#I HAVE TISSUES LODGED IN MY NOSTRILS

[aastarions]

i finally caved and dropped $$$ on an air purifier for my room my dust allergy is getting so out of hand not to be gross/tmi but

snot has been dripping from my nose for the past 20 minutes all because i dusted off my desk today 🙃

[white-rabbit-writes]

I Don't Cry

By W. Rabbit, Esq.

I don't cry. Or, that is, I try not to cry. My tears burn. Logic tells me it's the dust. I don't blink often enough, dust and debris lodge in my eyes and the burning is the salt seeping into the microscopic cuts left behind.

When I do cry, I have the overwhelming feeling that if the tears could just fall then the burning would stop. But they never do. The tears pool in my lower lids and they sit there, burning.

The red veins in my eyes swell and I look pitiful.

I try to wipe the tears away, to force them to fall from my lids, but they refuse. They're too thick. A tissue comes away dry and useless. If I wipe with my hands I feel the tears being forced back into my skull. They slice under my retina and cut deep into the flesh of my eyes.

When I first saw my father cry I knew our tears were different. Even young I felt the pain that came with crying. While his tears flowed freely down his face as he hugged me and told me it wasn't my fault, mine cut deep and burned like they were on fire.

At the time, I worried my tears would hurt him as they hurt me. If, by some miracle, they managed to fall they would slice into his shoulder like small daggers. But they never did, and I knew he was safe.

I am too empathetic, I get this from my father. It doesn't take much to form a lump in my throat. For a time I tried to feel nothing, but that day my father held me, he told me feelings were human. That I should allow them to be felt, whatever they might be.

Feelings are Human. I am allowed to Feel.

This is my mantra as I hold my face skyward and breathe through whatever pain I may be feeling. I swallow as hard as I'm able and force the prickly lump that forms when I cry back down my throat. I blink painfully and roll my eyes back and forth, the thick tears slice their way behind my eyes. This gives me a splitting headache and I find my glasses become more useless every time. One day, I fear, there will not be a prescription strong enough to fix the damage my tears cause.

I asked my doctor if my tear ducts could be removed, but he told me tears were important. I told him crying hurts and he laughed. He told me feelings are human. I was reminded of my father. How he told me it wasn't my fault.

The doctor prescribed me eye drops. He told me my eyes looked red and dry. He told me crying was a good thing.

Afterwards, my father asked how the appointment went. I told him. When I spoke he could hear the barb working its way up my throat. With the gentle voice of a loving parent he told me you are allowed to feel. I could hear the struggle in his voice, he always cried when I talked about my eyes. I imagined the tears flowing down his face and I felt jealousy bloom in my chest.

It's not your fault he told me. I hung up.

I stared at the pavement of the clinic parking lot. Jealousy turned to rage, I breathed heavily through my nostrils. My vision began to blur as the tears slid over my pupils. I dropped to my knees and choked. The lump had crawled farther up my throat than ever before. I couldn't see and I couldn't breathe.

I clawed my throat trying to push the lump down with my hands. It didn't work.

I scratched my eyes, trying to pull the tears away. The pain was unbearable.

I hoped the doctor or the nurse at the welcome desk would look outside and see me. No one came. I fell to my side and tucked my knees to my chest. With no breath to hold I continued to struggle for air even after I'd decided that to suffocate was my fate. I closed my eyes with great effort and felt the tears cut the inside of my eyelids. In my mind I repeated my mantra over and over: Feelings are Human. I am allowed to Feel. The comfort it used to bring was drowned out by the sound of screams. For a moment I dared hope it was me. That in my panic the lump had disappeared and my voice had come back without my noticing. But the screaming was I'm my head. I was still choking. The lump was nearly in my mouth now, it crushed my uvula and flattened my tongue. Yet still it crawled, undeterred.

This comforted me, the lump would work its way out and if I was lucky I'd have enough heartbeats left to start breathing again. My mind began to accept this yet I still heard the screaming. Then I realized the sound was coming from my mouth but not my voice.

It was the lump.

Whatever was crawling out of my throat and between my teeth was screaming. The sound reverberated in my skull and I opened my eyes in renewed panic. I strained to see but the tears continued to blind me. My hands released my knees and flew to my mouth. I reached my fingers passed my teeth and felt the barbs of the lump in my throat. They dug into my fingers and seemed to grip of their own accord. I pulled as hard as I could. The lump scratched its way across my tongue until it released my fingers and gripped my teeth.

I rolled onto my stomach and tried to cough with what little air my lungs still possessed. The barbs shot out and covered my lips, using them as leverage to pull itself out. With a sickening shlorp the lump emerged from my mouth, screaming like a newborn. Finally I sucked in a harsh and painful gasp of air before coughing hard and rolling onto my back in exhaustion.

I felt the wetness of the lump still on my face as it crawled up my cheeks. My eyes were wide with pain and terror yet I still couldn’t see beyond the tears. The barbs that had gripped my fingers and teeth pricked my cheeks as it moved towards my eyes. Then the screaming stopped and I felt something new: something rough and warm like a cat's tongue. It lapped around my eyes as if searching before it began licking my open eyes. I tried screaming but my throat was too raw for anything but a shallow rasp. At first the pain which I had become accustomed to in my panic was renewed. It was sharp as the lump's tongue moved my tears across my eyes.

Then the pain began to fade. The lump was drinking my thick painful tears right out of my eyes. A feeling of relief rushed through me and I began to cry again, but instead of pain from my tears I felt soothed as the lump licked them away before they could slice my eyes more.

Slowly, my vision returned. First I saw solid colors, then shapes, then the only thing obscuring my vision was the lump still drinking my tears.

I could see it in full now. It was a harsh black, so dark it seemed like a void. The barbs pricking my skin were thinner than a strand of hair and in abundance all over its surface. It had no eyes but the tongue it licked me with emerged from a wide mouth that seemed more like a large crack in its shell of a body. The cat's tongue it possessed was just as pitch black as its outer surface only it was matte dry while the outside shone with a wetness I assumed came from my saliva.

It was utterly disgusting, but something about the soothing feel of the tongue made me laugh instead of wretch. It started as a soft rumble in my chest that hurt my burning lungs, but within moments I was laughing deliriously. This was the third emotion I'd felt that brought tears to my eyes and the lump never seemed to lack enthusiasm as it cleaned my tears away for me.

Before long I calmed down, my tears stopped welling, and the lump closed its mouth which became imperceptible from the rest of its body.

I stared at it for a while in silence. If it had eyes I'm sure it would've been staring back. Once it became clear to us both that I would not be producing any more tears, the lump opened its mouth and let out a scream, the same painful sound it made as it birthed from my mouth. I flinched and turned my head sharply causing the lump to fall off my face. Its screaming was interrupted by a moment's hesitation before it leaned back, screaming again, and used its barbs to roll away.

I watched in shock as in a confused serpentine pattern it rolled towards the clinic.

The automatic doors opened and the lump rolled in, still screaming. Once the doors closed and I could no longer hear the screams my shock vanished and I quickly got to my feet and ran inside the clinic.

I asked the nurse if she'd seen something roll in screaming but she just looked at me and reached for the emergency landline within her small, windowed office. She pressed the number nine before we both jumped at the sound of a scream. But it wasn't the same scream I'd come to know from the lump, this was a decidedly male scream of terror. We both rushed down the hall towards the sound. It had come from the observing room the doctor had seen me in. Once we reached the threshold the nurse began to scream.

Inside, laying on the floor, was the doctor. The lump was on his face licking the blood that flowed from the sockets that had once held his eyes. Its barbs dug deep into his skull, it scooped and moved aside the flesh it found there like a dog digging for a bone in its yard. I realized, sickly, that my lump was searching for tears to drink.

At the sound of the nurse's scream the lump stopped digging and, quicker than either of us could comprehend, rolled off the corpse of the doctor and made a beeline for the nurse. It used its barbs to grip her scrubs and climbed its way up her body. She screamed louder now and slammed her body back against the open door. She tried swatting at the lump as it crawled up her clothes but the barbs were far too strong and they cut into her hands causing her to bleed.

The lump made its way to her shirt and I grabbed the v-necked collar. I pulled as hard as I could and ripped her shirt down the middle. I spun her around holding the side of the shirt with my lump, pulling the shirt off her arm and wrapping my lump in the fabric. With the scrub shirt fully off her I closed the gap by grabbing the other side of the ripped fabric. The scrubs became like a sling with my lump trapped inside. I swung the sling above my head and brought it down hard on the edge of the computer desk to the side of the door. My lump began screaming so I slammed it again and again against the desk until I heard a wet crunch and the screaming stopped.

I took the bundle to the corner of the room and dropped it in the small, lidded trash can labeled with the red toxic waste sign. I turned to look at the nurse and we stared at each other for a moment, wide eyed and panting before she rushed out of the room and down the hall.

Assuming she was calling the police and accepting my fate as a murdering criminal I stayed put and stared at the marred face that had once been my doctor.

A few moments later the nurse returned, only she was wearing new scrubs and was holding a cigarette lighter. She ran to a cabinet above the desk and pulled out a bottle of Isopropyl Alcohol. She walked up next to me, avoiding looking at the doctor, opened the toxic waste bin, poured some of the alcohol onto the remains of her scrubs, lit the cigarette lighter and dropped it into the bin, igniting it immediately. A shrill squeak emitted from the remains of my lump.

The nurse then kicked the bin over and poured more alcohol onto the floor creating a trail to the corpse of the doctor. She dropped the bottle onto his chest and his body caught flames almost immediately.

I was staring at her. She looked at me, and explained that no one would believe us if we tried. Then, with the gentleness of a nurse who has dealt with patients for many years, she ushered me out of the room, closing the door as we left, down the hall, and out the main doors. We walked together to the parking lot. Once there she pulled out her mobile phone, dialed 911 and told the operator that a fire had started in the clinic and she believed the doctor was trapped.

She then told me to leave, that she would handle it. Her courage and charge of the situation was so far from what I'd expected that I simply did as I was told. I drove home, the image of the doctor's eye-less face burned into my mind, alongside another I struggled to place.

Once I was home and sat in my living room I called my father. I told him what happened, voice harsh, my throat still raw. And as I did so I thought back to the first time I'd seen him cry. My throat had hurt back then too, but in my memories there was no lump in my throat struggling to get out. Just thick, painful tears in my eyes and my father's voice sobbing into my ear; it's not your fault.

It was then, on the phone with my father, who was silent as I recounted the last hour, that I placed the second face I'd seen alongside my doctor's as I drove home. It'd been my mother's, from when I was very young and had no control over my emotions. Back then the lump hadn't scared me. The same as how a child knows to throw up when their stomach hurts without being told I knew, as a child, to let the lump crawl up my throat and lick away my tears. But my mother had not.

She had come into my room after hearing my childhood lump scream. She saw it licking my face and began to scream herself. This scared my lump, it rolled off me and up my mother's clothes. She was powerless to get it off and I was powerless to stop it as its barbs dug out my mother's eyes in front of me and she collapsed dead on my bedroom floor.

My father had arrived, following my mother's screams and my cries, he took one of my children's books and beat my lump to death. Then he held me, sobbing wet streams of hot, human tears onto my back as he held me. All the while saying over and over it's not your fault.

I asked him, while he was on the phone: was it my fault?

Feelings are Human, he told me. You are allowed to Feel.

I do not cry. Not anymore.

End

.

If you made it to the end, thank you so much for reading my first story on this page! I hope you enjoyed it!

-W. Rabbit, Esq

[davycoquette]

I did my own character writing exercises, as prompted a lil' by @sableglass. 😇

Meet Budreaux, a man pulled from my ass. Full disclosure, my noodling on him began yesterday - but there's no time limit on this. I did write it in a few minutes, just now. (Anticipate many typos etc.) I highly recommend y'all try it! It gets you thinking!

Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom while they’re not in it.

The blinds are shut and the curtains drawn, but the AC unit underneath the window tosses them open from time to time, and through a gap where the plastic slats sit cattywampus the sign out front eclipses a slice of cloudless sky.

always on the sunnyside motel cable tv • refrigerated air • no vacancy

The curtains on their rusted white slider are a shade of muddy brown — even the rosy floral print is so dark and colorless the pattern itself is nigh unrecognizable. A custom cabinet lodges the miniature refrigerator, and atop that sits the black television with a Zenith logo thunderstruck in the dead center of the plastic housing.

We’ve got a full size bed, white sheets crumpling out of the muddy brown, paisley comforter like a busted chou pastry. The pillows are double-stacked against the wall, the impression of a man in repose gazing forward into the void of the television screen.

From the windowsill, the frenetic buzz of a fly gone-belly up, still pirouetting in its death throes for the third hour straight. Outside, the traffic whooshing by steadily one or two semis at a time. An intermittent metallic crashing from the fabricators on the other side of the interstate. A lonesome crow cawing from the poolside iron fence. And the toilet, which never stops running, runs. The spigot drip-drop-drips into the stained porcelain tub steady as a ticking clock hand.

On the vinyl sink counter a tube of fluoride is rolled to the nozzle. The lid hides behind the toilet, secreted by a camouflage of hair and dust. Deodorant, aftershave. A gas-station razor. The toothbrush with its bird’s-nest shaped bristles lies at the bottom of the liner-less bin amid a few wadded tissues. It, too, is littered with bathroom-floor debris.

In the shower, a paper-thin slice of soap and a two-in-one men’s shampoo. A damp washcloth and a towel entangled with last night’s boxers-and-t-shirt.

On the bedside table, a third of a bottle of Old Crow Reserve next to the off-white landline. A linty black comb, an ashtray full of pocket change and an empty tube of Chapstick. Under that, eight dollars.

Shuffle a playlist on your music player of choice. For whichever song plays, describe what you “see” with your imagination.

Disclaimer: (I am forced to resort to a work friendly lofi playlist.) Song: Amazonia by Jiani

Budreaux’s coal-dark eyes gaze into the foggy bathroom mirror, as dark and indolent as ever under their heavy lids. They’re smallish on his face, tilted ever-so-slightly down at the outer corners. He cannot know how many people have looked into his eyes and thought it the most vapid, uncomprehending stare they’d ever seen. Barring that, disinterested. It’s his eyes that most often inspire a lighter or gum packet to be lobbed at him over the convenience store counter.

All he understands is that he attracts ire. He figures it’s convenience. Being angry with a convenience store worker is convenient.

He smooths his hand down the front of his beige t-shirt, then takes his trucker hat from its place hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Emblazoned across the front is the Wanket’s truckstop logo — a shape vaguely resembling the grill of a tractor trailer with the unfortunate franchise name scrawled overtop. He presses it down onto his bland brown haircut, then licks his thumb and smooths his white-speckled sideburns.

He gives himself a last look in the mirror. A hard sniffle twitches the mustache under his nostrils.

“Okey,” he says to his reflection, gives it a nod and a lil’ thumbs-up, and turns to go.

Describe a character by turning out their pockets.

“Wait. Turn out your pockets.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, bitch. Turn ‘em out. Hurry.”

Budreaux’s eyes follow the black hole in the pistol’s barrel like he’s being tested at the optometrist’s.

“You’re serious?” he asks, and his bushy eyebrows climb toward the bill of his Wanket’s hat.

“I’m dead fuckin’ serious, man; empty your fuckin’ pockets. Now.”

“‘Kay,” Budreaux allows, “but I’m gonna haveta put my hands down.”

The young man in the ski-mask looks over his shoulder through the sticker-spattered gas station window, then back at Budreaux. He waves his pistol. He says, “Man—”

But Budreaux is in compliance. He diiiigs into his right pocket, scooping its contents into his palm. His fingers nip the fabric corner and he turns it inside out, capturing almost everything. A quarter clatters and spins on the vinyl floor, but the rest goes on the counter: thirty-one cents in change, a tube of Carmex, a BIC-lighter —

“Your watch.”

Budreaux furrows his big eyebrows and looks at his watch. “You’re serious?”

A gunshot makes him try to suck his head into his collarbones. Plaster rains down from the ceiling, plopping off his hat-bill.

“Your watch, motherfucker!”

He can hear that even over the deafening mosquitoe-drone in his freshly damaged ears. He wrestles off the watch and drops it onto the counter, then goes for his left pocket.

“Wallet,” the robber demands.

He reaches for his ass instead, wary of the wild look in the young man’s eyes. He supposes the kid knows he could be hiding a handgun back there, wedged into the back of his pants like a gritty badass — or maybe the kid already logged that he was all-grit, no badass when he first strolled through the door. He’d had his back to the store; he’d been stocking cigarettes.

He drops a nylon Dale Earnhardt wallet onto the counter and the kid swipes it and the watch.

“Get down.”

“Sure, alright.”

Budreaux is conscious of the papery sound his joints make as he sinks toward the floor. His kneecaps twinge when they clack against the floor.

“All the way down, y��hear me? All the fuck the way down.”

The kid lemur-hops toward the door as Budreaux arranges himself face down, sweeping plaster aside before he rests his bristly cheek against the faux-terrazzo. After a moment, he hears the bell on the door jingle, and a fading voice shouting, “Go, go!”

His chest swells, deflates. Dust-bunnies and loose plaster roll away from his face, underneath the counter. He is still there on the floor twenty minutes later when the bell chimes again. He recognizes Rob Whitaker’s voice when the old veteran beckons, “Hello? Anybody home?”

He says that every morning, around this time, whether Budreaux is stocking cigarettes or, apparently, lying face down behind the counter.

An abandoned and unlocked phone (or wallet, if you wanna go back a coupla decades) has been discovered in a ratty little diner bathroom. What’s in there? What does it tell us about its owner?

Disclaimer: Going with the wallet, because the prompts have inspired a theme, here. 🤓

Denny whips the mask off his head and tosses it into the back seat over his shoulder. His grease stiffened hair, the muddy shade of motel curtains, stands in all directions as he rifles through a paper bag full of loose cash.

“Well?” Piper asks from his left. She’s chewing the shit out of hour-old gum, sweat or lipgloss catching light on her cupid’s bow.

He makes an exasperated sound and chucks the bag into the backseat, rips apart the Velcro closure on the wallet.

“Nicholas Bud…” He trails off, curls his upper lip.

Piper hones in on his skewed front teeth — they always seem so prominent when he makes that face — then looks back to the road. She taps her sunglasses down over her eyes.

“The owner?”

“I dunno. Probably.” Dennis eyeballs Budreaux’s driver’s license, then pulls it out and fingers the slot it came from. “Fuckin’ waste of time. Fifty bucks in here.”

It’s a hundred and eighty three dollars, but he means to conceal the bulk of that from Piper.

