into his bed.

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?" you asked, burying your face into his pillow. His scent was even more evident here. "I'm too tired to go back home."

"Of course, you can," Chuuya stammered. "I'll... I'll go sleep on- on the couch then."

"No," you said, sitting up. "I want you here."

"Eh?"

"Stay."

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© chuulyssa 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

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↷ A/N ─ that's the last of it! all asks i found in my inbox are finally answered. i did clean out a few similar and repetitive requests, so im sorry if didn't answer yours separately. thank you for the kind words and congratulations!

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[solitary-traveler]

Heya :)

Im not sure if you write angst but I was wondering if you could do Scara with a reader that puts others health in front of her own, so when she gets injured in battle she won't even notice because she'll be worrying about Scara and not herself. <3

Echoes of The Past

The wanderer is left behind, with regrets and diminished hope swirling through his thoughts

Wanderer x gn!reader

Notes: Hiiii thank you so much @i0fty, I'm so sorry it took this long to write it 😭. I hope this makes up for it. Again I'm really sorry🙏—

Also, the italicized texts are the things that he writes in his journal

Art: @waternaeng on danbooru

Warning: Angst :)

You died yesterday.

The wanderer recounted as he sat on the wooden stool. His fingers ran through his indigo locks, a few strands escaping his grasp and falling back down to frame his face. With a pencil between his porcelain fingers, he could only stare at the empty notebook in front of him.

My…beloved, my Y/n passed away yesterday after being so stupidly reckless.

He sighed, the pen twitching within his grip. The further he puts his thoughts into writing, the more the uncomfortable feeling grows. It still hurt; it always hurt to think of you. He garnered at the page, forcing himself to resume staining the paper with lead.

You always placed the health of others above your own, a fierce guardian even amidst the chaos of battle, where your sole focus was my safety. It was maddeningly foolish—I was no fragile mortal, impervious to death’s grasp. Yet you pressed on, undeterred. I watched as you brushed aside your injuries, treating them like insignificant shadows. Even in your final moments, it was that boundless selflessness—the unwavering devotion that burned brightly within you—that ultimately cost you everything. 

Wanderer gripped the pen tightly, almost snapping it in half.

Why did you have to be selfless?

Why did you have to die?

If I had been the one to notice your wounds, would you still be here? If I had been there to prioritize your safety, to shield you from the pain, would fate have been kinder to us?

He took a deep breath. This was supposed to be a relaxing activity, but somehow it just heightened his stress even more. His eyes darted outside the window, overlooking the bright lights of Sumeru city.

Not that it matters anymore. I can’t change the past. I know; I’ve tried.

In any case, the view from outside my window is as repetitive as always, the same flickering city lights twinkling like distant stars against the inky night. But I know you love it. You always had a strange fascination with city lights under the night sky. But I guess it is pretty. A strange beauty, one that whispers secrets of life and longing. I can somewhat understand why you found solace in its shimmering embrace.

He heaved, his shoulders slumped. They felt heavy as the burden of his loss creeped in once more. Embrace huh…Oh how he wished you were here, stubbornly hugging him from behind. He’d kill to live in that memory over and over again. To stay there forever, with the comfort he grew to miss. 

Sometimes I wonder… What exactly it is you like about me? I… I never saw myself as someone worthy of love, let alone someone capable of it. Like a marionette, I moved through life, cursed to feel without ever knowing how to truly grasp those emotions. Yet somehow, you saw through the tangled strings of my hypocrisy, unraveling the quiet ache of my need for affection, hidden deep within my hollow frame.

His eyes darted towards a photo, one you stubbornly pestered him with until he succumbed. It was during his first day at the Akademiya and you had dropped by to tease the fuck out of him. Imagine him, a war criminal, domesticated and sent to school. It was excessively embarrassing. You had the cheekiest grin plastered on your face, your infectious laughter ringing in his ears. Your left arm slung around his shoulder. It was all so infuriatingly endearing. Wanderer can’t help the subtle twitch on the corner of his lips.

You were always a mystery to me, an enigma I could never fully grasp.

I wonder, sometimes… why me? What did you see in me that made you want me? I am undesirable, like a rusted tool left forgotten in the rain—only acknowledged when needed, only useful when used.  Yet, you—  You saw worth in me, even when I was at my weakest, when the cracks began to show, and when my facade crumbled. You knelt beside me, gathering the scattered shards of who I was. You pieced them together, making me whole once more.

I had been an enemy, a blade once drawn against you, yet you saw me not as a threat, but as a friend broken by my own battles. 

Wanderer let out a bitter laugh. The memory does little to alleviate the tension in his “heart”, the twinge of misery that courses through his skin. That runs through his blood. It doesn't fully hinder the burn, it doesn’t prove to distract. 

I was never one to believe in fate, but I'd dare call our meeting destined. I’ve never been one to bow to the gods, but I find myself thanking them—begrudgingly—for bringing you into my life. You’re an infuriating thorn in my side, with the wit of a fool. But you’re my thorn, my beautifully vexing pain in the ass.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He sighed, his lips twitching into a frown. It was tiring. It was almost ironic how he can write essays upon essays about various topics without breaking a sweat, but he can barely fill the page when it’s about you. Reaching to pick up the pen once more, he scribbled a few lines that would end his entry for today. 

Fate was a spider, weaving its web with cunning precision, drawing unsuspecting souls like us into its intricate design. Like two flies ensnared, we became entangled in the twisted, yet oddly rewarding, threads of destiny. The harder we fought, the more we intertwined, until I could no longer tell where your fate ended and mine began. But perhaps that wasn’t such a terrible thing. Perhaps that was the spider’s gift, not its trap. It threw me in the ocean of your love. I was dragged to the deepest depths, with no way of finding my way to the surface. I was expected to drown. And that’s what I did. I let myself be consumed by the waves of your tender touch and lose myself in the tides of your loving embrace.

[flipomatic]

A New Normal

Word Count: 2100

Summary: So Caitlyn took that moment, the one Vi so generously offered to her, to write another line on her paper before gently placing her left hand over Vi’s. A second later their fingers intertwined, fitting together exactly as they should be. Soon after Caitlyn could feel Vi’s head rest against her shoulder, nestling in place as she continued to work. For a few minutes, only the scratch of her pen broke the silence.

Vi being here like this, even late at night when she was crazy enough to get out of bed and work, was a change, a new normal that Caitlyn longed to continue.

Author Note: Spoilers for the end of Arcane. I have a lot of thoughts about the series, so I wanted to reflect on it just a bit. Kind of a character study of Caitlyn, but not deep enough to really be a proper character study.

___________________________________________________________

In theory, what was an itch? A temporary annoyance or distraction, something that could be remedied with a quick scratch. It was an urge that could easily be fixed.

But what if it couldn’t be, if the itch, like so much else, was beyond Caitlyn’s reach. Trapped behind the eye patch it lingered and waited for the worst moments to pounce.

Caitlyn opened her remaining eye slowly, blurrily looking up at the dark ceiling. Opening only one eye was still a strange feeling no matter how many times she did it. It also did nothing to relieve the burning itch beneath the surface of the other side, the desperate screaming of her skin as it slowly healed.

The doctor had told her, in no uncertain terms, that any dirt or contact with the injury could lead to an infection and even death. No matter how badly it seared at its peak—which it bloody did now—that feeling would pass. The only thing Caitlyn could do was wait.

Of course it picked the middle of the night to act up. Caitlyn turned her head to the side, towards the other occupant of her bed. Vi’s shoulders were barely visible against the dim streetlamp light from the window and even the vibrancy of her tousled hair was faded in the darkness. With each breath she took her form moved ever so slightly, rising and falling in the same repetitive motion. Caitlyn still marveled that they were both alive.

She would never forget Vi finding her in the medical tent after the battle, collapsing in her arms and sobbing for Jinx. When Vi calmed down enough to explain what happened, how Jinx had sacrificed herself to save her one last time, the weight of that action sent a chill down Caitlyn’s spine. The last time she’d talked to Jinx was at the jail cell, where Jinx asked Caitlyn to kill her. Now she was dead. News that would’ve once been a sign of victory was now the opposite. Caitlyn pulled Vi even closer, the tears from her right eye dripping onto Vi’s shoulder.

Later as she turned over a small monkey grenade head in her hand and looked through the Hextower blueprints, she’d had to reassess those feelings. The idea that Jinx could have escaped through the air ducts, a system she knew nearly as well as Caitlyn did, was a distinct possibility.

As she wondered where the ever-elusive Jinx could have gone, the itching behind her eyepatch finally began to subside. It eased from a raging torrent to a slightly more manageable thrum, still present but much more tolerable.

Caitlyn shifted her body and closed her eye once more, willing sleep to return to her. She breathed deeply, slowly, trying to push those thoughts from her mind.

They were replaced instead by other events of that day. The fighting at the gates stuck with her too, and not just because she lost her eye in the conflict. Teaming up with Mel to fight Ambessa, using her magic to finally overpower the woman who had always been and indomitable obstacle in her path. Caitlyn took all of her regrets over her past actions into the battle, wielded them with her spear. The sacrifice to take Ambessa down had been worth it.

As for others at the gate, the many who had died in the fight, Caitlyn preferred not to think about them. Despite that desire they continued to haunt her.

Opening her eye with a sigh and a grimace, she gave up on the battle with sleep. She slipped silently from the bed with practiced ease, feet moving gingerly against the cold floor. Vi didn’t so much as stir at the disturbance.

Caitlyn left her there to sleep, taking measured steps out of the bedroom and down the main stairs. She had walked this path thousands of times before, but seeing it with only one eye like this, her perspective skewed, made them feel foreign to her. That feeling stayed with her until she reached the library, where she lit a candle on the low table. Its glow illuminated the mountain of papers waiting for her.

If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work.

The first pile of papers belonged to enforcer applicants, citizens who wanted to sign up after the battle. Caitlyn had started a new recruitment drive almost immediately, trying to fill the gaps left by the battle. Of course, none of those spaces could be completely filled. Each person left their own unique shaped hole behind.

But the patrol shifts still needed to be run, and for that applicants needed to be vetted. There was nobody left to do it besides Caitlyn.

She held the papers up one by one near the candle, reading through each person’s qualifications and combat experience. Most were from the topside, with only a few from the undercity. Even though that was expected, it was still disappointing to see. Things were changing slowly.

Of all the applications, there was also notably no application from Vi. Caitlyn had wondered if she would rejoin the enforcers but hadn’t pressured her or even asked her about it. It seemed she had her answer.

One by one Caitlyn sorted them into piles to review again the next day. Some would make fine enforcers while others, well, needed a bit more experience before signing up. Integrity was part of this process too, but it couldn’t be determined just from a piece of paper. No, the next phase would be in-person interviews. When would she have time to schedule those? Not this week unless she cancelled something else. The very thought made Caitlyn’s wounded eye twinge.

Once they were sorted, she set the applications aside. Beneath them the next task waited for her. Her fingers brushed over the edge of the top paper; for a moment she indulged the thought that maybe it would be better to work on something else.

That notion quickly passed, replaced by a steeling of her jaw. This was part of her job too, part of her responsibilities and irreparable failures.

The top page contained a list of names, those assigned to patrols before the attack. With a steady hand and a frown, Caitlyn started crossing names off the list. She crossed off Loris, who had helped nurse Vi back to health after trying to save Vander. Her pen continued to move, removing so many who had fallen, all of whom she had known.

When she reached Maddie’s name she paused. The tip of her pen tapped against the paper, once, then twice, before striking her name through as well.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask Maddie, words she had not been able to form in the last few moments of Maddie’s life. When did she betray her? Had she always been on Ambessa’s side? Caitlyn hadn’t exactly returned her feelings, but had those feelings even been real? It was pointless to wonder. To ask these questions of the dead would only result in cold silence.

Caitlyn continued her work.

At the end of the page she flipped to the next, to the actual schedule for patrol. Until they hired new enforcers, the hours would need to be severely cut in order to maintain the patrol routes.

It was during this process that Caitlyn heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching down the main staircase. They were accompanied by an adorable little yawn, one clearly stifled behind a hand.

Vi announced her entrance in her typical cheesy way. “It’s too early for breakfast, but I’m always hungry for cupcakes.” She sounded a little hoarse, as if she had just woken up.

“Very funny.” Caitlyn replied dryly, not even shifting her attention away from the paper. “I’m sorry for waking you.” She wrote a new time for one of the shifts, shortening it to try and make it fit with the new schedule.

“You didn’t.”

To her left, Caitlyn could hear the sound of the other chair being dragged along the ground. It would’ve been in her peripheral vision, if she had any remaining to speak of. Instead, she turned her head to watch as Vi moved the chair next to hers. The other woman collapsed heavily into the chair, likely still quite tired from not getting a full night of sleep. The light of the candle danced entrancingly across her face.

“What are you working on?” Vi asked, reminding Caitlyn that she was in fact supposed to be working and not staring.

She gestured towards the paper. “Just redoing some patrol shifts, we have to make do with a shortage for a while.”

“Ahh, right.” Vi rested her right hand on the arm of her chair as she leaned over to squint at the paper. She only got close enough to read it before pulling back, but her hand remained practically dangling over the edge. It was an invitation.

This wasn’t the first time Vi had invited Caitlyn like this, far from it in fact. In times of passion she often acted decisively, and she could flirt with the best of them, but in quiet moments like these things were different. At first Caitlyn thought it was hesitation, but she realized over time that wasn’t it. Rather, Vi patiently waited for her to be ready.

So Caitlyn took that moment, the one Vi so generously offered to her, to write another line on her paper before gently placing her left hand over Vi’s. A second later their fingers intertwined, fitting together exactly as they should be. Soon after Caitlyn could feel Vi’s head rest against her shoulder, nestling in place as she continued to work. For a few minutes, only the scratch of her pen broke the silence.

Vi being here like this, even late at night when she was crazy enough to get out of bed and work, was a change, a new normal that Caitlyn longed to continue.

“Oh, have you heard from the construction team?” Vi asked, as if she had just remembered something.

Caitlyn paused to think for a moment. “They’re still picking leadership for it, from what I last heard.” The council was putting together a crew to work on rebuilding from the battle, both in Piltover and the undercity.

“Then I still have a chance.” Vi’s hand shifted in Caitlyn’s. “I want to help out, to rebuild things rather than punch holes in them.” The words were practically whispered against Caitlyn’s collarbone, like a prayer for only her to hear.

Wanting to rebuild, Caitlyn understood that desire completely. This patrol schedule too, this was part of rebuilding. Was it really going to work with these changes? Shouldn’t she build it differently than before? The realization struck her that what she was doing now, it wasn’t going to work. She was falling into the same habits, the same patterns as before, but things had changed.

Vi was the one who showed her that. The schedule could wait just one more day for her to come up with a better plan. Caitlyn set the paper and pen down on the stack, turning her gaze to Vi.

“There’s no way they’d turn you away.”

Vi chuckled lowly in response. “We can only hope so.” She lifted her head to meet Caitlyn’s eye, with an unmistakable glimmer in her own. “I am one of the strongest people around you know.”

“Oh yes I am quite aware.” Caitlyn smiled softly, lifting one hand to slowly caress Vi’s cheek. She leaned in with the gesture, brushing their foreheads together. So many words lingered behind her lips, more thanks than she would ever be able to say, pleas to stay together forever, and three simple words of love that pressed desperately against her teeth.

Though those words clamored for release, it was too soon, too fresh. Just as Vi waited for her, Caitlyn waited patiently for Vi too.

In silence, Caitlyn closed the remaining distance between their lips. The kiss was short and sweet, intimate and yet just barely enough.

“Are you ready to go back to bed?” Caitlyn whispered as she pulled back.

“Are you?”

Caitlyn nodded and stood, pulling Vi with her to her feet. They blew out the candle and retreated together up the familiar steps, seen from this new and unfamiliar angle.

As Caitlyn settled back in bed with Vi, her injured eye still itched. Her brain still ran amok with thoughts of before and the battle and especially how to adapt to all of the changes ahead.

Caitlyn watched as Vi’s breathing evened out, her own eye sliding shut as she drifted towards slumber. Whatever the world threw at her, she knew she would face it with Vi at her side.

[rising-psyche]

"Without knowing why, he will wonder and invent. His ability to deal with his emotional reactions to trauma and threat when he is alone is still very uncertain, and his understanding of it, of his body, of how it works and what can be done with it, is minuscule. "His knowledge of his own physiology and anatomy is scanty and is mixed with strange speculations about the inside of his body". Jeff Dahmer's own imaginings about the inside of people's bodies began with the hernia operation and the intrusion into his own. The atmosphere in the hospital cannot help but be frightening, because it is so strange. Add to this the anxiety of the parents and the prodding of strange men, the sense that something terrible, unknown and unspoken, is about to happen, and the imperative that in the face of all this he must be passive and compliant, and the child is overwhelmed. "He has fantasies about what has happened to him that far exceed the actual facts," writes a learned pediatrician, and he is even more convinced that "the injury will continue to grow and make him totally different from anyone else in the world." Both of these observations seem to apply with peculiar accuracy to the case of Jeff Dahmer. And there is a third, slightly frightening in its prophetic implications: "He may open up the fear by pretending that he is performing the operation on another child." The memory of the fear and fantasies that preceded the operation may then be repressed, with the result that the unconscious memories begin to infect the growing child's perceptions of the world and people, and each new experience carries the threat of a repetition of the old. This is a heavily concealed reaction, of course; one would not suggest that Dahmer thought that everyone he met was a surgeon in disguise, but since he never wanted to see or be touched by that surgeon again, he would assume that everyone was implicitly dangerous — his responses would be profoundly influenced by the experience. Emotional shock may not be expressed openly for some time... Just as physical shock can result in death, emotional shock can result in a lifetime of misery. It is often very difficult to see the connections between an adult’s unusual behavior and the surgery he underwent as a child, but in Dahmer’s case the path from cause to effect is surprisingly clear. The story of a four-year-old boy who underwent a meatotomy (to widen the urethral opening) without anesthesia shows some parallels. From then on, his play consisted of cutting people and cutting off his own face, hands, and penis, all clearly stemming from the fear of castration that the operation generated. Jeff Dahmer’s operation involved opening his abdomen with very deep incisions, feeling inside, exploring inside himself, at a time when his ability to rely on his mother, with his own insecurities and nervousness, was already in jeopardy. He later asked her if his penis had been removed (so he told Dr. Becker), and the postoperative pain would be exactly as if it had been. The fear of castration is not only, or even primarily, sexual, and here we must come to the most revealing inference. When Dahmer was cut open by the surgeon, in his mind he had lost control of his own body once and for all, and his crimes in adulthood were a belated attempt to reassert himself and regain control. They expressed a desperate desire to regain that power which, unconsciously, he thought the surgeon's scalpel had removed". (The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer, Brian Masters)

Note: Dahmer had double hernia surgery shortly before his 4th birthday. Jeff has been described more than once as a happy and outgoing child before the surgery performed by his parents, lending credit to the argument that this episode was quite traumatic and turned him into a quiet and melancholic child. In his crimes, Jeffrey also opened up to his victims and was always curious to know what they were like on the inside, possibly recreating the scenario of his childhood with other people. He felt invaded and powerless, something that continued for most of his life as he became a person without reaction to most situations. This operation changed everything, along with other factors.