A scrap of paper folded over into a stiff rectangle catches his eye, and Dennis pulls it out from one of the credit card slots.

“Some phone numbers.”

Piper glances into the rear-view mirror, then takes a sharp turn.

“What else?”

“Jack shit. Waste of time.”

[butyoumakemesohot]

i actually wrote a second part for a fic of mine and i don't hate it?? anyways, you could totally read this on its own, but if you see this and you haven't read part 1, i would really appreciate it if you did!

pairing: ro/nance

word count: 2.3k

warnings: lots of buildup, fingering (f receiving), mess, na/ncy has the knk, you could probably argue that ro/bin does too but that's up to the reader honestly :) MINORS DNI!!!!!

Nancy doesn’t get sick - prides herself on the fact that, despite having two younger siblings and a knack for winding up in uncanny situations, at least her immune system never seems to fail her. Which is why, when she wakes up a couple days later with an uncomfortable pressure lodged in her sinuses, all she can do is groan dramatically, tenting her arm over her face.

“Shhh.” Robin’s arms slip around Nancy’s waist, her chin nestled up against her shoulder. Her voice is still delightfully plugged up, half-hoarse from sleep and all the recent coughing. “I’mb tryi’g to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Nancy whispers. Her throat is dry. “I… don’t think I feel very well.”

Silence. Robin’s arms recoil from her waist; Nancy doesn’t have to look at her to know that she’s feeling guilty about it. She finds her hand under the mess of blankets on the bed, giving it a rough squeeze.

“‘S’okay,” she murmurs. “It’s just my head.”

“For n’dow.” Robin sniffles. It’s a wet, congested sound - one that makes Nancy lower her arm from her face so she can eye her girlfriend’s poor, chapped nose as inconspicuously as possible. “Just wait ud’til you start sdeezi’g as mbuch as mbe.”

Nancy fights the urge to smile. On second thought, she doesn’t exactly hate the sound of that.

Unfortunately, the only thing that seems to progress as the day wears on is her headache. She doesn’t actually feel it until later that night - that never-ending, thin trickle of mucus that only seems to exist to tickle and torment one side of her nose. She tries to snuffle it back to no avail.

“Hhhhh… Hehh’ngxt!” She pinches her nostrils together, blinking back the tears that have sprung into her eyes. Each sneeze seems to double the amount of pressure that’s been building in her head all day. “H’gxxtch! *snff* Hn’GTchh! Guh. Excuse mbe… H’ngktt!”

Robin rubs her girlfriend’s shoulder, pouting sympathetically. “Bless you.”

“Thagks,” she mumbles, rubbing her nose miserably. Being Robin’s spectator these past few days has been so riveting that she stupidly forgot the strong likelihood of getting sick herself.

“Poor thi’g. You already sound so stuffed up.”

Some of Robin’s consonants are returning as her nose has begun to unclog throughout the day. Luckily for Nancy, she’s still just as sneezy, her pert nose a captivating shade of red from days of constantly wiping and blowing it.

“Oh, shit, mby turn.” Nancy watches in awe as her girlfriend falls victim to yet another round of sneezing. Robin’s eyes flutter shut, her jaw slacked in anticipation. “H-Hang on, it’s - hH’ESCHhh! There it is. Huh! Hihh-! hih’ITSCHh! ‘tsSHHiew!”

She emits a series of loud, soupy sniffles that make Nancy fight to keep from squirming in her seat. However, her thoughts are quickly interrupted by a second tickling sensation deep in her own sinuses, twice as harsh as the one before. She clamps her wrist firmly against her nose.

“Hn’nkgt! Ihh’Gktch! *snfff* ih‘MPtch!”

“Bless -”

“Ng’xtchh! Sorry.” Nancy sniffles wetly, the sleeve covering her wrist becoming increasingly damp. She inhales sharply, her nostrils still quivering. Stifling only serves to make her nose even more tickly, she's just now realizing. “Hnn’ktch! Hih’NGtt!”

“- you,” Robin finishes, sounding a little amused.

“Guhhh… *snrrf* Okay, I thigk I’b dode.”

Her eyes are still squeezed shut from sneezing when she feels warm, gentle fingers tenting a fresh bundle of tissues over her nose.

“Blow your ndose, Nd’ance. It’s okay.”

Nancy’s almost sure her eyes double in size. She sniffles defiantly, letting her nose run into the cotton. “Robid, you dod’t have to.”

“This is like… what you’re indto, right?” There’s nothing teasing or taunting in her voice - just a spark of curiosity lighting up her features as she tightens the tissues around Nancy’s nostrils. The corners of her mouth lift encouragingly. “Go ahead. *snrf!* It’s okay, babe.”

Nancy gives a slight nod, her embarrassed flush fading as she starts to blow her nose. Robin pinches one nostril shut, allowing Nancy to clear one side of her nose before switching to the other, using the tips of her fingers to massage away any lingering tickles in her girlfriend’s sinuses. The tissues practically soaked through, Robin tells her to give one final blow before tenderly wiping the remaining mess away from her face, offering her another bashful smile.

“How’s that?” Robin asks, adding the tissues to the abundant pile on her nightstand. “I mbean… Was that good?”

All Nancy can do is nod again, taking an experimental breath through her nose. She knows she doesn’t have much longer before the congestion returns, so she takes the opportunity to give Robin a much deserved kiss. Her cheek is a feverish flame under Nancy’s hand as she cradles her face, pulling her in deeper.

Robin’s smile widens once she breaks away. “So it was good.”

“So good,” Nancy agrees, fervent desire rising from her stomach to her chest as Robin lays on her back, allowing her to straddle her waist. She rubs her thumb against a shiny spot on Robin’s lower lip. “But you kn’dow - *snff* - what I’b really idto, right?”

Robin nods, staring up at Nancy as she runs a delicate finger down the bridge of her nose, careful not to irritate the tip where it’s chapped and tender. She brings Nancy back in for another kiss, sincere in the way she sucks at her top lip, tasting like something familiar and sweet.

“I think I’ve got mbore thad a few sdeezes left in mbe,” she whispers. Nancy tries not to let it slip that it’s the hottest thing anybody’s ever told her.

That’s good to hear, she means to say instead, but then Robin’s kissing her again, slow and deliberate in her movements. She decides to let her take the reign this time, fatigued from her new cold and her simple desire to be touched. Robin obliges, weaving her fingers through Nancy’s hair while Nancy lowers the weight of her torso against Robin’s chest.

“H-Hang od,” Robin suddenly says. She doesn’t pull away at all this time, her breath coming out in desperate spurts before she unleashes a round of heavy, wet sneezes inches away from Nancy’s face. “IHhschhiew! hh’TCHHh! Hih-! ih’HHShew!”

“I - Bless you,” Nancy stammers.

“You don’t really m’bean that,” Robin says, grinning.

“Just ‘cause I like heari’g you sdeeze,” she pauses, pressing a quick kiss against the tip of Robin’s nose, “doesd’t m’bead I wad’t you to get possessed by the devil. *snffg!*”

Robin giggles. “Dork.”

They only manage to kiss for another ten seconds or so when her nose starts twitching yet again. Nancy eagerly brings her hand back up to Robin’s face, brushing her thumb over a smattering of freckles right by her left nostril as she starts to sneeze.

“Ihh’CHHhiew! ehh’SCHHhoo! ‘TSCHHh’uhh!”

“God bless you, baby,” Nancy whispers, involuntarily grinding her hips down onto Robin’s. The other girl is too much a sniffling mess to notice, her nose all red and glistening as a stream of clear mucus makes its way onto her upper lip.

She goes to wipe it away, but Nancy’s already got a fresh tissue in her hand, tending to her nose as gently as possible. She folds the tissue in half, bringing it back to Robin’s nostrils with a firm squeeze.

“Blow,” she instructs.

Robin obliges, displaying none of her girlfriend’s initial reluctance at the idea of blowing her nose into her hand. She settles her hands against Nancy’s thighs once she discards the tissue, tracing small circles over her skin with the pads of her thumbs.

“Do you…” Robin’s features flicker with hesitancy. She swallows, peering up at Nancy with soft eyes. “Do you want mbe to help mbake you sdeeze?”

Nancy blinks, a fresh wave of heat quickly settling in her cheeks. “Robid, you really dod’t -”

“Yeah, I know I dod’t have to, but I…” she pauses, gliding her hands towards the inner part of Nancy’s thighs, her slender fingers working the skin right next to her heat. God, she’s a menace. “I wad’t to.”

“Robid -”

“You’re so stuffed up. It could help.” She smiles, looking so pretty it hurts. “Just… let me try somethi’g. Please?”

Before Nancy can even verbalize an answer, one of Robin’s hands lifts up to cup her face, the tips of her fingers ghosting the skin surrounding her nose. Nancy’s not sure how, but somehow she’s able to find the exact area where her sinuses are the most inflamed, a spot that’s swollen and tender to the touch.

“Aw, ad’gel,” Robin coos. “N’do wonder you’ve got a headache.”

Nancy lets her eyes fall closed, focused completely on the movement of Robin’s fingers, pinching and loosening some of the pressure around her nose. She doesn’t realize her other hand has crept even further up the length of her thigh until the heat of her hand is radiating against the front of Nancy’s underwear, her oversized t-shirt having been hiked up several moments ago.

“Is this okay?” she asks. 

Nancy nods meekly, relishing in the feeling of one side of her nose loosening up enough to let a bit of air pass through. She sniffles thickly, tilting her head back.

“That feels incredible,” she rasps. 

Robin moves to the other side of her nose, applying small amounts of pressure to her lower sinuses with some gentle massages. “How’s that?”

“Perfect. Thagk you.”

“I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad.” Robin slips her free hand through the fabric of Nancy’s underwear, expertly palming her bare heat. “That I got you sick.”

“Dot at all. *snrrf!* Trust mbe.”

One of her fingers passes through Nancy’s folds, causing her to gasp in pleasure. There’s a satisfied smirk on Robin’s face that somehow makes her even more enticing, all at once surprised and inquisitive in her ability to consistently fulfill all of Nancy’s needs.

“Are you goi’g to sdeeze soon?” she says softly. “Dod’t hold back, baby.”

Robin presses down on Nancy’s sinuses one final time before her airways are clear enough to allow a thin, watery trickle to escape the thick congestion in the upper parts of her nose. Robin manages to lower her hand from her face before a set of rapid, powerful sneezes explode out of her.

“ehhSSHH’uhh!” She doesn’t stifle at all this time, letting out a small gasp when Robin digs another finger past her folds, knuckles curling at the perfect angle inside of her. “ahh’TCHHHhiew! ‘KSHHHhew! … Hahh - ISCHHhh’uh! Sorry, I cad’t - ASCHHHIEW! - cad’t stop - hh’ESCHHHH!”

“Do you wad’t me to keep goi’g?” Robin asks, looking slightly panicked. 

Nancy suddenly realizes how aroused she’s gotten in such a short amount of time, leaking hot and heavy onto her girlfriend’s fingers as continues to pump them in and out of her entrance.

“Y-Yes - ehhSCHHHOO! - please… *snuurf* ‘TSCHHHhew! hh’TSCHHH’uh!”

Nancy sucks in a deep breath, using the gap in her sneezing as an opportunity to wipe her streaming nose against the back of her hand. It isn’t long before she notices Robin’s gone uncharacteristically quiet. Through her sickly tears, Nancy can see her face twisting familiarly. Holy hell.

“hihh’SCHHew! Shit. *snffg* hh’PSCHH! eh’ESCHhew!”

“Fuck, Rob,” Nancy breathes, letting out a tiny giggle. 

Robin smiles up at her, looking blissful despite the mess on her face. Nancy leans down and kisses her, ignoring the salty taste on her tongue, the way Robin’s lips initially twitch in protest before melting against hers. Her fingers pick up the pace inside of her, working her clit until all she can hear is the gurgling of Robin’s soft sniffles, her head thrown back as she quietly falls apart.

Nancy sits frozen like that for a while, jaw hung and thighs trembling while Robin diligently brushes a tissue across her skin, mopping up any slickness she can find. When she comes back down to earth, Robin’s still smiling, brushing her lips over Nancy’s knuckles with a tenderness that feels infinite.

“Come here,” she says.

Nancy lets herself fall into her side, sniffling her bright red nose while Robin drops a smattering of kisses along the top of her head.

“That was…” Nancy begins, her vocabulary coming up short. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to articulate how she feels right now.

“Yeah. It was.” Robin agrees, squeezing her tight around her shoulders. “Hhh… hh’ehhSCHH!”

“Bless y-you… eh’SSHHHOO! *snrfg!*”

Robin laughs. “Back at you, baby.”

They room goes quiet again, Robin’s hand absently stroking the damp skin at Nancy’s navel while Nancy presses the side of her face into her chest. She feels wide awake now, Robin’s gentle touch still registering as wild sparks of heat. She’s never felt so perfectly pleased in her entire life.

“So…” Robin says, clearing her throat. “Would you wad’t to… do that agai’d later?”

Even after everything, Nancy still blushes, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “I mbead… I ab still pretty stuffed up.”

Her voice lights up with clarity. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Nancy lifts her chin, kissing her for the hundredth time tonight. Kissing her in a way that she hopes communicates how happy she feels right now. Robin laughs again, winding her arm around Nancy’s waist as she tucks her face into her neck. 

Now that she truly knows how to push all of Nancys’ buttons, Nancy can’t wait to figure out how to push all of hers.

[monminimage]

Sicktember 2022 day 10

Prompt - 'blow your nose'

Four let out a heavy breathe, watching as it puffed into cold mist, dissipating into the cold air. It had only been a few hours since they arrived, the latest portal spitting them out near the top of Hebra mountains. Wild was quick to pass out warm clothes and spicy elixirs before leading them to the Hebra Trailhead Lodge. He assured everyone that it was okay to use, and they all settled in and warmed up.

Because it was still daylight out, the others decided to go outside while Four and Wind decided to stay in due to low resistance to the cold.

Four shivered as a harsh wind hit him and he quickly retreated back into the warm lodge Wild had led them to. He shut the door quickly, shuffling over to the fire, making sure to grab his blanket on his way over.

A sneeze echoed in the empty cabin, followed by a thick snort, the tell tale sign sucking mucus back.

Four shuddered in disgust, but ignored it, more focused on getting warmed up by the fire.

A few minutes pass before another sneeze, another snort, and a small curse broke the silence.

It wasn't until it happened a 3rd time did Four speak up.

"Wind, please, just blow your nose." He turned around to find Wind sitting up, bundled up tightly in his bed roll, the only visible part of him was his face dripping with mucus.

"No." Wind sniffed with a nasally voice.

"You'd rather sit there with snot frozen to your face?"

"I am not letting the cold into my blankets to grab a tissue and blow my nose!" Wind hunched in further before mumbling, "Stupid cold air, stupid cold air making me sneeze my brains out...."

Four sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Then come over here closer to the fire."

"Too cold."

"You'll be less cold if you get over here."

"Can't you just drag me over?" Wind whined, snorting the mucus away again.

Four's eyes flashed blue for a moment. "Ugh, fine. But before that...." He dug through his bag, retrieving a clean tissue, and made his way over to the bundled up sailor.

Four folded the tissue neatly, holding it between the sides of his index finger and thumb, and pressing it to Wind's nose. "Blow your nose."

Wind blinked, surprised at the action, then obeyed.

Four pinched his fingers together and let them go a few times, letting Wind get out as much snot as he could. He folded the tissue once more and wiped off the remaining mucus.

Satisfied that Wind's nose was mostly cleared, Four tossed the tissue away. He grabbed the end of Wind's bed roll and started dragging him closer to the fire. The sailor fell to his back giggling, not doing a thing to help.

The distance between the fire and where Wind slept wasn't too far, only taking a few tugs for the two to reach the warmth of the fire.

Four sat down beside Wind, bumping their shoulders together. "Happy now? Can you feel the warmth?"

"Thanks." Wind bumped him back with a grin. "And here I thought it was me and Twilight who were the expert nose wipers."

Four let out a small laugh. "Yeah, well, when you live with someone who's a bit of a cry baby, you learn how to wipe noses."

"That's true. But for me, it's because there's a kid on Outset who seems to have a permanent runny nose, mucus literally hanging from his nostrils." Wind explained, leaning closer to the fire. "I've helped him wipe his nose sooooo many times, but it doesn't do a thing. Everyone of the island just sorta... let it be."

"...Wait, so he just... runs around with snot?"

"Yeah. He's fine though. Doesn't stop him at all."

Four said nothing, the downward curl of his lips saying enough.

Wind could only shrug, finally warm enough to take his arm out and wipe his nose on his sleeve.

"Gross! Wind, seriously?!"

"Expert. Nose wiper."

"But that's not...! You shouldn't...! Ughh."

The smallest boys bonding over the cold and wiping noses. It was a strange bonding moment.

The prompt just sorta reminded me of when I was a baby and my parents would tell me to blow my nose, and proceed to help me blow my nose. By doing what Four did to Wind. Any one else have parents do that? Lol

[fanficsfromyesteryear]

SICK & TIRED

A STRANGER THINGS ONE SHOT

— PAIRING: Billy Hargrove x Reader — WORD COUNT: 2,077 — WARNINGS: Cursing, Billy being...himself — REQUESTED BY: @udontneedtokno 

Um hi, can I request a billy x fem reader where she Is feeling a bit sick and crappy and he takes care of her? Also could you make it so they aren’t dating yet so he’s still a bit of a meanie and flirts pretty hard with her while he’s taking care of her? I love ur billy x readers sm🥺💖

— A/N: First of all, thank you so much?? Honestly, he’s my favorite character to write for. He’s so unapologetically rude and flirtatious, and I think it’s hilarious. Secondly, I’m sooooo sorry about how long this took!! Life got really busy for a while, so I didn’t have much time to sit down and write, but it’s slowed down again for the time being. Anyway, I can’t even tell you how excited I was when I saw your request! I’m such a sucker for sick reader/character storylines, probably because I relate to them so much. Any time my stomach hurts even slightly, you would think I’m dying with how much I milk it. I had lots of fun writing this, and I hope it was worth waiting for!!

Despite your best efforts to convince your mom to let you skip school, she wasn’t having it. For one, she thought you were just being overdramatic—so what if your nose was a little runny? She handed you a pack of Kleenex, forced cough syrup down your throat, and shoved you out the front door with a promise that you would be fine. You weren’t so sure, and your suspicions were only confirmed when you ran out of tissues by the end of first period, and instead of clearing your head, the medicine had only succeeded in making you drowsy. More than once, you felt yourself slipping away from reality—you weren’t quite falling asleep, but you could tell that you weren’t wholly present either. You wanted nothing more than to go home and take a nap, but your mom was at work, and you didn’t trust yourself to walk all that way on your own.