[morehotch]

[8:02 PM]

when aaron walks into your shared apartment, you’re for once thankful that jack is at jess’s for the night. you immediately stand up, chest tightening just looking at his bloody lip, the small scratches on his cheeks and forehead, and bandaged ear. he looks entirely exhausted and hurting; watching him makes your heart sink and breath hitch. 

aaron warned you that he was a little ‘banged up’ from the unsub when they confronted him; he called you from the jet before they took off, detailing how he and morgan went in to successfully save the unsub’s last victim before he set off one last bomb. still, no words could prepare you for how you feel when he walks in the door. you never feel okay seeing him after a case; always on some level mentally and physically exhausted- but this. 

you suck in a deep breath, tears instantly welling up in your eyes as aaron’s brows furrow and his frown deepens. you can immediately tell he feels bad for upsetting you and you hate it. you hate everything about him coming home so broken and exhausted yet still so determined to be strong for you. 

��honey,” aaron starts, loosening his tie and walking towards you, “i’m okay, i promise.”

you stand to hug him carefully, thumbing over his cheek that doesn’t have a bandage on it. “you need some new bandages and ice,” you decide softly. 

“you don’t have to do that,” he whispers but it’s not convincing as you shake your head adamantly. “i want to. let me help you, please.”

aaron doesn’t say anything, only nodding, as you get up and he follows you into the bathroom. you pull things out of the first aid kit you keep tucked away in the bathroom. usually it was reserved for jack’s soccer games and other unpredictable kid activities but times like these it was always helpful too. 

“stay still,” you mutter and aaron immediately obliges. he looks up at you through hooded eyes that gaze at you with so much admiration that you’re momentarily distracted by their intensity. 

just by your face alone, aaron must be able to tell you don’t think he’s okay. 

“i already got cleared by the medic at the scene, honey.” his voice is thick but he’s not fighting you. you can tell he feels guilty. 

the way he says it so casually and the way his eyes contain such a raw form of honesty make you look away momentarily, knowing how easily convinced you are by him.

“i don’t care.” you say it with such sternness that aaron doesn’t bother arguing with you anymore as you begin to refocus on re-bandaging his ear. “i still want to take care of you,” you whisper, disinfecting his cuts and wiping the excess blood from his face.

but the further you examine his injuries, the more concerned you become. “you need ice for the swelling, they didn’t give you ice? maybe you should call your doctor tomorrow for your ear, especially because of your injury a few years ago.” you hear yourself ramble frantically, trying not to get worked up as you grasp tightly onto his cold hand, looking around your bathroom for anything to soothe his irritated skin.

“it’s okay,” aaron looks up, managing a reassuring smile and searching your eyes in an attempt to ground you.

“no, no it’s not,” you say, pouting, “you can’t come back to me all bloody and bruised.” you suck in a deep breath as your thoughts overwhelms you entirely, “i don’t like it.” you try to wipe your watering eyes and stop your fumbling lip. you turn away from him to face the sink, hating how weak you feel when aaron is always so incredibly strong for you.  

he looks up at you and feels bad. aaron doesn’t say anything, what can he say? he has always been scared, terrified, that you would slowly grow tired of the repetitive wounds, days without seeing him, and his constant, demanding work.

he fears someday you’ll decide that you’re tired of all the baggage that comes with him; the pain and suffering he brought home weekly or all the nights you’ve spent staying up waiting, worried, and scared. aaron wouldn’t blame you if you were tired of all of it.

but you never are. you’re different from anything aaron has ever seen or experienced. your touches are delicate and careful, roaming his body softly and gently, like no one else ever has. you take care of him and listen. you understand and always try to understand. you love jack, love him, and it’s so encompassing and beautiful that aaron hates when you have to see him like this. 

you can easily tell what he’s thinking about, the guilt that he permanently carries on his shoulders. “i’m not leaving,” you say quietly, gripping his chin carefully and urging him to look up at you. you smooth a hand over his shoulder, still covered by his dress shirt. 

“i know,” he whispers hoarsely.

“i want you to feel extra sure then,” you smile, letting his arms snake around your hips to pull you closer as his head buries into your leg, covered by your soft pajama pants.  

it’s silent for a few moments and aaron shows no signs of moving, head still resting on your hip, eyes glued to your bathroom counter; your toothbrushes in a cup together. the shampoo you always use that smells like mango, your lives so perfectly intertwined together. 

you say after a moment of silence, continuing. “i think you need a reminder sometimes,” you whisper, hand running through his hair. you toss the old bandage in the trash, bending to kiss the crown of his head, “i’ll always stay because i love you.” 

and aaron entirely believes you. 

[songbirdsanctuary]

Through the Cracks

Warnings: Panic attack, minor injury's

Word count: 2,133

Grian lay curled up on the cold, stone floor of his base, shivering despite the warmth of his scarlet jumper. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, remnants of the panic attack that had torn through him only moments ago. They’d been happening more often lately, creeping up on him like a shadow he couldn’t escape. The weight of it sat heavily on his chest, but it was fine. He was fine. That’s what he kept telling himself, over and over, as if repetition would somehow make it true.

So what if the nightmares came almost every night now, vivid and inescapable? He’d wake up drenched in sweat, his heart hammering like it was trying to break free from his chest. But he always shook it off, forcing himself to believe that it didn’t matter. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. It was fine.

Why should he care if the panic attacks left him feeling drained and raw, like his nerves were exposed to the open air? He told himself they didn’t matter, that they would pass like they always did. He was used to this, used to the sudden terror that made it feel like the walls were closing in, used to the way his skin crawled with the phantom sensation of hands touching him where they never should have been.

That feeling never went away, no matter how many times he tried to shake it off. It lingered like a ghost, a constant reminder of a violation he couldn’t forget. But that was just his life now. He’d learned to live with it, to bury it deep enough that no one could see. He was used to it. It was fine.

He barely noticed the broken mug beneath him until he shifted slightly, and the sharp shards dug into his skin through his jumper. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Or maybe he was just too numb to feel it. The warmth of his own blood seeped into the fabric, staining the red a darker shade, but he didn’t care. Not about the pain, not about the mess, not about anything.

All he could do was curl up tighter, trying to make himself as small as possible, as if disappearing might make everything stop. But the panic still lingered, just beneath the surface, waiting for its next chance to pull him under.

He couldn’t really hear anything. The world was muffled, distant, like he was underwater. He didn’t hear his cat, Maui, meow softly and sniff curiously at his side. He didn’t hear the gentle padding of paws retreating in concern. He didn’t even hear the creak of the door as it opened or the sound of approaching footsteps, each one growing louder, more insistent. All of that faded into the background, swallowed by the chaos in his mind.

But the voice cut through the fog.

"Grian!?"

The sudden loudness made his head throb, piercing through the haze like a bolt of lightning. The sound was sharp, too sharp, and his body flinched involuntarily. His ears rang from the volume, and before he could process anything, a hand pressed down on his shoulder.

The touch wasn’t harsh, but to Grian, it felt like fire. His eyes flew open, wide and wild with fear. He couldn’t breathe, his mind went blank. He had haphephobia—the fear of being touched. It wasn’t always debilitating, at least not when he had time to prepare himself. If he knew someone was going to touch him, he could brace for it, let the anxiety roll over him and fade. But the unexpected touch—it was unbearable. It sent his entire nervous system into overdrive.

A scream ripped out of his throat before he even realized he was making a sound, his hands clawing at the floor as he scrambled backward, trying to get away from the touch, away from the sensation burning through him.

“Grian?” The voice was softer now, but still there. “Hey, it’s okay...”

He barely registered the words before he felt arms wrap around him, pulling him into a hug. They were trying to help, trying to ground him, but it only made things worse. Panic flooded him like a tidal wave, crashing down with suffocating force.

“STOP!! PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME!”

The hands let go instantly, and he collapsed to the floor, curling into himself, shaking uncontrollably. His mind was a whirlwind of terror and confusion, every nerve on high alert, screaming for safety, for space. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, trying to block out everything, willing the world to disappear.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, curled up and trembling, but slowly, painfully, the panic began to ebb. His breathing, once ragged and shallow, steadied into something more even, though his body still shook with leftover tremors. His muscles ached from the tension. His skin felt too tight, raw and exposed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he opened his tear-soaked eyes. The world came back into focus in blurry fragments. The floor, the scattered shards of the broken mug, and then, just beside him, crouched low and looking terrified, was Gem. She didn’t speak, but the worry and fear in her wide eyes said enough.

“Grian? Are you okay?” Gem asked gently, her voice soft and tentative, almost like she was afraid of scaring him further. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know touching you would cause that…”

For a moment, Grian said nothing. His heart was still racing, his mind still clouded with the echoes of panic. Slowly, he forced himself to rise to his feet, though his legs felt like jelly beneath him. Every movement felt heavy, like he was wading through thick fog.

“Grian?” Gem asked again, concern lacing her voice as she stood up beside him.

“I’m f-fine,” Grian mumbled, his voice hoarse and strained from the screaming. He tried to make it sound convincing, but the quiver in his words betrayed him. He wasn’t fine, not even close, but he had to be. He had to tell himself that he was. It was fine. Everything was fine.

The past didn’t hurt anymore. It couldn’t. What did she even have to be worried about? It was just a little panic attack. It wasn’t as if the memories still had claws in him. He was over it—he had to be. He didn’t need to drag her into that darkness, didn’t need to burden her with the weight of his past. She didn’t even know about it, so why complicate things?

“You aren’t fine…” Gem’s voice was soft, almost pleading, as she bent down and began picking up the larger pieces of the broken mug, carefully dropping them into the trash bin. “Please, talk to me.”

Grian’s throat tightened, an irritated hiss escaping before he could stop it. “It’s fine!” The words came out sharper than he intended, stinging his throat just like the cuts on his skin stung with every small movement. He clenched his fists, the shards of glass still littering the floor seeming to mock his fragile composure.

Gem frowned, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes drifted to the blood staining his jumper and the torn fabric where the glass had cut through. “Let me at least clean those cuts…”

Grian instinctively drew his wings closer to his body, folding them protectively around himself as if they could shield him from the world. His feathers quivered slightly, still on edge. The thought of anyone’s hands on him, even for something as innocent as cleaning his wounds, made his stomach churn with nausea. His skin crawled just imagining it, like tiny invisible needles pricking at him.

“I can do it myself,” he insisted, his voice tight and defensive. His wings bristled with tension, and his eyes flickered with a hint of panic. Even though he knew she meant well, the idea of letting someone touch him again, even to help, made him want to bolt from the room, to put as much distance between himself and anyone else as possible.

Gem paused, her expression a mixture of hurt and worry. She wanted to help—he could see that—but she also respected his boundaries. With a small sigh, she nodded, stepping back to give him space.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But if you need anything… I’m here.”

Grian didn’t respond, too lost in his own mind. His cuts stung fiercely, but that pain was easier to deal with than the roiling anxiety inside him. He kept his wings tightly folded, trying to convince himself that he didn’t need help, that he was fine—just like he always told himself. But deep down, even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, a small part of him wondered if he’d ever be fine again.

Gem had left, and Grian sat quietly in the dim light of his base, carefully cleaning his wounds. The antiseptic stung, but it was a manageable pain—something he could control. He wrapped the cuts with a piece of clean cloth, his hands trembling slightly, though whether from exhaustion or lingering anxiety, he couldn’t tell. He let out a shaky breath, trying to calm himself down. He didn’t need help. He didn’t.

But as the silence settled around him, the guilt crept in. He felt bad for pushing Gem away. She had only wanted to help, and instead of accepting it, he’d snapped at her. But he didn’t need her help. He didn’t need anyone’s help, right? He could handle it all himself, just like he always did—

The door creaked open again, pulling Grian from his thoughts. He looked up just as Gem stepped in, this time with Mumbo by her side. His heart gave a small lurch at the sight of him.

“Grian?” Mumbo’s voice was soft, filled with gentle concern, as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

Grian’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move, but his eyes tracked Mumbo’s every step, his body tensing slightly out of reflex. Then he saw Mumbo’s hand reach out, not too fast, not too forcefully, just a quiet offer of comfort. Grian felt the tightness in his chest loosen just a fraction, and with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gave Mumbo permission to touch him.

Mumbo moved carefully, pulling Grian into a soft embrace, his arms wrapping around him in a way that was firm enough to offer comfort but never too tight, never suffocating. It was gentle, safe. Grian relaxed into it, his body melting against Mumbo’s warmth as if he could hide from the world for just a moment.

And then the floodgates broke.

The tears came slowly at first, warm and wet against Mumbo’s neck, but before long, Grian was crying in earnest. His sobs were muffled by the fabric of Mumbo’s shirt, his body trembling with each ragged breath. He pressed his face deeper into the crook of Mumbo’s neck, clutching at him as though letting go might shatter him completely. Mumbo’s arms tightened around him, still gentle but unwavering, grounding him in the present, offering a steadying force against the storm of emotion that had overtaken him.

Mumbo was one of the few people Grian had confided in about his past, about the things that still haunted him late at night. And when it weighed too heavily on him, Mumbo was always the first to come to his side, to offer comfort without needing to ask. The silent understanding between them meant everything in moments like this.

Grian had forgotten Gem was still there, standing quietly off to the side, her presence neither intrusive nor impatient. She watched, her expression soft with empathy, but she didn’t speak. This moment wasn’t for her. It was for Grian and Mumbo. She understood that.

And as Grian sobbed uncontrollably into Mumbo’s shoulder, all the sleepless nights, the panic attacks, the constant fear, and the memories he couldn’t shake came crashing down on him at once. The weight of everything pressed into him, suffocating, drowning him in a sea of overwhelming emotions. But in Mumbo’s arms, he let it all out—finally allowed himself to fall apart, knowing that he wouldn’t be judged for it.

Mumbo held him through it all, whispering quiet reassurances, his hand gently rubbing soothing circles on Grian’s back. The room was filled with the sound of Grian’s sobs, the heavy, ragged breathing as he let everything he’d been bottling up spill out in front of the only person he trusted enough to see him like this.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Grian allowed himself to feel vulnerable, to stop pretending he was fine when he wasn’t. The weight was still there, but it was shared now, held up by someone who cared enough to carry it with him.

[snezus-christ-risen]

Insult to Injury

Agatha/Rio - 4.1k words - Illness (Agatha)