“Wow, Y/N, you look like shit.”

You were standing in the hallway, unsure of how you had come to be there—you must’ve zoned out again. With a blank stare, you turned to look at Billy Hargrove, who was leaning with his back to the locker beside yours. “Thank you,” you said, sniffing. You couldn’t breathe—it felt like you had a thick wad of cotton shoved inside each nostril. “I feel like shit, too.” As if on cue, you let out a sneeze.

Billy backed away, warily studying you. You had dark circles beneath your puffy eyes, and your nose was red and raw from being smothered with one too many tissues. You looked absolutely miserable, and even though a part of him wanted to stay as far away from you as possible—just in case whatever you had was contagious—he felt bad for you more than anything. He reached up to brush aside a stray piece of your hair. “Hey—” Billy was about to say more but stopped himself mid-sentence, his hand lingering on the side of your face as his eyebrows scrunched together. “You’re kinda hot,” he informed you.

Letting out a groan, you rolled your eyes and swatted his hand away. “Billy, I’m not in the mood for any of your—”

“No, seriously. I think you have a fever or something.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” you said simply. Turning, you started off down the hallway toward your next class. You’d gotten this far—you might as well stick it out until the end of the day. As much as you didn’t want to be there, you didn’t have much of a choice. You figured you might as well try to carry on like normal.

Billy thought otherwise. You hadn’t gotten far when you felt his hand wrap around your elbow. He pulled you backwards, and in your weakened state, you were in no shape to fight against him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Billy demanded.

“To class,” you said, your voice muffled by your hand as you wiped your nose on the sleeve of your sweater.

Billy scoffed. “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re sick.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” you whined. “My mom’s at work, and—”

“I’ll take you home,” Billy offered. “I need an excuse to get out of here anyway.” Before you could argue any further, Billy slung his arm around your shoulders and led the way outside.

As the two of you trekked across the parking lot to where his Camaro was parked on top of the hill, you were grateful for how close Billy was—you could lean on him for support whenever the need arose, which proved to be quite often.

Billy made sure to help you into the passenger seat—“Watch where you put your hands, Hargrove”—but as he was climbing into the car himself, he looked to you with an air of seriousness. “You better not puke in here,” he warned. “If you do, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I’m not gonna puke.” You hoped that was true because you knew Billy well enough by now to know that he wasn’t kidding, and you didn’t feel like scrubbing your own throw up out of his car’s upholstery.

As the Camaro pulled out onto the main road, you could feel your eyelids growing heavy. At some point, you must’ve drifted off because by the time Billy’s car came to a stop in front of your house, he glanced over to find you fast asleep. Billy yanked his keys out of the ignition and got out with a heavy sigh. As he bent down to scoop you up, he grumbled about how you were going to give him whatever the hell was plaguing you. He concluded with, “Be glad you’re cute,” before kicking the car door shut and walking up the driveway.

Once inside, Billy dumped you onto the couch in the living room. He stepped back and stared at you for a moment with crossed arms as he tried to assess the situation. What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of sick people—he avoided sick people, mainly because he couldn’t be bothered with them, not to mention how gross they were. You were different, though, and Billy mentally kicked himself for feeling that way. All this trouble just to get you to like him? It was a new low.

When you awoke, you were surprised to find yourself inside your house with a blanket thrown across you, alongside Billy, who was sitting on the other end of the couch with your feet in his lap. You couldn’t remember having walked in—maybe that cough medicine was still messing with your head—and you hadn’t expected Billy to stick around. You had assumed he’d drop you off and then be on his merry way. As far as you could tell, he wasn’t exactly a nurturer. At the very least, you doubted this was how he wanted to be spending his time away from school.

As soon as Billy felt you stirring, he glanced over tentatively and caught sight of you staring at him. He raised his eyebrows in question. “What?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to still be here,” you answered.

Billy looked almost offended at this. “And leave my favorite girl to die alone? I would never.”

A small laugh escaped your chapped lips. “I’m not dying,” you said, poking Billy’s knee with the toe of your sneaker. “At least, I won’t be once I take the right medicine.” You must’ve slept off the effects of the cough syrup your mom had given you—you were no longer insufferably tired, which was a plus, but the congestion in your head had culminated into a headache, and it had brought a side of chills with it. You swung your legs over the side of the couch and were about to get up when Billy stopped you.

“No,” Billy said, pushing you back down. “I’ll get it.”

You told Billy where the bathroom was and what to grab—“Aspirin’s fine”—then he disappeared down the hallway branching off of your living room. You were no expert on what the average time should’ve been for completing such a task, but after several minutes had passed and Billy still hadn’t returned, you started to wonder what was taking so long.

The answer to your silent question came in the form of Billy irritably yelling, “Y/N, why do you have so much shit in here?”

Grumbling, you rose from your spot on the couch and shuffled into the bathroom. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Billy turned to find you standing at his elbow, wrapped up in a blanket somewhat reminiscent of the way E.T. had been in the flying bike scene. Only your pouting face protruded from the folds of fabric. The blond couldn’t help cracking a smile at your appearance—comical, yet undeniably cute—and just like that, he had forgotten what it was that had caused your sudden presence.

You took no time jogging Billy’s memory. “It’s right there,” you said, your eyes resting on a bottle sitting on the bottom shelf of your medicine cabinet. A moment later, your hand poked through the blanket and seized the small container. You bumped Billy out of the way as you popped a pill into your mouth and stepped in front of the sink to pour yourself a glass of water. By the time you’d swallowed, he was gone.

“Billy?” you called, stepping out of the bathroom.

Billy’s voice came from somewhere down the hall, saying, “Holy shit, Y/N, is this your room?”

You appeared behind Billy in an instant, latching onto his arm and giving it a tug. “Oh, my God,” you said, your face burning. “Don’t go in there. It’s a mess!”

Being the sort of person that likes to do the exact opposite of what he’s told, Billy easily pulled free from your grasp and wandered inside. He was like a kid in a candy shop as he admired the things lining your shelves—trinkets, books, records, and the like—with wide eyes. Bedrooms tell a lot about the person to whom they belong, and boy, was Billy learning about you.

“And, who is this?” Billy asked with a devious smile as he picked up the faded brown teddy bear that had been lodged between the pillows on your bed.

Groaning, you buried your face in your hands, the soft fabric of the blanket covering your eyes. You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. If you had known that Billy Hargrove, of all people, was going to be in your room later, you would’ve made an effort that morning to clean up a bit—at the very least, you would’ve hidden anything embarrassing.

You risked a peek up at Billy, but he wasn’t where you’d last seen him. Instead, he’d moved over to your dresser and was rummaging through its drawers. How typical, you thought with a roll of your eyes. I look away for one second, and already, he’s trying to find my underwear.

Billy achieved his goal, too—you could tell by the cheeky grin on his face. His gaze cut over to you, then back down to the contents of the drawer in front of him, nodding thoughtfully all the while. He was about to pull something out, but you intervened—extending an arm, you slammed the wooden compartment shut, and if Billy hadn’t been so quick to pull his hands out of the way, he would’ve gotten his fingers smashed.

“That’s enough of that,” you said, grabbing Billy’s hand and dragging him back into the living room.

“You’re no fun,” Billy complained.

Both of you returned to your spots on the couch in moody silence. You tried to cross your arms, but you stopped abruptly when you realized that your fingers were still entwined with Billy’s. Blushing, you glanced down at your hands, then up at him, however, he didn’t seem to be paying you any mind. He was facing the wall directly opposite the couch with his eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

Billy raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Trying to picture you in that underwear,” he stated simply, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

You snatched your hand away to shove him with it. “You’re the worst, Billy Hargrove,” you said, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your mouth afterward.

“Damn it, Y/N,” Billy said. “I can’t concentrate with you giggling like that.”

“Good!” you remarked, nose held in the air as you squinted tauntingly at Billy.

Despite the two of you constantly teasing each other, you actually felt substantially better by the time Billy left your house that afternoon to pick Max up from school. He may not have been a doctor in the making, but where he lacked in nurturing qualities, he made up for with playful flirting and good company, and as they say, laughter’s the best medicine. You thought your troubles were over until you woke up the next morning to the sound of your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

You were answered with a sneeze from the other end of the line, followed by a hoarse voice saying, “This is your fault.”

“Aw, Billy, are you sick?” you asked, feigning surprise as you bit back a chuckle.

“Yeah, I’m sick,” Billy whined. “Get over here and fix it.”

“What’s the magic word?”

Another sneeze, then, “Now.”

And your mom thought you were dramatic when you were sick. As if.

[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

To start this off this HTTYD WHUMP Collection, I'm taking inspiration from a whumptober list and the second on the list was Gutspill and I had a fucking brainstorm (do mind my french, I swear like a sailor and a trooper, I'm also British). I wrote this five days ago and finished it, but as I was highlighting it so I could copy it to move here, I accidentally deleted half of it so... after my five-day meltdown, I've finally finished it and I think I turned out even better than it did the first time. I hope you have a box of kleenex or whatever tissue brand you have in your country, this one is a corker.

(you can also find my works on my archive of our own, name in profile)

__________________________________________________________________________________

There is blood everywhere. It's on his hands, on his face, on his sword, the world has become a thing of blood and ash, they clog up his lungs and he's choking on it. But his blood, it boils in his veins like water over fire and his heart pumps it hard throughout his body, hungry and starved for flesh, for death. Snotlout is a warrior, born and bred, and there is a mercifulness inside him that has long kept this beast at bay. But today, on this battlefield where mercy leaves you dead, he can let the starved beast writhing in his chest out and allow it to sate its hunger. Just for today, just for one day, he'll be an animal.

The shores of Berk are red with blood and will be for days afterwards. The bodies, broken and bloodied, add a layer onto the sand like a second crust, piling upon each other and almost looking like some gruesome, horrible beast that stretches on for miles. Those muddy, grasping hands, those black, gaping maws, those dead, dead eyes. The sky is terribly blue and dragons soar down with fire in the chests, spewing it across the enemy like they are wild monsters again, like they've forgotten kindness.

Today, everyone has forgotten the tenderness of mercy.

Snotlout slashes his sword across a man's chest and blood sprays across his face. The enemy falls onto one knee with a cry and lifts his mace to retaliate, but he's too slow to stop the blade from plunging into his stomach. Through the slits of the enemy's helmet, Snotlout notices that his eyes are green and, before he dies, that they are full of fear. Those eyes will haunt him tonight, but today there is no compassion in his heart for those who dare to threaten his home.

Pulling his sword from the corpse, he looks in awe at how it steams from fresh blood. Snotlout's face is hot with blood that is not his own and he can taste it on his teeth, a coppery wash on his tongue. Blood tastes like lightning. Two men try to rush him, but he cuts one down with a swipe to his legs and the other he grasps by the neck, headbutting him angrily. He drops the unconscious enemy and impales the floored man through the back. More blood, but it's not enough the please the hungry thing inside him.

He hears a mighty battle cry and turns to see Ruffnut, braids matted with blood and bleeding from both nostrils, she looks wild like a creature. She feels it too, she's also got a hungry beast inside her, she's also been starved of blood. She grabs a man, pulls his back to her chest and slices his throat with a smile some would say is mad. Today, we are all mad, mad things are best at killing.

Tuffnut is not far from her and he's swinging in circles, fatally hitting anyone brave (or stupid) enough to get close to him. Snotlout watches Ruffnut kill again, and he's falling in love with her all over again as she buries her dagger to the hilt into a man's eye. He screams. She laughs and slices his throat too. Her face and chest are washed with blood from his squirting neck.

They catch each other's' gaze and, just for a moment, the starved monsters crawl back into the darkest corners of their hearts to allow the tenderness to come back. Ruffnut's eyes soften, those thunderstorm eyes lose their madness and gaze deep into Snotlout, conveying all the words that they both struggle to say. He lets out a short, breathy exhale because, Gods, she is so beautiful, she must be from a dream.

Suddenly, Tuffnut is in the picture and he looks both disgusted and displeased.

"Uh, guys, big battle happening all around you," Tuffnut yells over the sound of war, gesturing around him with a blood-caked Macey II, "don't think this is an appropriate time to be making-love via eye-contact,"

An axe-wielding enemy charges towards Tuff and Ruff from behind. But before Snotlout can even open his mouth to warn them, Ruffnut throws her arm back and the man goes down hard and fast, a dagger lodged in his throat. Oh, by Freyja, he loves her so much. Ruffnut gives him a smirk, sharp and deadly, before charging away with a dragon-roar cry.

"See you on the other side, Princess!" Snotlout shouts and then the beast lunges out from the shadows of his aortas, he's back to being an animal again and races deeper into the battlefield.

His eyes catch sight of a monstrous opponent. The Commander. He's tall and wide, built like a mountain, decked out in black, hateful-looking armour and he's pulling his sword from the chest of a Berkian shield-maiden. Snotlout doesn't recognise her, almost mistakes her for Astrid from her blonde hair, but she's far too young, far too small, far too innocent to be here. Doesn't matter now, she's dead and being carried away on the backs of Valkyries to Valhalla. Still, she was too young.

Then, the all too familiar sonic-whistle fills the air and he watches the Commander look to the sky.

"NIGHT FURY!" A man distantly warns. Everyone ducks to the ground in fear. Snotlout remains standing. So does the Commander.

There's only a flash of Toothless, a black dart across the pale sky before a purple blast dives to the battlefield. The explosion is bright and blinding behind the dark silhouette of the Commander and a shockwave sends those already crouched down to the sand, but still he remains standing, unyielding. Snotlout also stands, unbowed.

His ears are ringing from the explosion but there's an anger in his chest, building and building and building, soon its going burst out of his chest. Warriors lay around them, disorientated and directionless, and the Commander turns to him, his only worthy opponent. Snotlout breaths violently through his nose, a deep rage coursing through his blood like a forest fire and there is nothing that will stop the inferno in him. His entire body is shaking, like a dragon ready to take flight. Gods, if he was a dragon; the world would be ashes at his feet.

For a moment, they size each other up. Dragon-fire reflects of the Commander's black armour and Snotlout's blade of steel becomes a spine of flames. Everything in his life has been leading up to this moment, this moment which will change the course of his life forever, this is what the Fates have planned for him. Prove your worth, Dragon-Rider, Fire-Swallower, prove your worth to the ones who believe you to be nothing.

Snotlout closes his eyes and wraps both of his trembling hands around the hilt of his sword. The sounds of battle are distant and his heartbeat pulses in his ear like a war drum. This is it. Let the beast free, let it out the cage, let it off the chain. Let it kill them all.

Snotlout opens his eyes and that unbridled rage comes forth in the form of a thunderous howl, tearing through his throat. He runs towards what could be his beginning or his end, either will be fine but he'll die proving he's something, something fierce, something brave, something worthy. The Commander too starts to run, charging towards him with his blood-shining sword and he's silent like death, his eyes shimmering like stolen sapphires beneath his helmet.

And as they get closer, Snotlout raises his sword into the blood-thick air and again roars his worth for all to here, a stream of fire bursting like dying stars behind him.

But the beast is a primal thing, while the Commander is a calculating thing, silent and cunning; Beasts are sometimes made to be fools in their wrath.

And as Snotlout brings his blade down for the kill, the Commander falls and skids across the sand, kicking it up to momentarily blind him. It takes him a moment too late to realise the grave, fatal mistake he has made.

As the Commander slides past Snotlout, he slashes his sword across his gut and the terrible feeling of his skin and flesh being carved open makes him halt on the spot. His ears are ringing again and there isn't even pain, there is just a hotness in his gut and the vague feeling of something slipping, he doesn't understand what's happening. Dropping his sword, he stares wide-eyed into the distant and gasps for breath, it feels like he's been hit in the chest with a war hammer.

Over the ringing in his ears, Snotlout hears the movement of feet disturbing stand and the whistling sound of a sword cutting through the air. In the distance, far away, he hears a woman screaming in despair. He thinks it might be Ruffnut.

That primal beast wakes up again and he isn't even thinking when he turns around, hands up ready to catch something. The blade of a sword falls into his grasp and it cuts through his leather gloves, digging deep into his palms as he pushes the sword from his face. He bares his bloodied teeth like a cornered animal and stares deep into the eyes behind the helmet, blue and angry and hateful; they gaze back.

He's going to die, oh that's okay, but by the Gods is he taking this bastard with him.

Snotlout releases one hand to immediately grasp at the Commander's armoured wrist. The blade digs further into his hand, hot blood tracks down his arm. It is only due to the rage and adrenaline burning through him that allows Snotlout to twist the Enemy's hand till it near breaks before dislodging the sword from the cursing man and, as quick as lighting, he wraps his fingers around the hilt and does a half turn.

The sword is plunged deep into the Commander's stomach. Snotlout lets go of the stolen sword and allows it to fall with its owner behind him. He smells blood and ash, tastes it too. Gods, he's choking on HIS blood and he doesn't know what to do. Looking down to his stomach, Snotlout is full of horror as he sees his guts partially hanging out of the slice in his belly. He touches them with his hands and they come away red, hot, steaming.

"The Commander is dead!" Someone cries, "Retreat! Back to the boats!" Others chime.

Snotlout falls to the bloody-encrusted shore on his back and stares up the terribly blue sky, disturbed only by dark rising smoke and the shadows of retreating men that leap over his body. His breath is loud in his ears and he can feel the blood pouring from him, soaking into his tunic and running down his sides to stain the sand beneath him. There should be fear in his heart, but he can only find the sweetness of victory, the relief that the battle is over and they came out the victors.

A body skids beside him and he looks up to see Ruffnut, eyes white and wide with fear as she stares at his stomach, at the blood that pours and oozes, a never-ending river draining from his body. The tide will come in soon and wash it all away. Maybe it'll take his body too, the sea stealing him away and dragging him to the ends of the Earth, it sounds like a peaceful end.

"Gods, you idiot, what have you done?" She whispers, voice raw from screaming, from terror, and he watches in a dull sort of morbid curiosity as she pushes the exposed intestines back inside him.

The pain is suddenly everywhere as his cut flesh is disturbed and his body goes into spasms, agony setting his nerves ablaze and making tears sprout in his eyes as he shakes his head side to side. Snotlout lets out a broken scream, by Gods, won't he just die already. When the torment simmers down, he opens his watery eyes to see Hiccup knelt opposite Ruffnut, his hands using the fabric of one of Toothless' spare tails to stem the bleeding as he shouts orders to people. ("We need Gothi here! Now please!")