Debuting what I hope is the first of many AAA fanfics. I had so much fun writing these two and I’ll probably do a second part to this story. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I’ve enjoyed reading all of the fantastic work ya’ll have been putting out! It’s a little messy and there are some NSFW elements. Minors DNI.

~~~

There was something off about the air on that otherwise fresh spring day. It was driving Rio to madness, not knowing what it was or why it was affecting her so strongly. All she knew was that some primal heat drove her forward through the woods, the smell growing stronger with every step she took towards the cottage that stood just beyond the edge of the forest. After spending days apart from her lover, excitement fluttered in her chest at the thought of what state she might find her in upon their reunion. Nevertheless, Rio chose to remain on the scenic route, choosing anticipation over the instant gratification that came with ripping open the fabric of reality and using it as a shortcut.

After a few more steps the scent of sickness snapped into focus, honeyed and intoxicating like an aged brandy. Absent was the heady tang of bloodshed (boo) or the cloying rot of old age; it was something altogether unique and pleasant, drawing her towards the dwelling the same way instinct compelled a bee to the flower fields. Rio took a moment, upon reaching the front door, to shake her body like a dog, hoping to dispel some of the giddiness that had built up during her walk.

Take it easy, she told herself. She will be delicate.

Occasionally Rio needed to remind herself that even at her healthiest, and regardless of her powers, Agatha was still flesh and bone. Just thinking about the delicate nature of her mortal lover was getting her all worked up again, which was the opposite of what she was trying to accomplish. Taking a deep breath, Rio let it out slowly and knocked on the door. She surmised, from the lack of response, that the occupant within was unconscious. Certainly not dead; she would have known if that were the case. Directing a breeze to push the door open, she stepped inside.

There was a bit of a chill in the air, and Rio soon saw why; one of the windows was half-opened, its tattered curtains rippling in the breeze. Though it was technically spring, they had just had a snowfall last week, and the day outside was brisk. Buzzing with anticipation (and a little annoyance at the window situation), Rio crept across the threshold with the quiet energy of an owl readying its talons for a mouse.

She could see a figure sprawled across the bed. Rio closed the space between the doorway and the bedside in just a few strides, eager to investigate the scene. Agatha lay there in a tangle of damp sheets and disheveled hair, breathing noisily through parted lips. Her nose was tinged red and glistening around the nostrils, the skin chapped from rough and repetitive contact. Her skin, flushed pink with fever, peeked through the bindings of her bedding, inviting Rio to touch. But she wouldn’t… not yet…

Grinning devilishly, Rio produced a bushel of baby’s breath in her upturned palm. Her smile faded when she remembered that Agatha was allergic; she didn’t want to kill the woman, at least not before she could have some fun with her. She waved the little white flowers out through the open window before conjuring up an unassuming yarrow. Giving her newest creation an once-over, she identified the perfect leaf… there… and plucked it. It looked tickly enough to get the job done without triggering an allergic reaction. Agatha would already be miserable about taking ill, without the added burden of having to contend with her allergies. Rio didn’t see the point of adding insult to injury.

Twirling the leaf between her thumb and forefinger, she tested it along a naked stretch of thigh. Her leg hairs rose in response to the stimulation, a reminder that, as much as Rio craved her death, there was so much she enjoyed about the complex simplicity of her flesh - its heat, its softness, the way it reacted whenever she touched it. She continued dragging the leaf along Agatha’s leg, scaling over a twisted hump of blanket before sliding down the exposed curve of her hip. After working her way up inch by inch, over sections of bedsheets and skin, Rio finally settled the frond against Agatha’s throat like a knife.

It was here that she finally stirred, her hand moving just enough to call Rio’s attention to the lace handkerchief she was clutching like a security blanket. Her eyes lit up at this delightful observation as she lifted the leaf from her skin, holding completely still until Agatha settled again with a sigh. Then Rio sat down on the edge of the bed, moving slowly to avoid disturbing her. Disturbing her was still on the agenda, of course, but for that she had something more fun in mind. Leaning in with the concentration of an artist putting the finishing touches on her work, Rio swept the tip of the leaf up the length of Agatha’s nose and back down again. As soon as she got to the reddened rims of her nostrils they twitched, the feather-light touch tickling just enough to make Agatha scrunch her nose. She made a weak attempt to swat away the source of her irritation, brow furrowing as she turned her face into her pillow.

Rio was considering her next course of action when Agatha lifted her head slightly, eyes still closed, lips parted and quivering, and eyebrows raised expectantly. Mesmerized, she watched as Agatha panted softly before plunging her face back into the pillow. The bed rocked gently as she muffled two sneezes - “ih’TSHh!-h’TSHhh’uh” - followed by a long, congested moan.

It was Rio’s laughter, more than the sneezing, that boosted Agatha past the threshold of semi-consciousness. She was still working on opening her eyes all the way, but had the wherewithal to bring her handkerchief up to cover her nose when she turned to look up at Rio. The latter flashed her a cunning grin as she actively fought against the urge to straddle her.

“Bless you,” she purred, tapping her forehead with the tip of the leaf. “What do you have brewing in here?”

She would have stroked it down the length of her nose again if Agatha didn’t grab it immediately, her reflexes surprisingly sharp for someone still waking up in a fever haze. They both held onto it for a moment before Rio released it, hands and eyebrows raised in mock surrender. Agatha immediately tossed it aside, but it didn’t go far, landing on the edge of the bed next to Rio, who brushed it onto the floor. After a brief and unsuccessful struggle to sit up, Agatha settled for propping herself against her pillows, where she proceeded to stare at Rio in a state of mild delirium.

“I think I have a fever,” she said, unexpectedly forthcoming.

Rio opened her mouth in a silent gasp, feigning surprise. Leaning forward, she cupped one hand against Agatha’s cheek, using the other to gently pry her hand away from her nose. With the handkerchief out of the way, she could inspect it to her satisfaction. How much abuse had it taken before she arrived? It seemed to be running relentlessly, the skin around her nostrils painfully raw from all the wiping. Agatha was always so rough with her nose, like she was punishing it for daring to act according to its nature. More than happy to provide the tender loving care it was missing, Rio gave it a kiss before using the pad of her thumb to gently swipe the mess from her upper lip. Agatha shivered as she squinted up at her in silent indignation, too lethargic to object to her fussing.

“My love,” Rio cooed, unable to mask her delight. “You’ve caught a chill.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Agatha deadpanned, wincing as her voice grated against her throat.

“I can’t help it,” she said, smirking when Agatha jerked to the side to cough before burying her nose in her handkerchief. “Just look at you, you’re pathetic. It’s beautiful.”

Agatha stopped blowing her nose to glare at her. She started to say something but quickly changed course, the catch in her breath and her crumpling expression announcing a more pressing need. It was terrible timing, having just been called pathetic; her ego didn’t want her to back down without a fight, but Agatha knew she didn’t stand a chance against this tickle. Waving her handkerchief like a flag of surrender, she brought it back to her face just in time to smother an itchy-sounding “hiih‘ISHHhyoo!”

Rio watched hungrily as her chest rose and fell, attending to every little snag and pitch change in her breath. Agatha had the tendency to sneeze in pairs, but sometimes the second one needed a little more time to come to fruition, which drove both of them crazy in different ways. When she finally managed to draw a solid breath she held it, nostrils flickering expectantly, before releasing it in an aggravated huff. Rio hummed with sympathy, knowing how much she hated losing a sneeze once it got started. Agatha finished blowing her nose, the crackling rush of loosened congestion quickly giving way to airy, unproductive blows. When she tried to breathe through her nose again, Rio could hear the air squeaking as it struggled through inflamed passageways. Rising from the bed, she padded over to the kitchen, stopping to make a show of closing the open window along the way.

“Where are you going?” came Agatha’s voice, meek and plaintive, from behind her.

“Not far,” she said, infuriatingly vague.

Agatha sank back against her pillows, too tired to pry any further, and watched with drowsy indifference as Rio staged a hostile takeover of her kitchen. Filling the kettle with water, Rio placed it on the trivet before surveying the items on the shelves. She trailed her nails along a row of jars as she contemplated her selection, and every now and then she would make a comment and laugh to herself. When she found what she needed she sat down at the table to prepare her ingredients. Periodically she found her gaze wandering over to check on Agatha, who was drifting in and out of sleep.

As soon as the kettle began whistling Rio removed it from the stove, pouring the water over the satchel of fresh herbs and letting it steep. Agatha was snoring steadily now, which helped Rio to feel a little less guilty about waking her up earlier. She got so distracted watching her that she almost forgot about the concoction cooling on the counter. Rio knew it would be bitter, so she added a generous amount of honey to help with the taste. She took a sip before recoiling with a full-bodied shudder; it was definitely sweet enough, but it was also a whole bunch of other things that Agatha was going to hate.

Rio was finishing up in the kitchen when Agatha woke up again, looking confused as she wiped her mouth, then her nose with the back of her hand. She had managed to glean enough energy from her short nap to sit upright, but that was as far as her body would allow her to go. Her sinuses adjusted quickly to the change in altitude, congestion softening and shifting and - “h’heh!” - tickling. Grabbing a clean handkerchief from the nightstand, Agatha tried to nip it in the bud with a series of forceful blows. While it left her feeling woozy, it also managed to scratch at the deep, quivering itch in the center of her face, reducing it to a mild annoyance. Just in time for her other mild annoyance to return.

“What do you have there?” she asked as Rio strolled over, sucking honey off her fingers one by one.

“Poison.” She gave her most menacing grin, short of showing her true face. “To put you out of your misery.”

She handed the cup to Agatha with a wink, her smile softening as she rejoined her on the bed. Agatha stared into the murky amber contents of her cup before glancing back up at Rio, expression unsure. Snorting out a laugh, Rio gave her a nod of encouragement.

“Drink,” she insisted. “It shouldn’t kill you, but it might help you feel better. I make no guarantees either way.”

Agatha hesitated before bringing the cup to her lips, testing the temperature of the liquid. Finding it suitable, she took a sip, closing her eyes tightly and screwing up her face as she swallowed. Not only was her throat raw, but the drink had a pungent, peppery aftertaste that made her sinuses prickle. Shaking her head, she tried to return the cup, but Rio resisted, folding her arms and leaving Agatha with no choice but to hold it.

“I know, it’s awful,” Rio sympathized, misreading the situation. “But I think it might help with the-”

“Would you just t-take it, please…”

As soon as Agatha spoke, Rio realized her mistake. Her voice only ever sounded that breathy and desperate for two reasons, and Rio was almost certain she could rule out one of them. Moving quickly, she took the cup from Agatha, who managed a wobbly look of gratitude before steepling her hands over her nose. Her shoulders scrunched up with the first palm-drenching release and Rio shivered, finding herself, as she often did, envious of her lover’s hands.

“hih’tCHSHh!-u… h’hiih!” The tickle teased her for a bit, making her breath flutter indecisively, before culminating in a spraying conclusion. “hihh’YSHHhhieu!”

With how messy those sneezes had been, Agatha was in no hurry to lower her hands. She kept them locked in place, attempting to rein in the persistent flow of congestion with slow, careful sniffles as she cast about for a handkerchief. Spotting the lacy white square crumbled up between the bedsheets, she reached for it, keeping one hand cupped protectively over her nose. Rio beat her to it, seizing the handkerchief with a victorious cackle.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, dangling it in front of Agatha, just out of reach. “Bit of a mess on your hands?”

Rio knew she was poking the bruises of an already wounded ego, but it didn’t stop her from looking aggrieved when Agatha yanked the handkerchief from her hand. Clutching at her nose through the fabric, Agatha leaned forward to press her other hand against her lover’s inner thigh. Rio gasped at the unexpected pressure, then froze as Agatha dragged it down her leg, wiping off the fluids that coated her hand.

“Consolation prize,” she said, giving Rio a knowing look. “I don’t want you feeling left out.”

Then she started blowing her nose, loudly, using so much force that she had to secure the handkerchief in place with both hands. It was a classic Agatha move, an obnoxious attempt to secure the last word, but for once, Rio was speechless. Not only was she flustered, but there were so many distractions vying for her attention, scents and sounds and sensations swirling around her like leaves in an autumn breeze. Agatha was right - she was jealous, longing to switch places with the cloth that covered her mouth and nose. Rio closed her eyes, held her breath, and stroked her own leg, probing at the slightly damp spots in the fabric as she tried (and failed) to ground herself.

When she opened her eyes again, it was because Agatha sniffled and it sounded so close. There she was, taking her cup back from Rio with the dexterity of a natural thief, her careful efforts to avoid detection thwarted by her own reflexes. When she caught Rio watching her she smiled coyly, lifting the cup in a mock toast instead of pitching its contents to the floor as she had originally planned. Then she placed it amongst the clutter on the bedside table, where it would most likely sit, forgotten, for a while.

Before Rio could voice her disapproval Agatha was intercepting her lips, slamming against her body like a wall of pure heat. She needed a moment to process this pleasant surprise, but once she found her bearings Rio kissed back, threading her fingers through dark tresses and using them to tug Agatha closer. Hands that had known nothing but restraint since she first arrived were free to wander the fevered landscape of her body. It was a bit distracting how much skinnier Agatha felt since the last time they touched like this. How long had she been unwell for? Had she been eating enough — or at all? Questions she wished she had asked when she first arrived kept popping into her head, making it difficult to focus on the task at hand.

Whatever surge of energy compelled Agatha into her arms seemed to dissolve as quickly as it came. Unfortunately, being sick didn’t make her any less stubborn. She refused to listen to what her body was trying to tell her, choosing instead to push through the discomfort. Even with the blankets and their combined body heat Agatha couldn’t stop shivering, and she kept whirling away to cough, catch her breath, or swipe impatiently at her nose. Rio always welcomed her lips back with enthusiasm, but she was starting to question her ability to handle what this was building towards. Things between them had the tendency to burn out of control pretty quickly, and even if they were capable of practicing restraint, neither of them wanted to. As much as she wanted to keep going, Rio decided it was time to call a moratorium on their activities after the next interruption.

It happened sooner than she hoped, but not as soon as she expected. Agatha gradually disengaged from the kiss, turning away not with a flourish like all the other times but with slow, hazy uncertainty. One of her hands migrated up Rio’s body, reemerging from her clothing to hover near her nose. Rio removed her other hand from the side of her face and held it as if it were a small, injured animal, rubbing her thumb against her palm as she watched and waited. The handkerchiefs were lost to the bed sheets again, but Rio couldn’t tear her focus away long enough to look for one, and Agatha didn’t even bother trying. She was starting to resent her growing reliance on them, and while her hand was hardly a suitable alternative, she was a few degrees Fahrenheit past the point of caring.

The first sneeze tore out of her - “ET’SHhhiew!” - with unexpected force, carrying with it the weight of her building frustration. It left her hand soaked and her head reeling, and in pursuit of something solid to hold onto she reached instinctively for Rio. Agatha turned into her shoulder with a jagged inhale, releasing a shamelessly desperate “ihy’EESHhew!” that sent shivers through her body.

“Salud,” Rio said, somehow sounding both impressed and apologetic as Agatha slumped back against the headboard in a daze. She didn’t get sick in the same way mortals did, so while she found the process captivating (and arousing), it was hard not to experience something akin to survivor’s guilt in situations like this. “You know, sweetheart, we don’t have to keep going.”

Agatha didn’t respond, nor did she tend to her nose right away, choosing instead to let it trickle down to her lips while she waited for the dizziness to pass. Finally managing to make herself useful, Rio fished a clean handkerchief out of the sea of miscellaneous items on the nightstand. She used it to pat gingerly at the mess on her upper lip, cleaning up what she could before Agatha took over control of the cloth. As always, her touch was a lot rougher, impatient even, and she gave her nose a hasty blow before tossing the handkerchief aside. Despite her obvious misery, or perhaps because of it, she was determined to pick up from where they left off. When she leaned back in for a kiss, Rio stopped her, pressing her hand to her chest with a gentle look. Agatha sat back, looking confused and a little hurt; it was rare for Rio to rebuff her advances.

“What do you say we take a break and get you into some warm clothing, hm?” Rio suggested, softly stroking the hair that spilled over her shoulders. “Maybe have a bath, or something to eat?”

Though Agatha chose not to answer, the increasingly complex mosaic of emotions on her face said plenty. Rio realized, too late, that she failed to explain the reasoning for her rejection. She didn’t want Agatha getting the wrong idea and thinking she was disgusted by her symptoms. It wasn’t that Rio kept her interests a secret; even if she hadn’t stated them explicitly and repeatedly, she would have thought the way she clung to Agatha during allergy season or whenever she got sick spoke volumes. While it wasn’t her intention, her dedication to transparency only seemed to make Agatha feel more self-conscious. She valued her power and control, so to willingly surrender both in order to make a mess of herself in front of her girlfriend was something she was still getting used to. Hoping to prove just how unbothered she was, Rio leaned in to give her a kiss, but it landed on her cheek as Agatha turned her head, redirecting a tearful glare meant for Rio towards the nightstand.

“Sweetheart,” Rio sighed. “Please don’t be like that. You know how much I want this - want you, but my love… you’re aren’t well. I don’t want to hurt you while you’re all–”

“Pathetic?” Agatha spat, still refusing to look at her.

“… sick,” she finished, frowning. “Agatha, you are burning up with fever, and I don’t think this isn’t helping.”

“Oh, please.” The other witch waved dismissively before folding her arms across her chest. “You know I run hot.”

“Not this hot,” Rio said, but Agatha was making it clear through her increasingly defensive body language that she was finished with this conversation. Rio sighed, anticipating more resistance as she returned to the topic of dinner. “Sick or not, you still need to eat. Do you have an appetite for anything besides me?”

She hoped the joke would lighten the tension, but if the hard set of her jaw was any indication, Agatha was not amused. An uncomfortable mixture of emotions was simmering just below the surface, but instead of taking time to process them she defaulted to anger, her comfort zone. She turned to glower at Rio, who could tell from the look in her eyes that she was about to say something hurtful.

“Did you come here to fuck me or take care of me?” she asked, her venomous tone undercut by the tremor in her voice. “Because you’re doing a terrible job of both.”

Rio felt her heart sink, but tried her best not to show it. Given how miserable Agatha was feeling, she was trying to be understanding, but her patience was starting to wane. Her gaze flickered over to the drink she had made, cold and abandoned on the nightstand, as she considered her next move. She could retaliate verbally, but she was afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she opened it. She could just fucking leave, if that was how the ungrateful witch felt - but she knew it wasn’t, not really. Besides, Rio didn’t want to leave. What she wanted was to stay and take care of her ill (and ill-tempered) girlfriend, but she decided that first she would go for a walk. Whatever was happening between them right now felt heavy and menacing and charged, like the air before a thunderstorm, and Rio feared what might happen if they stayed in the same space together for much longer.

It all dissipated in a dizzying rush the moment she stood up and started walking towards the door. She barely made it three steps before Agatha was scrambling to disentangle herself from her blankets.

“Wait!” she squeaked, stumbling out of bed to trail Rio in a misty-eyed panic. “I didn’t mean it, my love. Please, don’t go.”

It was the genuine desperation in her voice that made Rio turn around, just in time to catch Agatha as her legs gave out. Rio held her in a secure embrace, supporting her full weight until she stopped shaking. Then she half-carried her back to the bed, peppering Agatha with soft kisses and words of reassurance as she helped her lie back down. As soon as Rio crawled into bed beside her Agatha burrowed into her chest, her tears seeping through her clothing as they started flowing in earnest. Every now and then she would whimper something, but with her voice failing and her congestion worsening by the minute, Rio could only guess at what she was saying and respond accordingly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rio said, holding Agatha close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[watatsumiis]

Patching You Up series (Capitano Edition)

(looks at all the other series I want/need to write more for)

(looks away)

(starts writing a new one)

Content: Capitano helps out a mildly injured reader! Gender neutral, injury is scraped knees and hands from tripping over. Light mentions of wounds, blood, etc. Reader is described as physically smaller than Capitano simply because he's a bear of a man. Reader and Capitano have an established relationship (can be read as platonic, romantic or anything in between!)

Capitano warned you, he really did. He'd informed you that the ground outside was slippery, that you should be careful and not run, but you simply couldn't help yourself upon spotting something that piqued your interest a few paces off the path.

Now, here you are, reeling as you recover from the shock of having slipped over. The pain hasn't quite begun to set in just yet, but you can see the rough scrapes and mud on your arms and legs already, and your clothing is wet from half-melted snow mush.

Capitano sighs - it's less of an annoyed sigh, and more of a pitying one. He's too kind to remind you that he told you so, and instead just walks up behind you. "Are you alright?" His voice is deep and slow, and rasps out of his helmet like slivers of wood being carved off of a branch.