"Did we win?" He croaks stupidly, because he knows that they have but he wants to here it, wants to make sure it wasn't some illusion from his deluded mind.

Hiccup snaps his head to him and those green eyes are vast with panic and dread, but still a smile cracks across his cousin's face as his trembling hands are stained with his blood, stark against his pale skin.

"Yes, we won," Hiccup breathes, then swallows, "Thanks to you, Lout, we won and they won't be coming back, you did great, you were amazing! And you have to keep being amazing now, okay? You have to stay awake, just for a bit longer,"

"I-I don't think-" Another bout of pain, another agonized yell.

Ruffnut pauses for a brief moment, her hands hovering over his gut as she looks at him with anxious eyes, but she's an experienced healer and knows that the more time she wastes, the more blood he loses. The higher the chance she has of losing him. She continues to cut open his tunic so she can start to bandage him up. Snotlout recovers and regains his breath, body sweating and shivering from the pain.

"I don't think you can fix this," He whispers honestly, because there is so much blood and he feels so tired, Gods, there's a hole in him and it won't stop bleeding.

The sun is starting to set and the stars are faintly beginning to shine in the darkening sky, it's making everything feel like a dream, nothing feels real. Hiccup stares at him with low brows and a firm face before he replies, determination shimmering in his eyes as he looks back down at the blood-sodden fabric in his hands.

"Of course, I can,"

Ruffnut and Hiccup briefly share a look over Snotlout's bleeding body, she can see the dread beneath his determination, she can see his doubt. So can Snotlout.

"Where is he? Where's Snotlout?!" Comes a harsh, familiar voice and Snotlout watches as his dad pushes through the crowd circled around him, Chief Stoick and Gobber close behind him.

His dad pauses at the sight of him, dulled eyes glazing over as his chest expands with his shocked inhale, his axe slipping from his loose-fingered hand as he crumbles to the sand, crawling over to him. Snotlout has never seen this look on his dad before, never seen him broken like this, and it's making him realise how bad of a state he is in, how a jaded warrior like Spitelout can be brought to his knees just by the sight of him.

"Dad," Snotlout says quietly, he has never felt so relieved to see his dad in his life.

"I'm here, boyo, I'm here," His dad answers as he sooths his scarred hand over Snotlout's head, pushing away stray strands of blood-slick hair with a tenderness he has never shown to possess. (Spitelout lost all his kindness when his wife died, she took his heart with her)

"I'm sorry, my boy," He whispers, voiced choked from the sobs lodged in his throat, his other hand coming down to rest against Snotlout's jaw, "I've been a cruel man to you and I know-"

"Dad-" Snotlout interrupts, not wanting to hear his father's regrets because he can see them in his pale eyes, writhing around like trapped birds begging to get out. His dad, unsurprisingly, doesn't listen.

"I know it's too late now, but- But I don't want you going believing that I wasn't proud of you," And Snotlout gasps shakily at those words because that is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? His dad's acceptance, the knowledge that he wasn't some burden, that he was loved, "because I am, Snotlout, I am SO proud of the man you've become, a man I could only dream of being,"

Tears drip from his dad's eyelashes and the wetness that's gathered in Snotlout's eyes finally break over, pouring down the side of his face as his throat tightens up. He can feel Ruffnut swathing bandages aground his abdomen, the terrible pain nothing compared to the relief in his heart that if he dies today, he dies with everything he's ever wanted. He'll die like how good men should; worthy, accepted, loved.

"I'm not scared, dad, I'm- I'm not scared," Snotlout reassures, voice tight as more tears spill over, he needs his dad, everyone, to know that he's no afraid of dying, "I'm not afraid anymore,"

His dad smiles with quivering lips and lowers down to press his forehead against Snotlout's, he closes his eyes and he feels like a child, protected in his father's embrace, calloused hands cradling his jaw and head. This is goodbye and Snotlout only feels like he's just got his dad. But it doesn't matter, at some point in his life, his dad was proud of him and this small moment is enough. His dad presses a kiss to his head.

"I'm proud to call you my son," He whispers against his blood-caked skin and suddenly Snotlout knows what it is to be a son, knows what it is to be whole.

With hands hesitant to let go, Spitelout stands and stumbles backwards from his son, not daring to take his eyes off him. Stoick wraps a comforting arm around his back and takes hold of his bicep, squeezing it sympathetically.

Snotlout can see the others standing there too, watching him die. Astrid has her shaking hands over her mouth and tears streak through the grime on her cheeks, he hates that he's caused that strong woman so much grief. Besides her, Fishlegs stands with his war hammer clutched in his grasp like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart, his face taut with sorrow and sadness. Tuffnut has his arms thrown up over his head and his teeth are bared in anguish, staring between Ruffnut and his broken body as his tears fall, gathering along his jaw.

He wants to apologies, but he feels so weak. It's nearly time to go.

Hiccup is still, sat back on his ankles with a despondent and grief-stricken look on his face as he watches Ruffnut securing his bandages, adding more layers as more blood seeps through, her hands frantic in their movement. And Snotlout thought he was the stubborn one, surely, she can see he's times up.

"Ruff-" Hiccup starts with a sob-choked voice but Ruffnut is shaking her head feverishly, face full of denial.

"No, we just need to get him out of here to Gothi's, she'll stitch him up and he'll be fine-"

"Sis-" Tuffnut steps forward, trying to reason with her.

"HE'LL BE FINE!" Her scream echoes around them all and it's so ferocious, so heartbroken, so desperate, he swears the stars will fall upon them.

Taken aback by the savageness in her eyes, Tuffnut quickly steps back and Ruffnut goes back to fussing with bandages, drawing more out from a compartment in her side armour so she can stem the flow. It won't work, he's lost too much blood. Snotlout know it, she knows it. He's too tired to do much, but he has to make her understand that this is it for them and he doesn't want to die without telling her.

With what little strength he has, he raises his hand and cards his hands into her hair, the part he's latched onto is silky smooth and free of blood, pure. Tugging her braid, Ruffnut turns to look at him, her wet eyes are wild with grief and anger and her lips are curled into a snarl tight with both sadness and rage.

"Don't," She growls, voice wavering, grabbing his hand to pull it away as she looks back to the already soaked through bandages, but he hasn't long left and he wants her to know, needs her to know, he needs to say it one last time.

Snotlout takes her hand into his and rubs his thumb over her bleeding knuckles with a tenderness that aches deep inside him, Ruffnut pauses and turns her head to him, looking hopeless and afraid.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," He breathes repeatedly, his mind is going dizzy but he doesn't need to think, he just needs to feel and the words come out on their own, drenched in his love and adoration for her, "Ruffnut, I love you, I love you, I love you, only you,"

With her head tilting, the tears dribble down her blood-slick face and over her trembling lips as she finally understands that this is it, sobs racking her body as she crawls swiftly over to him. They kiss because it's the last time they will hold each other again and it feels like freedom, feels like coming home. He touches her face gently, branding her eyes, her lips, her hair to his memory in hopes that he keeps it when he goes. If he can't live without her in life, he can't live without in death.

"Snotlout," Ruffnut begs with a keen, her quaking hand weaving through his hair, and he smiles at her, his hand falling from her face.

"It's okay, Princess... you can let me go," He murmurs softly.

Gods, he's going to miss seeing her in the morning, going to miss her barking laugh, going to miss the feeling of her hair in his hands as he braids her hair. He's going to miss her so much; he'll die again in Valhalla from the pain her absence.

"I don't want to," She weeps, shaking her head, cradling his face in her hands, "I don't want to let you go, Mutton-head, don't you get that? I can't!"

"You ca-can," He cracks, tears mixing with blood on his face, and he squeezes her hand, "Let me go,"

And with that, she slips her hand from his. She's taken the first step, she has to do the rest on her own now.

Suddenly, the sky is trembling with a roar and the Earth shudders as Hookfang lands upon the battlefield.

The Dragon's hide ignites when he sees his Rider and he kicks up bloodied sand as he races over to Snotlout, warriors scrambling out of the beasts frenzied path less they be trampled. Hookfang comes to him with alarmed noises in the back of his throat as he dances lightly around his Rider, a dreadful look in his eyes as he tries to find out what's wrong with him. When he sees the blood, an awfully sad wail leaps from his maw and his flames die out. Gods, Hookfang already looks sodden with grief.

"Hooky," Snotlout murmurs tiredly and he turns his head to look at him, his fire-streaked eyes are slitted in horror and with a desperate whine, digs his snout under the Rider's arm before lifting it up, but it falls limply back to the sand.

Get up, Hookfang is begging him, get up, get up, let's go home now.

"I'm sorry, Hooky," Snotlout apologises brokenly, shaking his head, "I can't,"

The Nightmare tenderly nudges his muzzle against Snotlout's red cheek with a guttural purr, the familiar warmth of his scales helps to ease his hurting heart. He lifts his head and again stares at Snotlout with that look, asking him to come home. Snotlout softly shakes his head, blinking away tears so his vision isn't blurry. This is the last time he's going to see his best friend; he can't waste a single second. After a moment, the desperation in Hookfang's eyes morphs into acceptance.

Weakly, Snotlout lifts his hand and holds it out to Hookfang, too exhausted to stretch it out any further, but his friend understands and meets him halfway. Gods, it's like the first time they touched all over again and there is a deep grief in his heart, he's never going to touch Hookfang again, he's never going to fly again. He'll fly with the Valkyries, but he'd choose Hookfang over them any day. He'd chose dragons wings over honour any day.

"You're my best friend," He says softly and in Hookfang's eyes, he sees himself. He doesn't have to say more, doesn't have to pour his heart out his mouth for Hookfang to understand, he just has to look at him and it's enough.

Looking to the sky, he feels his heartbeat slowing, feels very tired.

"Thank you," He breathes weakly and closes his eyes.

Snotlout's palm slips from Hookfang's muzzle, fingertips dragging against the scales like they don't want to let go before they fall, and his hand hits the sand with a sense of finality.

[lazylazyhowl]

Hot-blooded (sasusaku oneshot)

Summary: Sasuke is a hot-blooded young man. He just forgot that.

Or,

Due to technical difficulties, the Sharingan's recording function is temporarily unavailable :(

In which,

Sakura is oblivious, Sasuke is too but then he isn’t, Sai spares no feeling, Naruto is confused, and Kakashi is having too much fun to intervene.

AO3 Link

 Ko-fi

Feedback is always appreciated. Please also consider buying me a cup of coffee if you like what I do.

It started with a tickle inside his nose as he felt something crawl down the cavern of his left nostril.

“Sa-Sasuke-kun!”

Sakura’s focused green eyes went wide before him. The tongue depressor she had inside his mouth scraped against his bottom teeth as her otherwise steady hand quivered momentarily.

Snot, then – he decided with a vague sense of shame, feeling the trail of the watery substance creep ever closer to the precipice of his upper lip. It had been chilly at night in the hospital lately, but he’d been too offish to bother requesting more blankets. Well, that and few nurses bothered to (or dared) come to his room if they didn’t have to.

He didn’t blame them.

Really.

Covered in invisible chakra suppressing seals as it was, a whole room at the quiet end of a corridor reserved just for him when the hospital was still bursting at the seams with casualties from the war? He could have kissed Tsunade.

If he could get within 10-feet of the Hokage without the entire Anbu pinning him to the ground, that was.

But back on the topic, Sakura looked frantic for some reason as she hurried to lower the tongue depressor from his mouth. “Wait- Sasuke, let me-” She made to stand from her seat, placing a gentle hand on the bandaged stub of his arm, but he shifted away from her on the hospital bed and wiped at the incendiary evidence of how lame he felt at that moment.

When he brought his hand down, he paused and examined the blood on his knuckles. His first thought was to wonder if some wound had reopened.

It was common occurrence for Sasuke. He’d become desensitized to the little nits and pricks of negligible injuries, and, in the throes of battle especially, he would often find the blood before recognizing the pain associated with it.

But then the ticklish feeling in his nose caught his attention again, and he glanced down to see more and more drops of blood landing on the front of his hospital gown.

Not snot, was his second thought as Sakura shoved a handful of tissue paper in his face to staunch the blood.

And when her other hand came around the back of his neck and her warmth drew near to his side, and she started lecturing him to keep his head tilted down, not up, he was still deciding whether a nosebleed was a better or worse thing to have in front of her.

.

.

.

.

“Maybe this is one of the consequences of overtaxing your eyes,” Sakura said, and he couldn’t help noticing the way the deep green shards in her irises contracted as she stared back into his eyes.

He hn’ed distractedly, trying not to shift against her soft palms on both sides of his face. He was uncomfortable with the proximity of their positions as well as the fact that her breaths smelt of mint and something distinctly Sakura. His hands—well, hand…was clammy, and his stomach felt funny.

She’d been behaving differently—than he expected. Though he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected. He didn’t know her. Not anymore. And what he was learning of this new her bothered him.

He supposed what got him most was the anchored grace she carried as his primary physician when his prevalent impression of her was still the little girl that used to chase him around the village, that blushed and stammered, that wore her heart on her sleeves. Not to say he wanted her back – Sakura had grown, good for Sakura – but that girl had been familiar.

This one was not, and she was uprooting something deep inside him.

Then he felt it, the tickle in his nostril, and pulled away from Sakura’s hold.

“Sasuke-kun?” She blinked. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose to avoid staining his clothes again. “Again!?” He averted his gaze sheepishly and reached for the box of tissue at his bedside.

“This is the fourth time this week!”

Of course, she was counting.

“I swear, it could be a side-effect of all these seals for all we know! I can’t even heal you in this room.” She gestured in exasperation around the room, her choppy haircut almost bristling, and he found it amusing. She was getting angry.

.

On a second examination, he wasn’t sure what exactly was so amusing about her getting angry.

And yet it was.

“It’s just a nosebleed, Sakura. There’s no need for you to heal me,” he said, and she immediately deflated, hugging her arms to her chest.

“I know.” She smiled stiffly.

He frowned.

While he had spoken with the intention to calm her down, this outcome was not quite the one he’d hoped to achieve. It was unfair that she blamed him for resorting to monosyllabic answers when every time he formed a full sentence, she would find a way to take it negatively.

“It’s not the seals.” He checked the tissue paper and winced at how much blood there was. The blood hadn’t let up, so he pressed the tissue to his nose again. “They’ve always been used on prisoners.”

“But not to this degree!” She reached for his face. “You need to pinch the bridge…”

He avoided her hand and did as told himself. “Other prisoners don’t have a Rinnegan.”

Her hand dropped back to her side. She was silent for a moment, but he knew it was not for lack of a comeback as she kept her unwavering gaze on him.

“You’re not a prisoner, Sasuke-kun,” she said after a second. “You’re a patient. My patient. So just focus on recovering, and I promise you’ll be out of here before you know it.”

It was just an argument of semantics. But she smiled, such conviction in her eyes, and he decided he liked her way of putting it better.

.

.

.

The weather was nice when he was finally allowed to leave his room for fresh air, and although Sakura never said anything, he just knew with a startling certainty that she’d played a big part in convincing whichever prejudiced councilperson that he hadn’t been lying in wait for an opportunity to burn down the entire village when people weren’t looking.

Beyond what the eyes could see, he sensed the prickle of surveillance from a team of Anbu. A gauging kind of stillness rippled across the hospital’s semi-crowded corridors that Sakura led him through.

He didn’t need to be told, either, to know Sakura was going to accompany his strolls every time. That he was her charge, she was accountable for his actions, and whatever stakes she’d put down to have him walking outside in the daylight, he would need to protect.

He decided to be on his best behavior, and perhaps he should start with keeping his eyes on the ground and not looking at anyone in the eye to make sure he couldn’t be framed for trying to put people under a genjutsu. He knew how much his Rinnegan frightened others, even those who had no idea what they were looking at.

It had been humbling, he decided, to realize Sakura had no qualms about looking into his eyes, at him, when he’d been so sure he’d crushed her beyond repair with those very eyes.

They arrived at an empty corner (or more accurately, a hastily evacuated corner) of the courtyard, and she plopped down on the nearest bench before tapping the space next to her. There was a childish sparkle to her gaze, reminiscent of an older time long gone, and the nostalgia inside him half expected her to allude to the prospects of a date.

But he knew she wouldn’t, and she didn’t. Still, his stomach trembled with what he’d come to acknowledge as gladness. He was glad that little girl wasn’t completely gone.

To what end, was yet to be determined.

He sat down beside her, a good few inches between them.

He closed his eyes and leant back, face to the sunlight. The wind picked up around him, tousling his hair and skimming across his skin, tugging at his empty shirt sleeve. It was still strange not to have that arm.

“You know, Naruto and Kakashi-sensei wanted to come with us today.” He looked from the black chakra seal on his wrist to meet with her eyes. His own narrowed, part in confusion as to why the sudden subject, part in a grimace at how close this peaceful stroll had been to being the exact opposite. He thought he saw Sakura flinch, but he couldn’t be sure. There was no reason for her to.

“They got held up in a meeting with Tsunade-shishō,” she added.

“Hn.”

“It would have been nice to have our team together again.”

“Aa,” he said, not necessarily agreeing.

Sasuke stared at her as the silence between them grew. Judging from Sakura’s increasingly uncomfortable demeanor, he supposed it was the awkward sort of silence that people disliked. Because he was who he was, awkward or not hardly mattered, but he decided to do her a favor and break it.

“There’s a leaf in your hair.”

He hadn’t wanted to point it out. He liked the sight of her with it. Something about it undid ever so slightly the kempt doctor look and let him think about young, dirt-lodged fingernails combing through pink locks to untangle sweaty knots after a particularly difficult C-ranked mission.

“W-where?” She went abruptly from breathing a sigh of relief to running her hand through her hair, frantic yet also careful so as not to muss it up. The result was that the leaf remained firmly in her hair. “Is it gone?”

He watched a few more of her unsuccessful attempts before intervening.

“Stay still.”

She obeyed and became very still. He wasn’t sure if she was even breathing as his fingers thread through her hair (finer and softer than he’d imagined) and slid the tiny leaf down its length. The corner of his mouth quirked, despite himself, in amusement as he observed her cheeks taking on the lively flush of a tomato.

The immediate next moment, all the colors drained from her face.

“Sasuke-kun!”

He blinked, confused, before registering the warm heat rolling down across his lips.

Fuck.

.

.

.

.

It wasn’t like nosebleeds were foreign to Sasuke, but they usually accompanied the ringing numbness of being punched in the face, whether that was in training or actual combat.

And even then, they were few and far in-between. And never this often.

And for some reason always his left nostril. If there was even a reason. He could be eating or just sitting around doing nothing and the blood would start flowing.