"I...I..." you trail off as the pain suddenly seems to hit you all at once and you sit back on your haunches, looking down at your hands, beading with bright red blood. "I fell." You tell him in a soft voice, as if he hadn't just seen you tumble over.

Capitano makes a soft tutting noise, walking around beside you and extending his arm out, tilting his head to the side in a silent question of whether you'd like his help or not.

You reach out for him, and he's there within moments, wrapping his big, broad arms around you as he helps you up. You choke back a noise of pain as you stand and your scraped knees ache in protest, the scraped sensation feeling as if it's burning you.

To your surprise, Capitano doesn't stop once you're steady on your feet. Instead, he scoops you up, holding you bridal-style up against his chest. You shy away slightly to prevent his hard plate armour from touching your wounds and cradle your hands close to your chest.

Capitano adjusts his grip on you until you're as comfortable as possible, then turns a slow circle, observing your surroundings. When he sets off once more, it is most certainly not in the direction that you came from.

"Where are we...?" You trail off, blinking slowly up at Capitano, though you can't make out any features through the pitch darkness under his mask.

"Hunters cabin." He explains simply, and you can feel his voice reverberating in his chest.

The steady pace he walks at is soothing and repetitive, giving you something to focus on other than the pain you're in. The snow crunches beneath Capitano's heavy feet in a rather satisfying way.

It doesn't take you long to arrive at the cabin - it seems like it was once indeed someone's hunting cabin, but had since been repurposed for the Fatui to use on field operations. The door is unlocked, and Capitano lets himself in, ducking down slightly to get through the door.

The cabin is quaint and cosy, though it seems like it's been a while since anyone stayed here. Capitano sets you down on a rickety wooden seat by the small, round dining table (haphazardly adorned with a dusty, checker-patterned cloth), lighting some lanterns with flickers of some kind of pyro-magic infused device as he scrounges around for what he's looking for.

There's not really much for you to do except watch him as he bustles about, surprisingly quiet for such a large, heavily armoured man. You can feel the pain in your hands and knees throbbing, but force yourself to keep up a brave face.

By the time Capitano returns, he has a few items in hand. You open your mouth to ask a question, but the man before you is already tending to your wounds before you can get the words out.

He's shockingly gentle and careful, attentive to detail despite his thick gloves. He cleans up your hands first, applying antiseptic and bandaging them with a sort of tenderness that you rarely recall having seen in him before.

Capitano kneels down in front of you, then looks up and waits silently for your affirmative nod before rolling up your trouser legs to patch up your grazed knees - the sideways tilt to his head is almost reminiscent of a sad puppy.

"There." He hums, once the last bandage is secured around your right knee. Though it still stings, it feels better knowing your injuries are clean, and there's something about the careful attentivess he displayed when looking after you that makes you feel warm inside.

"What are we gonna do now?" You ask him, dreading his answer a little.

Capitano straightens up to his full height (so tall his head almost brushes the roof of the rather little cabin), gaze lingering on your for a few moments before he looks around the cabin slowly.

"I..." He reaches up to brush back a tightly coiled lock of his pitch black hair. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt to... Stay a while." He concedes, gaze travelling over to the food rations sitting in the small kitchenette before finally landing on you once again.

You feel small and exposed sitting here while Capitano pins you with his invisible gaze, but the gradual slope of his shoulders tells you that he's relaxing, which isn't something you often see him do. "Stay there." He tells you, his voice a little softer than usual. "I'll go see if there's any firewood."

Please don't repost, copy, plagiarise or otherwise steal my writing!!

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

I was thinking on something hella angsty with Matthias Helvar

Song by Fleurie: hurts like hell.

“I’ve loved, i loved, then lost you”

Like what if reader gets really hurt

Okay, now this, this I think I can do, who knows if I can do it well? Not me, let's find out.

In His Arms - Matthias Helvar

Content Warnings: Gratuitous (Canon Compliant) Violence And Threat. Repetitive Mentions Of Blood And Injury. Mentions Of Death, Depictions Of Near Death. Not Beta/Proof Read.

Part 2

Matthias is covered in blood, it is soaking through his shirt, he would never be able to get the blood out, no matter how hard he tried. But he isn't thinking about the blood on him right now, at least not in relation to him. Every consuming thought running through his brain is about you. You and the blood. The blood and you. Your blood. All of your blood. How it is all over him and not where it supposed to be. Your blood, all your blood. How you won't stop bleeding. You are in his arms and he is watching you bleed out and he feels lost, helpless, never has he felt this helpless, this incapable of doing anything, anything at all.

I've loved

You were lost in the storm, you couldn't feel your bones, but you could feel the cold getting into your open wound. You'd been with Matthias, but you'd lost him between the blizzard and the bear attack. Your arm and your torso had deep slashes that would be bleeding more if you weren't so cold.

You didn't feel yourself hitting the ground, you didn't feel the layers of snow, you didn't know you were dying.

Matthias holds you tighter, and you can feel every movement of his muscles, every tension of his frame. He has held you when you were close to death before, and he had saved you then.

You woke up feeling buried in fur, to realise it was Matthias's coat covering you, keeping you from the death by frost. "You are awake," he said.

"You are here," you said in response. "And I am alive."

"You nearly weren't," he stated, "you nearly got yourself killed."

"I thought you would be long gone," you pulled yourself up enough to feel the bandages on your injuries. Matthias had found you in the snow, carried you somewhere safe and made sure the new safeness wasn't marred by letting you bleed out. You couldn't help but feel you'd misjudged him.

“I’ll stay with you," Mattias said, watching the way you winced as you moved, each step hindered by the pain. "I have concerns that your wounds might open up again.”

"You have concerns?" You teased. "How out of character."

"I have..." he trailed off, realising you were mocking him. "Let me check that cut of yours."

"No," you said, Matthias just stared you down.

"I did not drag you through all that snow and a blizzard to have you die in this cave," he stated. "Show me."

"There's the solider," you smirked, "the Drüskelle."

"Just let me help you, you're insufferable and petulant," he muttered.

"Big words."

"Just let me see the wound."

You feel so cold, both to his touch and inside yourself, you think you're shaking, you feel as if you should be shaking, but your body isn't moving at all. You don't have the energy to shake.

You are lucid enough to hear Matthias call for a healer and despite the pain, despite the resistance, you get a half laugh breaking from your chest. "The Drüskelle calling for a grisha, what a day," you're not sure the words really make it out as intelligible but you hope Matthias can see the humour. He doesn't, which isn't surprising, he rarely does.

He continues calling but you're not sure if anyone can hear him, you're not sure if anyone is around to hear him, to find you both, to help. But he is trying, Saints he is trying.

I loved

"This is," Matthias was searching for words he could not find, how could he possibly explain you? How could he explain who you are? How could he explain what you are to him? Who you'd become to him?

You'd cut him off with your own introduction, and he could see no pain in your expression, no blame for his hesitation. And that hurt him more. He wanted you to be mad at him. But you didn't ever really get mad at him.

There was a secret selfishness in his quiet, it wasn't all the reasons he thought it would be that he struggled to find the words, there was no shame or no disconcerting notions about his feelings for you.

He was stilted because he could not find words that would do it justice, and selfishly, in a type of selfishness he didn't know he had inside him, he wanted this for himself. He wanted you for himself, in the quiet and peace of privacy, where what you both had could just be yours.

"Matthias?"

"I'm with you," he tells you, over and over, words like a prayer.

then lost you

You can feel the blood rising in your throat before you're choking on it. "Hey," the Fjerdan tries, gently shifting your shoulders closer to him, "none of that. You are not allowed to die." His voice is rougher than he would like it to be, the words leave his mouth as more of a set of commands than the pleas they truly are.

"I'm glad," your breath catches but you won't let that stop you, not now, now when you're not sure what time you have left, "that I didn't die, before I got to meet you Matthias."

"You're not dying," Matthias insists, your blood is on the ground now, not just on him, and it reminds him of the way your blood hit the snow when you both got lost in the ice. Your blood had led him back to you, you had lost a lot less of it back then, now you were losing so much if you close your eyes Matthias knows you won't open them again.

"Matthias I am tired," you tell him.

"You changed everything, everything in my life, the whole world it looks different now, it sounds different, it is different, because of you, because you found me, because we found each other. You changed everything for me, and I don't want to go back, I can't go back to what my life was before you, so I need you to not die," Matthias insists, resting his face in the crook of your neck, listening to the sounds of you breathing, knowing how faint it is.

Matthias cannot think straight, he cannot let this be the end, he won't. Not after everything it had taken to be here, to get here. You have both nearly lost one another too many times before and this would not be the last moments he has with you. He will not let it. Your heart is his heart, you life is his life, to lose you would be a fate worse than death and he will not let it happen. He won't.

He can remember the first time he saw you, your annoyed face clear in his mind, you had been disagreeing with him, he cannot remember why now as you've disagreed with him on plenty of things, in gentle ways. Annoyance, but not anger, your anger was reserved for things and not people, for situations and weather and badly cooked meals. He remembers the first time he heard you laugh, your real laugh, not the gentle laugh that is easily conjured upon an instinct, the laugh that nearly winded you, and nearly winded him just the same. He played that laugh over and over in his mind every single day, wanting nothing more than to hear it again, to be able to make you laugh like that. He remembers how soft your hands were as you checked his wounds, and how harsh your gaze was as he insisted on fixing yours. They were smaller wounds then, not minor injuries, they were considerable in their rights, but they were tolerable, they were manageable, not like now. Not like the one that feels like it will be the end of you, it no longer feels like your blood is what is leaving your body, but your life, and he is watching, holding you but not able to hold it together, to hold you together.

"Please," he whispers, unable to manage any more words than that. 'Please don't die. We have made too many plans for me to lose you now.'

You can't hear anything by the time the healer reaches you, you can barely still feel Matthias's hand in your own, but you can see those eyes, those eyes that you see in your dreams as often as in your days, those eyes that have seen you through your worst moments as well as your best. His eyes, that look so scared to lose you, so scared at the idea he would have to continue without you, at the idea that he simply couldn't.