Today, he was shaving and almost thought he’d cut himself.

The nosebleeds were annoying, even more than the bursts of phantom pain, (and not the same type of annoying as Sakura, he noted in a corner of his mind). He disliked them all the more because Sakura just happened to be there to catch every single instance of him bleeding out of his nose like some ailing wimp.

Sure, he was her patient. They were in a hospital, she in a white lab coat and he in a fucking gown, and the power imbalance between them couldn’t be anymore subverted. But this. This was pathetic.

Sasuke was never one for vanity. He didn’t try to impress anyone, but there was a certain degree of decorum his Uchiha pride demanded he maintained, and he had reasons to believe non-combat-related nosebleeds were rather high up on the list of things that sullied reputations. Directly behind Harem Jutsu-related ones, to be specific.

So, imagine his surprise, and great chagrin, when the coin was finally dropped by none other than Sai.

“You have strange tastes just like Dickless, Traitor-kun.”

It was hard to decide which part of that sentence was more offensive than the other.

Sasuke looked from Sakura, her back turned to speak with an Anbu member about his progress, to glare at his replacement on Team 7 and attempted to be as menacing as someone with tissue paper in their nose could be.

“Hah?”

Black irises stared back at Sasuke from behind the Lion mask. Sai shrugged. “I don’t get why you’d get excited over Ugly.”

Although Sasuke had sworn to himself he would punch Sai the next time the socially incompetent creep referred to Sakura as ugly, he simply found himself frozen in the spot.

“Well, seems they’re done. I’d best be going. Later, Traitor-kun.”

With a methodical wave of goodbye, Sai was gone with his Anbu teammate.

“Sasuke-kun, good news!” Sakura came back to his side, bright smile on her face, and his stomach did that damning flip again. He could feel the blood creeping up his throat even as he met eyes with her.

“Are you okay?” Her expression turned concerned, and she came up even closer to try and check his temperature, prompting him to take a step back, half-afraid of burning her with the heat on his face. “You look flushed.”

“Fine.” He avoided her gaze and pulled up the front of his baggy hospital shirt to shield as much of him from her as possible. “Just the nosebleed.” And his heart sank with great rue at the reminder of what these nosebleeds had meant this whole time.

“Oh, well they said I can bring you to the main wing for some tests. Let’s go tomorrow so I can finally take a look at it.”

“There’s no need for that.” He immediately regretted how quickly and harshly he’d said it.

“What? Why not?” She sounded affronted, but it just so happened that he cared very little right now.

“Just forget about it.” He turned sharply to head into the bathroom connected to his room.

“Sasuke-”

He slammed the door behind him and collapsed back against it.

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, Sasuke could only sigh at the red-faced idiot staring back at him in the mirror.

.

.

.

“Hoooh?” Kakashi, who’d dropped in to visit, drawled in a way that was deliberately sleazy. He was peeking over his orange Icha Icha book with a glint of shrewd amusement in his eyes that Sasuke had since his genin days decided he did not like. It had usually meant something he did not wish to discuss was going to be discussed, and Kakashi was going to enjoy that discussion at Sasuke’s expense.

True to his Anbu roots, the man had a penchant for noticing things that others usually would not, and it was only due to his blatant disinterest for anything not porn that many in Konoha could sleep at night.

Sasuke, unfortunately, would not have that luxury tonight.

“What?” He griped from his bed as he pressed tissue paper to his nose. Sakura had left the room due to an emergency in another wing, but the effect of her presence remained. He had wished this would not happen around Kakashi.

He knew acting irritated was only going to encourage Kakashi to pursue the topic with extra teasing efforts, but it was either he passed off the flush to his skin as ire or let it be seen as what it was: utter mortification.

Kakashi closed the book in one quick motion, slipped it into the pocket of his vest, and sat back in his chair, looking completely smug underneath his mask. “It appears you’ve come over to this side as well.”

“Excuse me?” Sasuke breathed in abject horror at the implication. He was most definitely not in league with Naruto or Kakashi. Or, god forbid, the Ero Sennin.

“I understand where you are, Sasuke.” Kakashi held up his hands in a placating manner. “Trust me, I was once like you as well. My nasal lining is thinner than average and I get nosebleeds easier than others.”

…Oh. Sasuke relaxed a little. He was about to respond with a noncommittal Hn when Kakashi continued.

“It mortified me as a child because I would bleed constantly just from seeing beautiful women around the village. I was such a serious kid.” Kakashi sighed fondly before a stunned Sasuke. At Sasuke’s expression, the man gestured to himself. “Why do you think I started wearing this mask?”

“Because it made you look cool?” Sasuke offered, almost beseeching. Anything else. Anything but that.

Kakashi shook his head with facetious gloom. “Even now I’m washing blood off of it at the end of the day.”

Sasuke’s mouth dropped open. Since coming back, he had been thinking about perhaps spending more effort to get to know his sensei to make up for lost time, but this wasn’t at all what he had in mind.

“I…don't think that’s the case for me, Kakashi,” he said carefully, lest he stepped on any of the man’s feelings; though a part of him wasn’t entirely sure those feelings should even be protected.

“I had a lot of denial at first, too. I was miserable. It got easier once I accepted what I felt.” Kakashi got up from his seat and approached Sasuke with a grim look in his eyes. Sasuke suddenly felt open and vulnerable, with his only arm occupied by the nosebleed and unable to defend(?) him. “You need to embrace who you are, Sasuke.” The man reached for him, and he nearly flinched from the head pat. “Kidding!”

Sasuke blinked up at his sensei.

“You should have seen your face, my boy.” Kakashi laughed heartily and stepped back, hands in his pockets. “Sakura told me about what’s been going on with you. It’s just the seals.”

Sasuke scowled, both angry and confused, which was never a good thing considering his track record. “What?”

“The seals. It’s rare, but I’ve seen it happened when people tried to use their chakra while under these seals, especially for dōjutsu.”

He held Kakashi’s gaze suspiciously, freshly sore at being made fun of. But the matter-of-fact tone was one his sensei reserved for teaching, and he knew this was worthwhile information. “But I’m not trying to use any,” he said.

“Oh, I can tell.” A teasing smirk crinkled Kakashi’s eyes. “How I just wonder what you’re unconsciously using around our lovely Sakura.” Sasuke’s jaw locked as the older man wiped away an imaginary tear from his eye. “I’m happy for you, Sasuke. I was afraid my cute students were going to grow old alone.”

“Kakashi,” he said warningly, and Kakashi laughed.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul about this.” He winked. “It’ll be a secret between us closet perverts.”

The heat on Sasuke’s face intensified, and he was glaring at his sensei so hard, the man might have burst into Amaterasu-fire if it hadn’t been for the seals restricting his chakra.

.

.

.

.

“This is not normal, Sasuke-kun,” she said as they were returning from another stroll.

Sasuke agreed, but not in the sense that she’d meant. “Hn.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he dabbed at the blood in his nose. At least it dried up quickly this time.

“You have got to let me check it out.”

“Haven’t I?” He paused. “And haven’t you?”

She gave him a pointed look, arms crossed. “I was practically wrestling you just to look inside your nose!”

Which was particularly unhelpful for his…condition.

He crumpled up the bloodied tissue paper and put on his annoyed face in hope to get her to drop the subject. But there was also a creeping sense of resignation that he was getting worse and worse at handling Sakura. (Then again, nothing he’d ever done had deterred her before, so it was a small mystery how he’d gained the otherwise confidence in the first place.)

“And you said nothing was amiss.”

“Which is why I need to give you an actual checkup!” She threw her hands up. “I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this!”

He stopped abruptly and turned to hold her glare for a moment. “Nothing’s hurting.” Except his pride.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you turn your back to me! We’re not done here!”

He continued down the hallway toward his room and didn’t look back.

.

.

.

.

He could feel her eyes boring into his back and kept still just to maintain the theatre, even though he knew she knew he was awake. A part of him felt like the child she must think of him, that he was depending on mere layers of blankets to keep himself insulated from the things that he feared.

It was an interesting thought, fearing Sakura—when he could think of much more unpleasant company to be with. But her presence had always unsettled him in some abstract, primal way, and learning just why that was finally, brought not only insecurity but also guilt.

For having trampled on her feelings with every turn of his heel.

For still doing so even now, as it appeared.

He felt her lean against the bed and tensed, anticipating some kind of touch. It never came.

“I’m sorry if you think I was overstepping.” There was a sigh mixed in with her whispered tone. “I’ve just been…” Her sentence died down to silence, and there was another sigh. “Good night.”

When she pulled away, he had a sudden, inexplicable urge to grab and pull her back. One he had to stop himself from acting on.

“Hn.” He grunted when she neared the doorway. It was the only sound he trusted himself to make.

She was silent, but he had no doubt she’d heard him. “I have the shift tonight. Call me if you need me, Sasuke-kun.” And she left after switching the lights off and resealing the door as per protocol.

He had no idea what sort of expression she had made with his back turned, but he hoped, and imagined, it to be that small smile she always gave that meant he had been forgiven.

.

.

.

No one shared walls with him. It was quite obvious when he lay awake at night and didn’t have to listen to the traumatized screams of the other patients.

He was glad, then, that neither could they hear him when he woke up shouting at the darkness.

He was in a pool of his own sweat, heart beating its way out of his ribcage and non-existent arm hurt as if skewered by a thousand senbons. He dug his fingers into his shoulder blade, and, at that moment, would gladly give up the rest of the arm if it meant the pain would stop.

A pitiful noise escaped his throat. He eyed the call button glowing a soft red in the night.

All he had to do was reach for the button and Sakura might just punch through walls if it meant getting to him even a little bit faster. His teeth bared in a poor-humored smirk. He let go of a shaky breath and turned resolutely away, banishing those thoughts back to the shadows where they belonged.

He didn’t need her.

But he supposed he did want her.

He wanted her. He wanted Sakura. Here. Now.

Still, he wouldn’t press that button. Night terrors were hardly emergencies, and this wasn’t even something Sakura could fix. Imagine the paperwork she would have to deal with afterwards just because he decided to act like a spoiled child.

He wouldn’t press the button. But, staring at the door, he found himself wishing she would come anyway.

That wasn’t how life worked, though. He wasn’t Naruto, but he too was an orphan. He knew how it was. You either ask for or take what you want, or you simply fall through the cracks.

But then he saw the seal over door start to recede silently, and his eyes went wide. He pushed himself up on the bed, taut with anticipation and disbelief, as the door opened with excruciating slowness. A part of him, the misanthropic, world-weary part, was just waiting for it to reveal someone else and crush any crumb of hope he might have had to fine dust.

It was a stupid thought and he knew it. The moment the seal burnt away, he could tell it was her chakra on the other side of the door, humming ever so gently as always, if not a little dulled and frazzled from the late night.

But it was easier than addressing the gratefulness that was welling up inside his lungs.

After what felt like an eternity later, Sakura’s familiar figure walked in and closed the door, the seal mending itself together behind her. Even without the aid of the Sharingan, he easily found green eyes in the dim moonlight.

“Sasuke-kun?”

It was only when he needed to respond that he realized he’d been holding his breath.

“…Sakura.”

He dropped back down on the bed, all strength vacating his muscles, and screwed his burning eyes shut. His hand still cradled his shoulder loosely, and he felt, rather than heard, her hurriedly approaching his bedside to bring her hand over his.

“Does it hurt?”

“Aa.” He didn’t mind the useless question like he usually would. Only congratulated himself on successfully keeping his voice from cracking.

She didn’t say anything as her fingers squeeze over his, gently but firmly.

“Do you…” He began after a while, opening his eyes to find hers. “—just come to my room for no reason at night?”

If she thought he sounded accusing, he was glad she didn’t apologize; because he wasn’t trying to be. She took some time deciding how to answer him, and he was oddly pleased she didn’t look away as she did so. “I overheard you screaming from nightmares last week and well—” Her gaze darted away for a fraction of a second, where she bit her lower lip, before settling back on him. “I just worry.”

He grunted breathily from the pain and a poignant frustration.

Of course, she had. And of course, she did.

He cracked his eyes open again and attempted to determine her expression in the darkness, fearing it was pity. It wasn’t. She just looked sad and hurt, and he didn’t entirely understand why.

He could feel that now familiar tingle in his nostril again, and the blood soon came spilling down across his mouth. He made no attempt to hide from her widening eyes. It was perhaps his fate, he decided, to have her always witnessing him at his most ugly, most shameful, like he wasn’t already enough of a miserable wreck in front of her.

“Sasuke-kun!”

Her hand flinched away from his to reach for the box of paper tissue, and an inexplicable feeling of emptiness gripped at him.

“No.” He held her back by the wrist and met her startled eyes. “Just…” He grimaced from another sharp lance of pain and might be squeezing her harder than he meant to. If it hurt her, she never protested and only remained quiet. Patient. As always.

And he reasoned. And argued and bargained. What was one more prideless moment before her?

“Just stay like this for a bit.”

.

.

When he woke again, it was almost morning. The pain was gone, but not her, who sat dutifully at his bedside. She told him her shift was about to end, and he finally let go of her hand.

“Thank you,” he said just as she was about to leave. His scratchy voice was loud in the silence of the room, and he hoped she would hear the apology within. She said nothing and only smiled the way he’d hope she would the night before.

.

.

.

.

.

There was a thundering march of footfalls barreling down toward Sasuke’s end of the hallway, and the stupid face that jumped to the front of his mind made him close his eyes in sufferance.

“Bastard!” He heard the muffled voice from the other side of the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, already sensing an incoming wave of migraine.

“Oi, Sasuke bastard!” Naruto practically kicked his way into the room, the seal dissipating like embers around him, and right away was all up in Sasuke’s personal space, grabbing his shirt and dragging him to his bare feet. “What is this about you possibly dying and refusing treatment!?”

“What are you even-”

“Don’t you lie, Sakura-chan just told me! Do you know how worried she’d been, you incorrigible bastard!? Why can’t you just do as told for once in your life!? I didn’t bring you back just so you can go die to some perfectly curable disease!”

Beside being mildly surprised that the idiot even knew the word incorrigible, Sasuke was too speechless to even be properly annoyed. He hadn’t the slightest idea what the idiot was talking about.

“Answer me, bastard!” At his stunned silence, Naruto started shaking him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“St-stop that, idi-” He winced, feeling the pressure on some of the smaller, more persistent cracks in his bones that Sakura had left to heal naturally. She had said it was healthier for the body, but he also suspected some outside pressure forcing her hand to keep him hospitalized and in suboptimal condition.

“Naruto!” Sakura’s voice got them both turning toward the door. In a split second, the blond was smacked audibly upside the head and promptly dropped Sasuke back against the bed. Sakura stepped in between him and Naruto, her back to him and hands on her hip.

“Ow! Sakura-chan! Why-”

“He’s a patient for god’s sake. Not everyone has monstrous healing like you. Manhandling him like that, are you crazy!?”

“Me!? You’re getting mad at me!? What about the bastard? He’s the one trying to die!” Naruto pointed an incriminating finger at him.

“If he really is then you’re not helping!” She turned to him, and immediately he felt every cell in his body respond to her hands on his chest, checking the bandages under his disheveled shirt. “Are you alright, Sasuke-kun?” No. No, he was not. Surely, being hyperaware of what her presence could do to him did not help his situation. “Did anything reopen?”

“I don’t th-”

When he glanced down, he stared at the dot of blood blooming on her white coat sleeve and decided then and there the entire universe conspired against him.

His hand shot up to cover his face, but it was too late.

“Bastard!” “Sasuke-kun!”

The speed at which the colors drained from his teammates face was as if they were the ones bleeding out, which would have been funny if Sasuke wasn’t busy regretting ever being born. Naruto sprung into action and started ushering Sasuke backward.

“L-lie down, bastard! Don’t you die on us!”

Sasuke let out an unintentional oof as he was heaved by the torso a few inches off the floor and deposited back onto the bed.

“Calm down, idiot!” Blood freely flowed from his nose during his feeble attempt at fighting Naruto’s seemingly herculean strength, the blond relentlessly trying to pin him on his back. It was frustrating because they were supposed to be equally handicapped. “I’m fi-”

“No! Naruto, he has to keep his head down.” Sakura joined the fray and extracted Naruto from him before she once again was too close. She guided him to sit on the edge of the bed and, in stark contrast to the firm fingers at the back of his neck, started to gingerly wipe at the blood on his face with tissue paper.

“I can do it myself, Saku-”

“Kakashi-sensei, get out of my way!” Naruto said, and Sasuke snapped his gaze to the door where Kakashi was trying to calm the blond down while remaining resolutely in Naruto’s way, causing him to become even more agitated and vocal. Sasuke would have slapped a hand to his face had his only one wasn’t busy trying to wrangle the tissue paper from Sakura’s hold.

Distracted from yelling at Naruto, Sakura’s hold slackened, and Sasuke took the chance to take over. She glanced back at him in a quick assessment before releasing him and returning her attention to Naruto and Kakashi.

Now, Sasuke had few ideas of the politics that went on outside of hospital walls.

Sakura only gave the good news, and Naruto spoke in future tense, borderline grandiose in the things he promised would happen once he got through to the ‘old fogeys,’ to quote his words. Kakashi just gave Sasuke porn (which he had leveled a disdainful scowl at, but eventually read anyway out of boredom).

What little Sasuke did know, he’d overheard from the doctors and nurses that wandered too far down his hallway, and he knew it wasn’t looking good for him.

All things considered, he really didn’t need—this. This whole situation. With both Sakura and Naruto screaming and arguing like children, Kakashi being too amused for someone who was supposed to be the mediating adult, and Sasuke trying to get them all off his case. And failing miserably.

“I have to go get help! Sasuke bastard’s dying!”

“Now, now, I think you’re overreacting a little, Naruto. Plus, isn’t his doctor already here?”

Naruto whipped around, a hint of sharp canines amongst his bared teeth, and pointed at Sasuke. “Bastard, tell us what’s wrong now.”

“Stop aggravating him, stupid Naruto!”

“Why are you on his side!? He’s the stubborn asshole here!”

“I’m on no one’s side! You need to—”

Sasuke chuckled, effectively silencing the entire room as all eyes gathered on him. On another day, he would have lamented being the center of attention, but right now, he just felt oddly light-hearted as he tried to contain his amusement, his entire frame shaking from his effort.

“Sa-Sasuke-kun?”

“Oh no.” Naruto’s voice was a breathless whisper. “Sasuke bastard broke.”

Kakashi just hummed contemplatively.

When he’d gotten a hold of himself, he lifted his gaze to each of the room’s occupant, from Naruto’s slack-jawed confusion, to Kakashi’s smiling eyes, and finally Sakura’s blushing awe. It was just like old times.

“You’re not really dying, are you? Was it because I punched you too hard?” Naruto appeared next to him as if he wasn’t just royally pissed a moment ago and pulled at his sleeve with an almost pleading look. “Is it chakra related? Would lending you some of Kurama’s help?”

Sasuke had a feeling that might just make the problem worse. “Hn.”

“What the heck does that mean!?”

“Naruto.” Sakura warned. Naruto coughed.

Kakashi came to stand before them. “Aw, isn’t this a lovely sight. Your old sensei’s heart is melting.”

“Kakashi.” Sasuke glared at the man, who grinned wider under his mask.

“Look, I’m sorry for yelling. Just, I don’t want you to die, bastard. We just got you back.”

“Aa.” He moved the tissue to check if the blood had stopped. It had. He crumpled up the bloodied tissue and tossed it into the bin. Noticing Sakura’s concerned gaze, he added. “I’ll be fine. They're just nosebleeds, Sakura.”

“Sasuke-kun, when they’re this often—” Sasuke tried to ignore the smirk Kakashi was giving him out the corners of his eyes. “—it could be something serious. I just want to run some blood tests to make sure.”

“Let her take a look at you, bastard!” Naruto prodded at his arm. “You’re not afraid of needles, are you? What kind of shinobi is afraid of needles?”

He spared the blond a brief glare before returning to Sakura. Her eyes were sad again, and he felt guilty that he’d neglected to realize this was bothering her so much.

“Fine.”

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about, bastard!” Naruto slapped his shoulder painfully, earning another half-hearted glare from him.

“Really?”

“Hn. Nothing’s wrong with me. But if it’ll put you at ease, you can see for yourself.”

“Good news all around, then,” Kakashi said, but Sasuke hardly noticed.

Sakura gave him a wide grin as she thanked him profusely, and where he would have pointed out that her gratitude didn’t make sense, Sasuke simply found himself staring at the way her entire demeanor has brightened and how the light danced in the green of her eyes. Belatedly, he caught onto her alarmed look and resisted the urge to sigh, partly because it would spray blood everywhere.

“Sasuke-kun!” “What is it, Sakur—Bastard!?”

And there was shouting as Naruto worked himself into a frenzy, clattering as Sakura knocked over a tray getting the tissue paper to him, and unrestrained laughter as Kakashi stood back and watched it all unfold.

As his teammates fussed over him and chided their sensei for not helping, Sasuke kept his head down and cupped his palm over the nosebleed, a small smile hidden beneath his fingers.

[wordydelights]

hannibal lecter and clarice starling fanfic

The air smelled of freshly brewed, dark roasted coffee and crisp, steamy flesh sizzling on the stovetop. Clarice’s eyes slightly fluttered open as she breathed in the nostalgic aromas, it brought her back to childhood memories of waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs. It was a good scent, it meant her father had the day off and got to spend it with her. Her little feet would jump out of her comfortable bed and dart into the kitchen to find her dad, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a skillet in the other. “Morning' sweetie,” he’d say with a smile. She woke up out of her daze suddenly, her eyes opening in sync with the beat of her heart. 

She glanced around, the edges of her vision blurred by morning weariness. She rubbed her eyes. As she gained awareness, her mind began to wake up with the rest of her body. She then quickly realized this time was distinctly different from her memories. 1) She was located far away from home in a four star hotel located on the east side of northern Lithuania. 2) The smell was most definitely not coming from bacon, she could recognize the signature scent of burnt skin in the middle of a barbecue, after having the misfortune of inhaling its nauseating aroma in the past. She remembered reading about it in a forensics textbook. Burning muscle tissue creates a smell similar to beef in a frying pan and the fat smells like fatty pork on the grill. You never quite get the scent of death out of your nostrils entirely, no matter how much time has passed. 

She heard a creak coming from the kitchen floorboards and jolted awake now certainly knowing she was no longer alone. Attempting to not make a single sound, she reached for her pistol lying on the wooden bedside dresser to her right. Beside it she snatched a small hunting knife, she carried for good luck and slid it in her left sock. She took a step out of the bed, the floorboards groaned slightly and she quickly changed her footing, attempting to feel out the hollow areas that lay underneath to avoid making any noise. She found her fluffy bunny slippers tucked away beneath the metal bed frame and slid her toes into its cushioned soles, muffling the pattering of her steps. Clicking the gun’s safety off slowly, she crept through the doorway keeping her body close to the wall as she peered over into the kitchen. She brought her extended arms close to her chest, the pistol now few inches away from her chin, pointed at the ceiling. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her breathing and the occasional pops of oil from the frying pan on the stove. 

“Good Morning Clarice,” an all too familiar voice rang within her ears, breaking the unsettling silence. “You can come out now.” 

Clarice Starling emerged from the bedroom, her gun pointed directly in line with the back of Dr. Lecter. He was sitting in a chair at the mahogany dining table, his back to Clarice, he faced the opened doors to the balcony outside, his legs were crossed nonchalantly as he read the black and white newspaper in his hands. Clarice didn’t hesitate and pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click.

“Tsk Tsk. Naughty girl,” Dr. Lecter teased without looking back. “Why don’t you have a seat? Don’t want your breakfast getting cold.” 

She rushed to his seat, swinging the unloaded pistol at his skull. Lecter grasped her wrist tightly with his right and only hand, the pistol about an inch from smashing into his head. His eyes remained glued to the newspapers contents even as he snapped her clenched fist open and flung the gun onto the table. “You’re very predictable Starling. Do you intend on making this more difficult than it needs to be?”

Slowly she made her way to the empty seat across from him. A plate consisting of two sausages, an egg and buttered toast laid in front of her. Clarice kept her unwavering gaze steady with Lecter’s. “What do I owe the delight of your presence, Doctor Lecter? I haven’t heard from you since our previous encounter. No calls or even a letter, unusual for you.” “Writing was a luxury I unfortunately had to leave behind with my dominant hand. The right gets the job done, but the penmanship will never quite equate to the elegance before.  I was sure you of all people wouldn’t need to be reminded of such details,” Lecter smiled as he lifted the black leather glove over his prosthetic to expose it’s plastic skin. Clarice remained silent, her eyes in a deadlock with his.

“I also couldn’t bear to give you the satisfaction of answering any questions I’m sure have been floating about in that charming head of yours. It wouldn’t do any justice to a more intimate confrontation. I was originally planning on leaving your mind to be in constant torment and wonder just for my personal pleasure, but when I overheard that you came all this way to pay me a visit I simply couldn’t resist your cries for my attention,” He paused, glancing down at the plate in front of her. “Please do eat, I assure you it is up to your standards.” 

“Oh really?” Clarice started, gesturing over at the oven. “Then how do you explain that?”

“I cannot make the same promise regarding my meal,” Lecter eerily grinned. 

Starling took a bite of her eggs, the yolk ran like spilled blood throughout her plate leaving a dark yellow pool around the crisp toast. Lecter watched her throat move up and back into place as she swallowed. He leaned back satisfied. “Remind you of the way daddy made them?” he chirped.

“They’re lacking on the pepper and he never used rosemary.” 

“My mistake.” He rose from the chair and attended to the sizzling flesh on the frying pan. 

Clarice scanned the room looking for any objects that could be used as a weapon, despite the other half of her brain telling her it’s useless and he’ll simply see it coming. For the meantime she deemed it to be best to go along with his game. “Why are you here Doctor?”

“I could ask you the same Clarice.”

“Doing my job, hunting you down,” she shot back, her eyes flared like hot charcoal on a grill.

“I’m flattered, but spare the theatrics because we both know this hardly has anything to do with work,” he flipped the long chunks of fat to their opposing side with a spatula.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you are here. Because you are not a part of the Lithuanian law enforcement. Because the bureau would never send their agents overseas to investigate a criminal who's been off the radar for over three years without concrete proof of my whereabouts, which I know for a fact that I have not provided.”

“People you have had personal connections to throughout your childhood, in your hometown suddenly show up murdered, matching your profile exactly, I would say that’s a dead give away Doctor.”

“You’ve been doing your research I see.”

“Of course, how else would I have found you?”

“Tell me Clarice, are you here for business or pleasure?” His tongue flicked against the backs of his teeth.

“For justice.” “Who sent you? And do not insult my intelligence with anything shroud of the truth because I will know.” Using the metal spatula he set the meat down on his plate next to his two poached eggs. He impaled the fattiest piece with his fork, bringing it to his nose, inhaled then took a slight nibble and savored the flavor in his tongue. 

Starling took a heavy breath, her eyes dropped from his gaze. “No one sent me,” she half-muttered. “Stop me if I’m wrong Clarice but I have a feeling I haven’t left your mind since the night of our last dinner together. I know your biggest question may be; why? Why would a monster such as myself sacrifice a part of my body for you? That question ate at you inside, festering like an aged wound and grew until it consumed you, you told yourself you needed to put an end to my antics for good, and knowing just how personal it had become you made it your mission to hunt me down and lock me back in a cage. But we both know the truth don’t we? No it was never about justice...it was about not being able to deal with your reciprocated emotions. It was creating an excuse to see me once again.” Clarice kept her head facing the ground, her face was stone and expressionless, but Hannibal did not stop. Leaving the kitchen’s marble island he began to approach Starling slowly. 

“You knew I would never come back, that I would leave you alone for the remainder of your life.” He was looming over her now, his shadow darkening her features. “You knew that if we were ever to have another encounter that you would have to seek me out this time.” In that moment Clairce felt a true sense of inferiority, a feeling she was not accustomed to. His body was inches from hers, her head at level with his upper waist. She breathed in his presence, it was a pure, primal masculine aroma. He digressed and sat down at the table, his demeanor changing from sensually intimidating and virile to a common mortal in a split second. 

“Maybe you never realized these feelings until you truly began your research into my past. When you learned I suffered the same pain you felt at a young age. I assume you discovered the details regarding the death of my family?” “Yes. They were killed in a bombing.”

“Yes, everyone died except my sister Mischa and myself. We were held captive in a lodge by Nazi forces when a group of Lithuanian Hilfwillige stormed and looted the lodge. They searched the premises for food but found nothing.” He took a sip from his cup of coffee and moved his gaze to the balcony looking off into the dark clouded skies and continued.

“The blistering chill of winter combined with an empty stomach, it does something to men, brings out the savage within. Mischa and I became the menu options. I put up a fight, but Mischa...she was weak, starving herself, ill from the cold, she was an easy kill. They sodomized her corpse first before slicing her body in bite sized portions and roasting it above a fire pit.”

Clarice watched his eyes as he recalled the events. She could almost swear she saw the reflection of his memory playing like a film in the glare of his pupils. Despite no tears being shed, she felt the immacable amount of pain in the slight trembles of his voice. 

At a loss for words to speak, “I’m sorry,” was all she could let out.

“You see Clarice, monsters like myself are not born into this world with faulty wiring, we are made through suffering.” He turned back towards her, circling the metal spoon inside the coffee cup, hitting it’s ceramic edges with every rotation.

“Is that how you justify your actions Dr. Lecter?”

“I admit there are some sins I have committed I cannot truly justify; however, most of the unspeakable acts I commit I can assure you are in fact poetic justice at it’s finest.” 

Clarice dropped her eyes to her socks, where the pocket knife rubbed against her perspire, she considered her course of action, but only for a second, until she was interrupted by the rattle of the wooden chair she was sitting in. Dr. Lecter gripped the chair’s arms like he expected it to run from his grasp, and leaned close to Starling’s ear. 

“Tell me, do I excite you Clarice? Do you find me in your dreams late in the evening? I imagine I used to appear as a grotesque monster but now perhaps a lover? And when you wake up do you find yourself horrified with yourself for these thoughts you simply cannot control?” She could feel the slight prickle of his facial air as his lips grazed against her earlobe. 

“I never believed you to be a monster Doctor,” she softly spoke. 

“Is that all you have to refute?” She lifted her head and let herself drift for a moment in his pale blue eyes.“I used to wonder if you were capable of love. That night, when you spared me from pain, I found out you were. But may I ask, why me? Was it just because I was one of the first women you had spoken to in years? Because I shared some personal information no one else would dare give to you?” She positioned her left hand further to the edge of her seat and brought her corresponding foot closer in reach. “Is that really what you think of me? So desperate for the touch of a woman I fall for the first to give me any attention in years? I see goodness in you Starling. When I look at you I see the same glimmer of loss within your eyes that I see in mine. You are an unfaltering flame, always burning with a righteous desire. Your character never fails to intrigue me, the way your mind ticks, your witty remarks, your composure in the face of death. No I’ve never quite found one like you.” His thumb fell from the top of her cheekbones to the very underlying rosy purse of her bottom lip. Her breathing was fluttered, rapidly picking up in pace with every passing second, for a second she felt as though she may lose consciousness altogether.

Overcome with emotion, she pulled out the blade from her sock and held it against his throat, knocking the chair down with the commotion. 

“Do it. I won’t stop you.”

“You have to understand how crazy this is. I can’t give up my life for one of FBI’s most wanted. I’d be throwing away everything I worked so hard to achieve. This needs to end. There is nothing between us.” “Then this should make things much easier for you. Don’t hesitate Clarice.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” “I won’t be put behind bars again, you either kill me now or I disappear from the world for good.” 

Clarice let a tear roll down her cheek, pushing Hannibal against the wall behind them. The cold steel pressed Lecter’s adams apple higher up into his esophagus. He never dropped his gaze with her even as tiny beads of blood began to break through the barriers of his skin’s surface. 

She stared into his eyes, his pupils seeming to pulsate as they stared back into her. 

“I can’t,” she whispered.

 “And why is that?”

“The same reason you can’t kill me.”

“And what may that reason be Clarice?” “Don’t make me say it.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the dips of her collar bones and the rhythmic thumping of her heart. He slowly moved his caress up to her neck and locked his hands around her throat.

“I want you to tell me Clarice. I want to hear the words come out of your mouth.”

She remained silent, nervous trembles running through her body.

He began to squeeze. “Say it,” he hissed. 

She gagged for air while shaking her head no.

“Say it!” his scream echoed throughout the floor of the hotel.

With a rasped voice and tears streaming down her cheeks she whimpered, “I love you.”

With his hands still firmly gripped around her neck, he whipped her around. The walls rattled as her back slammed against them. In a midst of desire he aggressively pressed his lips against hers, his hands still squeezing tightly as she returned his embrace. The warmth of his breath was hot like smoke. He released his grasp as she began to gasp for oxygen. Black fuzziness clouded her vision as she slid down the wall to the floor. 

In that moment it all clicked in her head. A fleeting memory pushed through the adrenaline coursing through her veins and in an instant the dots regarding Lecter were somehow aligned. 

“What was your mother like?” she managed to make out in between heavy breaths. 

Puzzled by the randomness of her inquiry, Lecter responded hesitantly with a curious smile, “I feel as though she truly loved her children but was simply a very emotionally detached person.” 

Clarice’s eyes narrowed, “Did she nurse you as a child Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes.”

Clarice lowered the thin straps of her black satin nighty, her clavicle further exposed, glistening with faint beads of sweat. She took a breath in through her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Did you ever compete with Mischa for the breast?”

“I don’t remember Clarice…,” Lecter began not quite sure where she was going with the question. “If there was a competition I would’ve given it up willingly.” He found the enigma of her quivering lip excessively compelling.

She raised herself to his eye level, her glare burning like firey embers, she leaned her back against the floral wallpaper, “You will not have to compete for mine.”

Her nighty swiftly slid off her shoulders and fell to her ankles as if she manifested it to reality. Lecter’s eyes moved up and down her curves absorbing the image into the most precious capsules of his mind. Pulling him close to her chest, he bent down, inhaling the warmth resonating off her skin, his hands caressing the small of her back while his tongue followed the thin trail of swelter to her breast.

[monikafilefan]

a season of marigold and crimson

This started off as a few sentences in the workshop by @frangipanidownunder a while ago, but today I decided to use my mood to write a little cancer arc angst. @today-in-fic

——

“I don’t want to be out here, Mulder,” she huffed with a shiver, watching the hot mist of her breath mingle with his own.

His hands burrowed in closer toward the dissipating heat between his thighs. “I’d be lying if I said there aren’t parts of me slowly growing a layer of frost that are meant to stay warm.”

She scoffed. “I don’t know if I should hate you or Skinner more right now for sending us out here.”

“I may be bias, but I’d like to think you care a little more about expressing hatred toward me than our boss, Scully.”

She sighed with a sniffle, quickly swiping a tissue across her upper lip before discreetly checking for streaks of crimson.

Mulder pretended not to notice.

“A coven, Mulder? Really?” Scully shook her head with that ever so accurately timed raised brow mocking his credibility.

Mulder wiggled his fingers in his pockets and nodded toward the ancient looking barn leaning in above the dense fog. The moonlight shining through the crisp Autumn sky easily guided them through the thick underbrush of what he believed to house worship for witches practicing the dark arts.

He pointed a leather covered finger into the black canopy riddled with stars. “See that, Scully? It’s what’s commonly known as a Harvest Moon.”

“That I know. What I’d like to understand is why you believe we’ll just stumble across a coven of witches conjuring in the middle of nowhere.”

The fact that she used air quotes around the word conjuring with the slightest of smirks playing on her raw lips only urged Mulder on to prove exactly that.

Watching her tongue roll across her pallid cheek nervously as they stomped through the dead marigold leaves, he allowed a soft smile and shook his head. She was so strong, so brave and fierce that sometimes he forgot his other half could show a hint of weakness at all. Especially since she pretended to never need him or anyone else for that matter, either.

And she’d never admit it.

“Did you hear something, Mulder?” Of course he didn’t. He was too busy gazing as a needle of guilt pricked his heart.

“Hear what?” A strong gust of wind wafted more than just dank air in their faces. The stench of rotting wood and decomposition shot up their nostrils, sending a chill up Mulder’s spine.

“Oh!” Scully recoiled while Mulder slapped a hand over his mouth. His gag reflex was not prepared for the sudden assault of decay. “That’s… pungent.”

“That’s death.”

Stumbling over his boots, Mulder felt as if she’d sucker punched him in the gut. And spoken with what she knew he would take as a sickening nod to what was slowly inhabiting and devouring her beautiful mind, she may as well have.

“Scully…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Her sharp tone stung like a slap to the face. A gut punch and a back hand. He probably deserved both.

A wake of vultures swooped in and hovered ominously above their heads. The thick tide of rustling leaves rose up and engulfed her boney knees as she fled.