"Matthias," you manage again as the healer starts to mend your torn skin, your broken pieces, trying to keep the blood inside your body where it belongs, you don't feel strong, you don't feel saved, but you can keep your eyes open long enough to see Matthias talking to the healer, asking a million questions and the healer looking half terrified of how badly your hurt and half terrified of the Fjerdan asking for help. "I'm... with you."

Matthias looks back to you, trying to let the healer do their job. "Stay with me," he says. "Stay with me?"

"I'm trying."

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 3: "I know you better than that."

Prompt: "I know you better than that."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: Implied torture/brutality, implied/mentioned injury

SPOILERS FOR: The end of the Dunland epic (kind of), the beginning of the Rise of Isengard expansion

Summary: After the events that befell Wulfwryn and Raenor when leaving Dunland, the words of elves preparing to leave for the Grey Havens fester in Wulfwryn's mind. Raenor knows that something is bothering her, it is just a matter of sorting through the half-truths she allows herself to admit.

Translations:

meldanya: my beloved

--

All around them, Rohirrim soldiers shuffled through their nightly routines. Canvas tents rustled closed, the fires still burning outside crackles, and the soft, but constant, din of voices dropped down to a murmurr. 

The noise was a welcome hum after the ringing silence of the pits beneath Orthanc, broken only by the roar of the work camp as Raenor had been dragged to and fro. He shuddered and gave a shake of his head to break his thought spiral, focusing instead on rewrapping clean gauze around his hands. 

“Let me.” Wulfwryn settled down next to him, holding her hands out expectedly. Her voice was still raw and ragged after all the smoke and vapors she’d inhaled running around the orcish work camp, among worse things her overseer had forced her to endure. 

“Raenor.” she said, firmly grabbing his attention. With a shaky breath he held out his hands and Wulfwryn began the process of unwrapping the first gauze he’d attempted. After Moria, coupled now with Orthanc, his hands shook worse than before, his joints aching at the repetitive motion. A healer should be able to wrap his own wounds, but Wulfwryn’s touch grounded him in a way caring for his own hurts didn’t. 

His love’s face was grave as she wrapped his hands and forearms, her eyes darting across the healing red gashes where he’d been chained and other spots where harsh hands had taken joy in meeting his flesh. Whether it had been worse than under Moria, he would not and could not consider. 

He remembered very little of their time beneath Orthanc, only snippets in a dark, earthy cell and other times in the cold halls of the tower, chained beside the White Wizard like a creature on display. In his hazy memories, the most vivid was that of murderous rage, an unknown and sickly cold feeling, when Wulfwryn’s overseer had slammed her to the ground solely for speaking to him in elvish. 

Raenor squeezed his eyes closed, opening them when the pressure of Wulfwryn’s wrapping became tighter. He winced, flexing his fingers, and she paused. 

“You worry about me.” he said matter-of-factly, but not happily. He didn’t wish for her to worry about him. He’d caught the way her eyes strayed to him more frequently, assessing and gauging if they should press on. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes flicked to his face and she pressed her lips together. 

“Of course I worry about you.” she said. “I worry about your healing progress, that our travels won’t hinder that. Your progress under the golden leaves of Lorien…I fear it’s been reversed entirely.” 

She stumbled over her words, sidestepping what exactly had reversed his progress.  Raenor could not escape the thoughts of what happened beneath Orthanc; Wulfwryn was unable to speak it aloud at all. 

When they’d escaped the deep halls of the dwarves he noticed she’d begun to monitor more carefully.  Since they’d entered the Gap of Rohan, her presence had turned into that of a fretful shadow. It was beginning to take a toll on her; their bedroll at night was more often than not empty as she sat unnecessary watches, pacing the perimeter of their camp into the wee hours of the morning. 

He reached up his free hand to cup her jaw, bringing her hollow and tired eyes to his. Her nostrils flared in the way they always did when she fought back emotion. 

“I know you better than that, meldanya, than to believe you when you tell me it is simply my injuries you worry about. Something is eating you alive.” 

Wulfwryn cradled his hand against her jaw in her own, running her thumb lightly against the back of it. She opened her mouth, then closed it, again and again, fighting for what words she wanted to say as though they were stuck. 

“I never should have torn you from Rivendell.” she finally said haltingly, though the minced words were built upon layers and layers of guilt that Raenor had steadily peeled away though their conversations across their travels. 

He held the silence between them, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. They both knew he’d left Rivendell not only on his own volition to take on the quest Elrond presented him, but also out of his own need to escape the sorrows his home held for him. Those words were just the easiest ones for Wulfwryn to fall back on, the same ones she used to break the dam of whatever truly was on her mind. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes went glassy and she tilted her head back, blinking at the ceiling of their tent. 

“Our journey has done nothing but cause you harm of late.” her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I fear these last months have done nothing but break you.” 

In some ways it was true, Raenor ceded, his physical body and spirit had been permanently altered by the enemies they faced. Just as his mind had been altered forever by the fall of Edhelion centuries before. 

“I have persevered through many tragedies and harms.” he said softly, pressing for what was beneath yet another mental wall that Wulfwryn struggled against. 

She swallowed, pressing her cheek into Raenor’s hand and shutting her eyes tightly. 

”We have passed many elves in the Great River and before that travel for the Grey Havens for less than what you have endured. When will I push you so far, put you in such danger, that you too will be so desperate for escape as to depart these lands?” 

The words tumbled out of Wulfwryn in a rush and she gasped a tiny breath, as if they were a flooding torrent she’d been trying to hold back. She pressed her lips together until they paled, shoulders giving a telltale shake that belied the wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes. 

In the gaping silence Raenor left as she grasped for words, Wulfwryn opened her eyes to look at him. Her expression was pure devastation and he knew her well enough to know that whatever was going to well to the surface had been festering within her for a long while. 

“It is my hand, my sword, my body that is failing to keep you safe. Every time I fail to keep you out of the hands of the Enemy, I sour this world for you further.” 

He realized now just how many elves they’d spoken to in the course of their journey that lamented their oncoming departure from this world. How many had spoken as though this lifetime was a shadowed mockery of lives they’d lived before. And just how despairing that may seem to a mortal who lives but one short life. 

Though his other hand was half wrapped and the poultice would smear, he brought his other hand to Wulfwryn’s face and pulled their foreheads together, blocking out the world around them. Wulfwryn heaved a shuddering breath. 

“This world is not yet ruined for me, meldanya.” he assured. “These difficult times are but a fraction of the times ahead. I would not be so easily persuaded to leave you.” 

“I am not worried about you leaving me.” Wulfwryn argued, though there was a sorrowful lapse at the end of the sentence that did nothing to convince him otherwise. “I simply do not wish to see you snuffed out so completely.” 

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I will not be, I promise. I am far sturdier than you care to admit.” 

--

NOTE: if anyone would like further context for the events that transpired in Moria, my fic 'My World Is You' centers around those :)

[abiiors]

okay here’s one that i wrote a few days back and i’m not 100% sure about it but you were so sweet and i thought might as well you know :) it’s very sweet (i at least tried to make it that way) and i just really hope he’s feeling better now but here it is!!

when she returned to the bus with george, chatting about just how much reverb is too much for the song they were working on, she immediately heard the curses coming from ross’s bunk. she knew he had a few issues while playing as of recently, her diagnosis being a repetitive strain injury in his arm, but he refused to let anyone help, suffering in silence and trying to teach himself how to use kinetic tape to make it all a bit more bearable. when she moved the curtain of his bunk to the side she saw him sat on his bed, shirt off and trying very hard to wrap his upper arm with kt tape but obviously failing to do so. “ross, stop. if you don’t let me do this i will fight you and i mean that.” the soft, slightly pitiful smile on her face told him otherwise as he looked up. she climbed up into the bunk, the space between the two dangerously small and crammed, but neither seemed to care. she carefully removed the tape that was already on ross’s arm, trying her best to make it as painless as possible, though still earning some curses from ross. she couldn’t help herself from looking at the tattoos that were sprinkled around his arm, adorning his skin and making her wonder about the origins. the one on his shoulder she knew about, she was there when he got it. it was dedicated to a close friend of his that sadly passed a few years back and he decided to commemorate him by getting one of his drawings on his right shoulder. when he went in to get the tattoo he asked her to come with him, at first under the pretence of him not getting bored but deep down he knew that it was because he needed her there to support him. he needed her everytime she wasn’t around because he was deeply in love with her. not that she knew that.

she carefully cut the pieces of tape and started applying them to his skin, pressing down at certain points and asking him to move his arm so that she could create more friction and thus make the tape more effective. ross only watched, careful not to get too affected by her touch. by the time she was done she pressed a kiss on his shoulder and he leaned into her touch, not wanting her to go just yet. “thank you”, he lowly said, careful not to break the tension that had been building up between them. she traced her fingers across the delicate art on his arm, and he let her. he usually hated people touching him like that, in such a vulnerable state, but he did not care with her. in fact, he wanted it; craved it even. at some point he turned around and pulled her into him. she smiled as she laid down on his chest, now tracing along the tattoo on his side, one that she rarely saw. her fingers continued to explore his tattoos, and he closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. “you know, i’ll probably fall asleep if you keep that going, love.” he said, opening his eyes to see her already smiling at him. “and what’s so bad about that?” she asked and he pulled her even closer.

ross wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as if he never wanted to let go. the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was a soothing lullaby, and it didn't take long for the combined warmth and tenderness of their moment to lull them into a state of drowsiness.

as their eyes grew heavy and their breathing slowed, ross whispered, "promise you won't leave, even if I fall asleep."

her heart swelled with affection as she nuzzled closer to him, her lips brushing against his chest as she whispered, "now where else would i go?”, her breath sending shivers down his spine. her closeness was both maddening and comforting, a sweet torture that ross willingly surrendered to.

oh god the YEARNINGGGGGG!!! 😭😩 friends to lovers trope is always just so >>>>>

and also the part about him getting the tattoo was actually so fucking sweet :(( like ngl i have thought about it multiple times about him commemorating a friend in such a heartwarming way 🩷😭