“I know what you want to say, what you’ve been aching to talk about for weeks, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, nothing new there then,” he mumbled, inhaling the icy air and savoring the bite of frost stinging his lungs. He welcomed feeling anything other than the loathsome despair at the thought of losing his partner. His best friend. His…

“What, Mulder?” She spun around angrily, locking her sapphire eyes onto his, her trench coat billowing out like a cape in the wind.

He’d been waiting for this.

“Go ahead, let’s hear it.”

“It’s the truth,” she said caustically, her chin quivering without consent.

Taking a tentative step into her personal space, fighting off the overwhelming need to comfort her, he urged, “What is?”

“This!” She swiped a hand over her body. “You’re always searching for the truth—the answer to the mystery among the stars. Always dragging me with you to find it in obscure places. I’ll always be here, too, because I choose to be. But you know what, Mulder? You know where the truth lies this time just as well as I do: in me. And that’s something you’ll never let yourself believe until I’m as lifeless as whatever lays in wait for us inside that barn, will you?”

“Wha…” he gasped, stunned and utterly nauseated at the words she’d injected into his chest like venom.

He’d expected the pain, welcomed it even as he felt he was deserving of each one. But he didn’t know whether to be relieved that she’d finally opened up to him with something more than an I’m fine, or to reach over and shake her for even thinking those things, let alone believing them.

“Jesus! Fuck, Scully. No, I won’t believe it because you’re not going to die.”

The tears pooling in her eyes sparkled under the moon’s amber glow as she whispered, “Everything does.”

Choking on his heart lodged against his larynx, he watched the willowy curve of her back and the dulling copper of her hair fade into the darkness without him.

——

Side note: I might write a bit from Scully’s pov that takes place after this if there’s enough interest.

[stormyweaver]

I’m a lot less self conscious about posting sick-fic here versus... other sites, so, I’m gonna be looking through some of my little snippets I wrote, past and present, and just kinda putting them here. Hopefully some people will enjoy them! 

St*r Dew Sickness, ft. Penny and my OC Nathan 

~~~

Winter. Nathan hardly detested the season; far from it, the time of year afforded him a grand opportunity to forage for a number of rare flowers, fruit and other wild goods. And with his animals nestled warmly inside of their barns, he really had nothing to fret over. Fishing and foraging would keep him financially steady, and the residents of Stardew never seemed to let the frigid weather damper their spirits (well, for most of them; some were down no matter what time of year it happened to be).

And, reluctant as he was to admit it, Nathan was beginning to understand the sentiment all too well.

"Hhh--... hHAH'Gshh! hhAHG'Shh! hheeh-- HEHGSHH!"

The farmer groaned wearily following the trio of sneezes, not even bothering to suppress an all body shiver as he dragged the sleeve of his jacket under his nose. His normally caramel skin had taken on an ashen paleness, eyes sunken in and circled with darker hollows underneath, straight nose chapped a raw, fleshy pink around the nostrils - all the glaring signs of a particularly nasty bug that just so happened to house itself in Nathan's immune system.

Still, sick or not, he had work to be done. A farm to tend to, errands to run, a life to uphold. Huffing out a hot breath against chilled air, Nathan tried his best to sniff back the contents of his mucus laden sinuses, raising a knuckle to gently but firmly knead at his itchy nose. Yoba, what he wouldn't give to just go back inside and lay down. His gaze drifted upwards, rheumy eyes scanning the blanket of white draped over his entire farm, another meager sniffle failing to stem the flow of his congestion.

Hands moved to grip the ax, heaving it into the air once more before thrusting into the dent already marking his previous work. Twice, a third time, but on the fourth up-swing, his nose decided to snatch every bit of attention with a sharp, prickly sting. "ehhh... hHEEGH-CHAAH!"

He directed the sneeze downwards, stumbling back with the sudden force and dropping his tool to the snowy ground, all but forgotten as his head tilted back with another series of hitching breaths. "hhhiih!... hehhh... heeEEHH!.... Oh, Y-Yoba, c-c'moohhhnnn..." This was getting ridiculous! And he must have looked just as silly; tears beading in his eyes, rosy, twitchy nose pointed straight into the air, fingers fanning the cold air in front of his face as he heaved and huffed towards the inevitable. He was so close...

"Hello, Nathan!"

Oh no. A breath choked in his throat, Penny's clear, melodic voice nearly slicing through the sneezy haze Nathan found himself trapped in. Nearly. Just a graze of his index finger against the tip of his nose seemed to flick the sneeze into fruition. Oh Yoba, not in front of her--!

"hhHEGSHH'Uuh! heh'GSHHhuu! h'eEYESHHhuuu! ESHHhuu!... ghhh," The first sneeze had thrown him forward, each following sending his body hunching closer and closer towards the ground. Well, at least he'd aimed them into his elbow; Harvey had been rather adamant about that in their check up last month. Back then, he'd been blessedly naive as to the sickness which now held him in it's itchy, dripping, iron grip.

In the pre-sneeze haze, he hadn't noticed Penny's presence shift. Not until peering up through watery eyes and catching the worry - mild shock, as well? - bending her pretty features. "Goodness - Bless you! A couple of times, I guess," She gasped, hands clasped in front of her but fidgeting with the hem of her winter coat. "Oh, Nathan, you really don't look well," The already rising lump of embarrassment claimed his throat tighter at her words, causing his cheeks to flush a deeper red.

With a tight sniffle, he managed a gruff chuckle as he straightened back up. "I'm okay, really, Penny. Just a... little chilly, that's all," Lying. Of course he'd resort to that, save enough face as he possibly could in front of the woman he'd been pining after ever since they'd met. Penny had a natural motherly aura about her, and so many more attributes had drawn him in like a bee to honey. He was absolutely ill in love when it came to the demure red head. But any other sick simply wouldn't do. Besides, he'd caught a ton of colds back in the city and worked through them just fine. This? Nothing but a bump in the road.

"Maybe more than a little. I hate to say it, but, you look like death warmed over," And she did wince with the observation, plump bottom lip catching between her teeth. Dear Yoba, why did she have to be so darned cute??? "Shouldn't you be inside, resting?"

Fingers rose to rub the back of his neck as he gave a gentle shake of his head. "Not when I've got so much work to be done. And I've barely even started the day... woke up a little later than usual," he murmured the last part, wrinkling his nose with another liquid sniffle as he cast his gaze off to the rest of his farmland.

"Well, then isn't that a sign? That maybe you need more sleep than you've given yourself?" He could catch Penny attempting to meet his gaze, a groan seeping into his chest. The tenderness in her words nearly melted away the biting chill that settled in his bones. Truth be told, all he /wanted/ was to sink in the sea of sheets and blankets waiting inside of his cozy abode, where he could sweat out this bug in comfort and peace.

"I mean... I just-- Uh?!"

Before he could muster up another lame deflection, a small, pale hand rose to brush underneath his bangs. Though sudden, the cool touch sent a shiver of relief down his spine, and for a moment he began to relax until Penny gasped. "You're burning up! Nathan, you're going to run yourself into the ground..." Bit by bit, Penny was chipping a hole in his defenses, already shuddering under the weight of a truly awful head cold. In the moment he wanted nothing more than to drag himself to the white flag of surrender, even if the other, stubborn-as-a-mule side of his mind would beat him in the ass for it.

However, he barely had time to contemplate hauling himself inside when another tickle flared up in his sinuses. Gentle and soothing as it was, Penny's fingers grazed the bridge of his nose just enough to spark that ever-present itch lodged in his nose. Panicked, Nathan shakily rose a hand up to Penny, stopping just short of grasping her shoulder. "Uh, P-Puuhhh... Peehhh...hhHHEH--!" There was no tease in this one. Nothing but a sharp inhale before Nathan's body yet again pitched inwards with a congested, "hhH'IIGCHUUh! guhh... iihhhHH! hhyeESHH'uh!Ohhh..." With little to no warning, and not wanting to startle Penny with a sudden shove, Nathan had directed the spray at the frost covered ground between them. The dive sent his head swimming, bent frame swaying to the side with a soft moan. "I-I'b sorry... snffl I couldn't warn'd you id tibe,"

The gentle sigh above his head sounded so far away, he almost swore Penny had turned to book it from him, completely disgusted. He wouldn't blame her. Imagine his surprise when he felt an arm hook around his own, gently guiding him upright again. A tender, albeit slightly chiding voice tutting, "Nathan Forager, you really are something else. Come on now," as Penny began leading him towards his house.

Sniffling a few times in succession, he couldn't bring himself to glance in the direction of those knowing eyes, a grimace twisting his own features. Here he was, a sneezing, dripping, sickly mess, and Penny was actually still near him. Touching him. "Peddy--" Damn it, he couldn't even speak properly! He sucked in a deeper sniffle, raising the cuff of his jacket to scrub away any excess threatening to drip from his nose. "Y-You really shouldn't... I cad bake it hobe fide, plus, I'd... uhhhh..." Never forgive himself if he actually passed on this plague to her? Never get over the embarrassment of her seeing him snotting all over himself? Never be able to look at her again without blushing as red as the ripe apples sprouting in his green house? Yeah, that about summed it.

"You're not used to having people help you, is that it? My mom is the exact same way. Never wanting anyone to think they're weak for needing help every once in a while," Her weight shifted, pressing closer against Nathan as they slowly ascended the steps to his front porch. "Well, I'll tell you the same thing I tell her: there's no shame in needing a hand every now and then. In fact, it makes you a lot smarter for asking, before you end up working yourself... well, sick,"

No wonder Penny wanted to be a teacher so badly. She certainly had the patience for it, although Nathan couldn't help feeling a bit irked at his own stupidity. A sore throat hadn't been so bad a couple of days ago, and maybe his body wouldn't be in such poor shape now if he had rested up then. As it stood, he just felt plain awful, a lethargy in each movement and word and thought that he couldn't shake with even the most forceful of sneezes.

Once inside, he finally detached himself from Penny (reluctantly) and sighed, passing a hand over his face. "Okay, you're righ'd. I... m'bight be bore thad a little tired," he admitted, raising his other hand to press tenderly against each side of his nose. A small smile formed on Penny's lips, not of triumph but more so mild relief. "I swear, I didn't feel this bad a few days ago. If anythi'g it kinda just, hit be all ad ond'ce," As did the trickle of mucus tickling it's way past his chapped nostrils.

Nathan sniffed sharply, clasping a hand over his nose as he trudged towards the coffee table. A small, blue box of tissues sat on the edge, and he plucked a good fistful before switching them out to cover his face. He pinched off the escaping moisture, opting out of blowing for the time being (hey, he still had to save a little face) with a heavy sigh. "I'b really sorry you have to see all this. It's so gross," And the small pile of used tissues clustered around the table didn't help matters. How charming that was.

Despite his blossoming self-loathing, Penny gave a soft giggle, moving around to the opposite side of the table. "Nathan, if you think this is bad, I'll have to tell you a few stories while I'm here. You'll think twice about being so easily embarrassed by your body then,"

He shook his head at that, swiping under his nose one last time before balling the tissue into his jacket pocket. "I dunno, feels like I'm a leaky fauce-- Wait, 'while you're here' ?" Glancing up sharply, sure enough Penny was removing her outer wear, draping it over a chair neatly. "You... You're staying?"

"Of course," she began matter-a-factly, "You're sick as a dog, and the worst thing about being sick is having no one to take care of you. Just being alone in general - what if something happened and--" Mid scarf fold, Penny's gaze shifted to the side, again entrapping her bottom lip. "Unless, I'm being too forward. I-I'd never want to make you feel uncomfortable, especially when you don't feel well. I forget not everyone is..."

A pang went through his heart at the flicker of hurt flashing across her features. Sometimes Nathan had to remind himself that behind those bright, brilliant green irises was a delicate flower. A woman who faithfully cared for her mother, even when fought against for caring so deeply in the first place.

Hesitation gripped him for a moment, and Nathan coughed into his wrist before mustering up enough courage to push it down. "Honestly? I'd be super appreciative of havi'g you here, Ped'nny. So long as you don'dt mb'ind," he added with a lop-sided smile, slipping his jacket off, "Uh, I'll try to dot be the worst patiedt ever,"

There and gone in a blink, Penny once again beamed up towards him, a newfound hope in her voice. "Don't you worry, Dr. Penny is here to put you on the mend. You'll be up and tending to your beautiful farm in no time,"

Nathan couldn't help but smile at the shift, already feeling better himself for it. "I'b glad I'b id capable hands. Ki'nd of surprisi'g but, I'b horrible at taki'g care of bys-s-seehhhlllf..." Good Yoba, again?! Quickly rolling his eyes, Nathan firmly rubbed the pads of his fingertips against his nose, mouth dropping open with a shaky inhale. No way, he wasn't going to sneeze again. Not in front of Penny, not with her in his house!

"Oh, bless you!" Penny preemptively replied, clasping the box of tissues as she tottered to Nathan. But he shook his head fervently, nose scrunching up with another liquid sniffle.

"Do, I'b hhhokay... sniff! I'b just a little t-tihhhihhckly... f-fide, though,"

[glowstickia]

Doctor’s Notes

Part of the Gasoline Believer series because I have lost control of my life. Takes after Little Talks. Written for Zarei week which...isn’t for a bit OOPS @mayviewmaidens.

[AO3]

Summary: Another kid doing something incredibly dumb to end up in her office. Dr. Zarei needed an aspirin. Two kids from the Activity Club walk into her office...shaken.

Dr. Zarei needed two aspirins.

Dr. Zarei PHD (?pending) pressed her fingertips together as she pushed her falling glasses closer to her face. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. She opened them upon exhaling--hearing the distant echoes of Patchworm reminding her. "They are kids Mina." "So, from the top," she started, already rubbing away the beginnings of a headache, "how did you get that up your nose again?" The kid in question winced as they once again tried to breathe through their nose. Lodged in their left nostril was a bottle cap. "I called dibs." Their voice sounded plugged, and if Zarei wasn’t staring at them, would’ve assumed the kid had a cold. They avoided her gaze and gave a quick shrug. She nodded slowly and immediately turned on the sink. Hands sterilized. Gloves - the yellow latex snapped at her wrist - on. She rolled out a cloth from her bag and grazed her finger along the tools until she found what she was looking for...tweezers. She turned back to the child and squeezed the tweezers a couple times. Clip Clip "Hold still." She said taking a seat in her rolling stool and tilted the kid's chin back, "This will probably hurt." The kid shook a little. Tiny movements as she clipped onto the bottle cap and- SLAM YANK "ZAREI WE'VE-oh." The sudden noise behind her startled her. She turned quickly around and heard metal drop to the floor. The kid immediately jumped to the ground, one hand on their nose while their other arm was outstretched as they chased after the metal rolling on the ground. "MY BOTTLE CAP!"

Zarei clicked off her little flashlight, closed her eyes and breathed. The day was almost over. The day was almost over . When she opened them the kid was squatting on the ground with their hands close to their chest. She stared at the two children standing awkwardly in the doorway. Black and red smoke billowing off of their shoulders. She held up her index finger while her other hand was removing her gloves.

She needed an aspirin.

While the kid was still huddled on the ground, looking read to throw down with the two new arrivals, Zarei walked over to the kid, squatted next to them, and placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “If I have to pull anything else out of your nose it’d best be tissues from a bloodied nose. Got it? ”

The fight response was immediately replaced with flight. The kid nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

She gave a curt nod and smacked the kid’s back lightly. “Good, now go back to class.”

The kid rose and glared at the two in the doorway as they passed. Soon as they were in the hallway, the kid made a run for it.

Zarei rolled her eyes as she stood, grunting a little, and walked over to the sink. She pitched the gloves and placed her tools down on the counter to be sterilized later. “Close the door behind you,” she said as she suds up her hands. When the door clicked she sighed. Well, she did want answers. “So,” she said while pulling paper towels from the dispenser, “What brings Richard’s students to my office this time?”

Isabel shared a knowing look with Maxwell. Zarei's eyebrow raised as Maxwell swung the backpack he was carrying onto the floor and started rummaging through it. Isabel rocked on her feet and twitched a grin. "I like your hijab." she said as her fingers twisted in each other, "I didn't know you like polka dots." Zarei felt heat rise to her cheeks as she lightly touched her headscarf. "It was a gift." she said, her tone forcing to stay even as she brushed one of the light blue hearts surrounded by cotton candy pink. "Now," she cleared her throat and returned to her desk as she pulled files from drawers, "What brings you here to bust down my door like bulls hm?"

Maxwell pulled out a wooden box from his backpack. It was rectangular and made of a light wood. Maple perhaps? On top was a sliding lid. Was this some kind of trap?

“We were wondering,” Isabel said as he placed the box on Zarei’s desk, “if you could….get rid of this for us.”

She felt a tug of curiosity pull her heart strings and lay waste to any potential warning bells in her head. Her hands hovered over the box before she placed them back in her lap. She squinted at the two children before her. “Is this--a prank?” She asked, “Did Richard send you?”

The duo immediately shook their heads. “No, no that’d be awful.” “Spender doesn’t know.” “We’re like twelve. We’re mature.”

Zarei hummed as the two continued fumbling over themselves. She tapped her finger tips together. “So,” she started, “he does not know of whatever is in this box?”

“No.” They said in almost unison.

She nodded. “And,” her hands steepled, “you do not wish for him to know you have, whatever is inside this?”

“No!” This time they were in unison. Their energy flared up again.

Zarei raised an eyebrow. “Well,” she shrugged and leaned back in her chair. It creaked, “he does not tell me his secrets, so I won’t tell him-” The two side in relief. Her lips twitched, “However,” They groaned. She tapped the box, “you must tell me what is in here, and how you retrieved it.”

Isabel bristled. Maxwell lowered his hat. They exchanged looks and silent words before she spoke up. “We’ll tell you, but it doesn’t leave this office...deal?” She held out her hand. Without breaking eye contact, Zarei grabbed her hand.

“Now,” she said, releasing Isabel’s hand and adjusted her glasses, “what have you brought me to my office and how did you acquire it?”

Isabel cleared her throat. “Well-”

“So this guy almost killed us,” Maxwell blurted out and shrugged as if it was no big deal.

Isabel’s energy roared to life. “Max!”

“What? It’s true,” he stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at dust, “we were both there.”

Isabel rubbed her hands down her cheeks. “Do you wanna tell it then?” She asked, giving him the side-eye. Black flared and rolled off his shoulders. She nodded and took a deep breath. “Did Mr. Spender ever tell you about the spirits in the park?”

Zarei shook her head. She heard some whispers about it from the Dojo students, but not much else. Spirits were everywhere in Mayview, all compact and compressed into one small city, if she could even call it that. “You will have to be specific.” She said, nails tapped her desk, “We don’t exactly talk .”

They shared a glance, before Isabel continued. “There were rumors about a dangerous spirit that was causing some havoc in the park and most of the activity seemed to happen at night.” She explained as Maxwell beside her nodded along. “We split into two teams and lost track of Spender.”

Maxwell shrugged. “I mean, he was at the car when we came back. We never saw him or the other two.”

“Nope,” Isabel’s gaze shifted to the ceiling as though she was recounting that night, “the first time we ran into it...it was fast.”

“The spirit?” Zarei asked, noticing the distance in Isabel’s eyes for a brief moment.

Maxwell squeezed her shoulder. She nodded. “Yes.” She tugged at the hem of her jacket, “We didn’t know what kind of powers it had, it was just…”

“Super creepy,” Maxwell said.

“Yes.”

“Like it had that one glowing eye-”

Isabel gave him a very tired look. He closed his mouth and shrugged. “As I was saying,” she turned back to Zarei, “we..well ran and headed for the playground.”

“Better than the lake.” Maxwell muttered. Isabel elbowed him.

Zarei tilted her glasses. “And what is this spirit’s power?” she asked, in attempts to keep them on track.

“Oh, well…” Isabel sighed and rolled her wrist, signalling Maxwell that it was now in fact his turn.

“We think it might be to-” he glanced briefly at Isabel and was suddenly at a lost for words. Isabel’s brows furrowed and whispered something quickly in his ear. He nodded and adjusted his cap. “It manipulates emotions.”

Zarei sat up in her chair. “What?”

“Yeah, it like…” his lips thinned for a moment, “whatever you’re feeling in that current moment the spirit can uh...turn it up a lot of notches.”

Zarei steepled her hands and sat forward. Her eyes narrowing. “Does it have last effects?”

They both looked at each other and shrugged. “No?”

“None that we’re aware of?”

Her eyebrow twitched. “Alright,” she sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. She needed two aspirins. “What else can you tell me about this spirit.”

Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck. “Well…”

Isabel twisted her fingers. “Mmmmm…”

“It...did try to murder us.” Maxwell scratched his neck, “Like...two times? Five?”

Isabel shuddered. Red bloomed off her shoulders. “It had long arms with sharp fingers…” She shuddered again, “Don’t know what would happen if someone were to get hit with those…”

Zarei sighed. “That’s all.” She wanted to know more. She needed to know more. But... “Thank you,” she said, opening one of her drawers and placed the box inside. She closed the drawer and waved them off. In a sudden roll their energy flared to life and disappeared into the ether, then faded, almost as though she had (both figurative and literal) lifted weight of their shoulders. They stood in stunned silence, both prepared to further their case, but judging from the color slowly draining from their faces as they had continued talking… Zarei didn't want to push these two any further. Patchworm's words from earlier rang in her head " They are kids, Mina ."

Maxwell picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. His lips thinned as he pulled his down a little. Isabel in turn rubbed her shoulder, if Zarei remembered correctly, it was the same one she sewed... Maxwell patted her back, gave a nod to Zarei, and left the room. Isabel sighed deeply as faint red smoke rose off her shoulders. "Dr. Zarei?" She arched an eyebrow. "Hm?" "Please don't...mention any of this to my grandfather either." Her lips twitched. "You're secret is safe here." She pulled a pen off of the re-purposed school mug on the desk and tapped it against the yellow form she had on her desk. "I assume you both will be needing passes too?" Isabel's eyes fluttered. "Uh, yes...actually yes." Zarei hummed and quickly wrote the date and signature on two sheets. "Do not make this a regular thing." She said, holding the notes out for Isabel to take. She grabbed them. "Thank you," she said, gave a respectable bow and jogged out into the hallway. Zarei heard two muffled voices talking grow quiet. She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps...she needed three aspirin.

Bonus: Ed pressed his face against his textbook and groaned. Who in their right minds ever actually studied in study hall? Nerds, that's who. He did his homework, completed, finished. It was all he could do to keep the boredness at bay. His usual entertainment ditched him before the period even started. He was all set to follow, but the VP caught him slithering out- "Without a hall pass."

He perked up almost immediately when his sister slid into her seat next to him. She didn't say anything about ditching or the silent convo she and Max shared. He twitched in his seat. Friend...Stealer...

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

what about an Archie ronnie sickfic, maybe where she refuses to admit she's sick and Archie tries really hard to be a good bf?

(Hey!! So I don’t really ship Archieronnie, because I ship v with girls and qp jarchie, but tbh they’re quite cute in the show?? They’re quite healthy and sweet?? So since I’m not sure where I stand take some pre varchie as a compromise! Hope that’s ok! Also really short because i hit a block again lol)

If Archie Andrews knew anything about Veronica Lodge, it was that she was one stubborn girl.

The raven haired princess had only walked into his life less than a year ago, but it felt like much longer, because she had already set her mark on him and his friends. There was nothing foreign about her anymore, and it was like she had always been there.

Archie felt like he knew a lot about Veronica already. All her little quirks and how she thought and what she stood for. But there was still a mystery to her. Archie wasn’t always sure what she thought. Or her full history. She had lived such a big life compared to his small one, he could never truly comprehend how that might feel like.

But Archie liked what he saw, and he was ready to like what else would come at him. He wasn’t quite sure what that would be, but one thing Archie Andrews was was that he was determined.

Even if it meant trying to tackle her down when she walked into school coughing.

When she walked down the hall that morning she didn’t have her usual flair and flounce, her stride not quite as finesse or eloquent as it usually was.

She walked with a slight drag, her steps not quite as confident and bouncy and more slow and rooted to the earth beneath her. Her smile wasn’t quite as dashing and charming, because there wasn’t one at all.

Veronica was wearing a oversized (but still stylish and chic in a way only Veronica lodge could do) knitted sweater and jeans, when Veronica only ever wore dresses and skirts. Her makeup was kept to a minimum and she was a shade or two lighter, her healthy, glowing tan washed out. She didn’t even wear her killer high heels. Archie thought she still looked pretty damn great, but he knew something was up.

“Ronnie?” Archie called out softly, approaching her at her locker, unable to see her face due to the door blocking her from him. He was careful to keep his voice low in case she had a headache. Being best friends with a dude who had a non existent immune system meant he was pretty good at this kind of stuff.

Veronica jumped slightly, clearly a little dazed and out of it. She quickly shut her locker closed to see who it was, and tired, heavy looking eyes widened when she saw who it was.

“Oh, Archie, hi!” She replied finally, her voice husky and a few semitones lower than it usually was. Her voice was a little flat, and a slight hint of congestion was lacing her words.

Archie raised an eyebrow cautiously, and took note of the concealer rubbed off one side of her nose, revealing reddened, raw skin.

“Hm,” Archie commented.

“What?” Veronica asked, confused, before her face scrunched up into a pre-sneeze expression, her nostrils flaring for a second before she covered her entire face with her hands and turning away to sneeze two harsh but oddly feminine sneezes.

She turned back to Archie like nothing had happened.

“Bless you,” Archie said, almost a little accusingly, a hard time to his voice.

“What’s going on with you?” Veronica said causally to try and throw him off, opening up her locker again and proceeding to take the books she needed for her upcoming classes.

“You’re sick”, Archie accused, squinting as his brow furrowed.

Veronica scoffed, closing her locker to face him with a challenging expression and raised eyebrow, clearly amused with him, “Jesus Archie, you miss taking care of Jughead so much that you have to find a new sickie. Look, I know he doesn’t live with you anymore but be patient, sooner or later he’ll be sick soon and ready for your brotherly love.”

Archie huffed, “This is not about Jughead, Ronnie, this is about you! I see you’re clearly sick, and you need to go home like, right now! Or I will physically drag you home.”

Veronica laughed at him, and Archie couldn’t miss the croaky timbre to her laugh, “Archiekins, you’re just being ridiculous now. Now go off and play some music or football, or whatever it is you do, because I have to go off and get to my history class with Josie.”

She strode off, but not before offering him the sweetest, signature Lodge smile, which was almost convincing enough to get Archie off her back, but it still wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough fire in her eyes, it was a dull spark at most, smothered by the over looming sickness weighing down on her body.

Archie watched as she walked away and faded into the crowd, feeling almost a little alienated from the lack of the sound of the clicking of her heels against the floor. It felt strangely empty. He frowned with concern as she disappeared, and with much hesitation eventually ended up retreating into his classroom although his brain was plagued with the fear that something would happen to Veronica and it would be his fault she had disappeared.

Archie was pretty reckless throughout his science class.

He couldn’t hear anything Mr Callahan was saying, and the class seemed to drag on and on like time was stuck on some strangle loop like he was in a Doctor Strange comic book. It seemed pretty awesome in concept, but in practice, Archie was not at all enjoying this agonising limbo.

It wasn’t like Archie had a particular hatred towards the subject, in fact Archie thought it was an alright subject, and while he didn’t perform in it too well, he did like to learn about it. The test part though, could fuck off in a ditch somewhere far away. But today he hated nothing more than this class.

It was the worry settling in his stomach, constantly probing his brain with panic inducing thoughts and prodding it with more absurd notions that logically he knew was impossible, but in the moment they felt certain. Archie wondered how Veronica was feeling, if she was okay, and the question wouldn’t stop attacking him and it pierced itself into his head a little deeper as the clock ticked on.

The moment the bell rang he practically jumped out of his seat and yanked the door open, and watched as a sea of students piled out of their classrooms into their next class. Archie searched and searched through this Where’s Waldo Page of a hallway, but couldn’t quite locate his target, the raven haired princess.

With defeat Archie sighed and slumped towards the music room, and opened the door to see Josie frowning and in deep conversation with Valerie.

Archie widened his eyes, “Oh, shit, sorry, am I interrupting? I can leave–”

Josie offered him a smile and shook her head, “You’re alright, Yoko Ono, we’re good.”

Archie nodded and took a seat, after grabbing his guitar and beginning to unzip the bag, “I uh..don’t want to push, but is anything up?”

Valerie sighed softly, “Its not world breaking, or anything, but Josie was just saying to me about how sick Veronica was just at history back then.”

Archie’s heart skipped a beat and sank to the ground.

“Yeah, poor girl was shivering her head off. I tried to give her my jacket but poor babe is too stubborn. She couldn’t stop sneezing all class, and each time it would get more..sick sounding? Poor baby should just go home..I tried to get her to go home but–”

“Josie, where is she now?”

“She’s off to Vixen Practice now, I think–”

“Okay, thank you so much, but i have to go!” Archie said hurriedly as he rezipped his guitar and shoved it back against a stand and jumped to his feet, and zoomed away like a sonic the hedgehog game he used to play when he was little.

Josie smirked, exchanging a glance with Valerie,“ Pureheart the Powerful, he is.”

Veronica wrapped her arms around herself and shivered violently, her legs trembling and causing the seat to rattle slightly, a very quiet and dull shaking noise being produced as a result. Her hands shook, unable to properly take down her history notes and all discussions about whatever world war was being discussed seemed to blend into this hideous mess of a blur.

Veronica let out a breathy exhale, reaching her pen and wanting to scream at how ice cold her hands were, and tried to etch something out onto her notebook but all that came out were unreadable scribbles and chicken scratch. She sighed deeply, until a tickle in her nose made her breath hitch embarrassingly loudly as her nose twitched and caught the sneeze in her cupped hands.

She sneezed two harsh, heavy sneezes that caused her to bend over with the sheer force of them. She couldn’t respond to the multiple bless you’s she received because another tickle in her nose made her nostrils start to flare again, as she gasped for breath and fell into yet another monstrous release of sneezes that ripped out of her with a loud, harsh sound.

Any feminine or delicate timbre that might have been lightly laced in the sound of her sneezes were completely lost by a sickly sounding, desperate, and almost masculine sound. She felt miserable.

Suddenly a piece of cloth was being prodded against her, Veronica whipped around to face this person, nose puffed up and pink, eyes teary and nostrils still lightly twitching in a sneezy haze.

“Hey girl, you should take this,” Josie said softly.

Veronica refused politely, until she was forced back into a tortuous pre-sneeze limbo where she was just on the verge of another sneeze, just teetering on the edge but stuck, causing her breath to hitch endlessly and nose to twitch.

Then suddenly a tissue box was being thrust upon her desk by her teacher., not so kindly, in a way that made her feel heavy and ashamed of herself. She felt awful, not just by the sickened state of her body but the shame and self loathing thoughts that began to crawl into her brain and infest it. A mental block creeped in as she subconsciously began to retreat into herself.

But with a high pitched gasp Veronica buried her swollen, tickling nose into the soft tissue and began a fit of 7 loud, desperate and ticklish sneezes with only a short amount of space in between them, causing all eyes to drift towards her. Veronica went bright red with embarrassment and she wished with everything she had she could just stop but her nose was saying otherwise.

Once she finished she quietly blew her nose, looking away and refusing to make eye contact. She felt so ashamed through this feverish haze, even with Josie’s kind eyes practically yelling at her that it was okay.

When the bell rang she rushed out of there and coughed her way out, biting her lip hard and tried to fight the tears that threatened to spill had she stayed a second longer.

Veronica was freezing in her River Vixen outfit, unable to stop the coughs that ripped out out of her and scraped against her inflamed throat. She coughed violently as she made her way inside the gym, only to be met by concerned eyes of her fellow vixens.

Ginger frowned at her with concern, “Did you get what Betty had?”

Veronica shook her head, “No, I didn’t, I’m fine.”

Tina’s eyes flooded with worry, “V, if Betty is still out with it and it’s been 2 days, I bet that you should most definitely be in bed right now. You don’t look very well.”

“Well, I’m doing just fine fine!” Veronica snapped before her nostrils began to flare and she tried to hide her nose with a cupped hand. She began to wave the air in front of her face, attempting to stifle the first two sneezes but the tickle was too forceful to conceal them, so was forced to let them out, doubling over to sneeze two high pitched, ticklish and desperate sneezes towards the floor.

“Veronica, as much as I enjoy our fire and ice battle we have going on, I do have to agree, and I would not be opposed to a ceasefire for the time being. After all, it is unfair for me to win with such an advantage,” Cheryl said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible but Veronica couldn’t miss the worried glint in her eyes.

“I am fine, Cheryl, now lets start with this dance, okay?” Veronica insisted, pushing them aside and stretched out.

Cheryl exchanged a look with one of the girls, but turned on the music. Then the dancing started.

And that was when she broke.

The twirls and turns and the leaps and the pyramids were too much for her. Veronica could feel her body overheat and scream at her for mercy, and her head spun around and she felt incredibly dizzy and everything was too much. Veronica couldn’t catch her breath, her lungs heavy and congested and then she found herself coughing her lungs out, bent over by the power and slowly descending onto the floor as the world began to tilt.

“Veronica!” Cheryl yelled in panic.

And then Archie came swooping into the doors, eyes scanning the area until he met his objective. Then like a knight in shining armour he ran for her, catching her in his arms, and he world steadied itself.

“Ronnie?!”

“Fine,” She choked out.

“You’re really not!” Archie said frantically as he hauled one of her arms around his shoulders and began to walk her towards the nurses office.

“Jesus, Ronnie, you really scared me,” Archie said breathlessly, still clearly in shock, looking over her from a chair next to one of the beds in the nurse’s office.

“Hm, is a world without me really so bleak, Archiekins?” Veronica teased, her voice still croaky.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night Ronnie.”

She giggled at that.

“But seriously, you can’t do that,” Archie said, more seriously now.

“What?”

“This. Trying to be strong all the time when you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, it’s all I have.”

Archie froze, “Ronnie…it’s not. You don’t have to do this all the time..”

His eyes were so kind.

“..It’s the only way I feel like I have control..I feel..so weak all the time at home, and inside.. I always feel belittled somehow, like I’m not in on a joke everyone else is. I feel so isolated all the time, like..I have no control of anything. I don’t think I’m strong enough. This is the only way I feel like I have a grip on anything, something I can hold on to and hold steady. Like an anchor. This ..false belief of pretending like I’m something, but I’m not. I’m just Veronica.”

Archie smiled softly, “You’re not alone. Ever since Jughead moved out I..I feel kind of..empty. Because he was my anchor, he still is, but..he’s not there at 3 am in the morning when I can’t sleep because I’m thinking too much anymore. I feel like we’re a duo, you know? Sun and Moon. And he’s so..far away now. And he’s floating away from me and I’m losing my grip. Slipping away. I just..want something to hold onto and keep me steady too.”

Veronica smiled softly, quickly wiping away the tears in her eyes, “We’re both incredibly fucked up, Archie Andrews.”

He chuckled at that.

“And for what it’s worth..I really do like ‘Just Veronica’.”

And like this she feels that bit closer.

[majorindc]

I have a cold. Waking this morning with a swelling, itchy throat, remnants of a post-nasal dripped sleep lodged in my esophagus, causing noises resembling a trombone in the Star Wars cafe, I realized my fate. My nose, one side at least, was filled to the brim with a sticky substance, reminiscent of greenish-white lava pouring from a nostril cave, waiting for an extraction into ever more moistening tissues after each imprecise blow. Is there no more worse a feeling than engaging the day's first light with a gagging, wheezing display, coupled with a suffocation endured by your own bodily fluids? Perhaps, what is worse is that first look in the mirror, just before you turn on the hot tap. That look that reminds you not only of the pathetic look your genes maneuvered over the ages, but also of your own mortality, hijacked by a virus as old as dinosaurs, and as small as the tip of your night-grown, beard hair, stubble's pet. Still, the day must go on. https://www.instagram.com/p/B8tmT8PFMoAfl-mLo8w2TKFt6V7FLpfz06DfmM0/?igshid=1c6fp9jti1864

[sending-the-message]

Atonement for Water by survivalprocedure

They say great minds think alike. It’s an anecdotal cliche spouted by two people who are about to say or do something similar. It’s an empty expression, though. Because great minds do not think alike. Not at all. That’s not what makes them so great or unique. Great minds will see the paths others failed to consider. Only ordinary minds think alike.

Great minds work differently. And I’m left wondering whether the mind of Thomas Jenkins was a great one or a heinous one. His mind was not like yours or mine.

My first encounter with Mr. Jenkins was not what you would call “favorable”. He sat in his hospital bed with a blank stare of anguish directed at me. If I had met him on the street I’d assume he was a lost man with a few loose screws in his head and try to maintain a safe distance.

“Cut if off.” It was one of the first things he said to me. His voice shook with reluctance, yet there was still a hint of conviction behind his tone. “It’s the only way she’ll love me again...the only way I can atone. I’ll do it myself if you won’t.”

The bizarre request upset my foundations of reason. It isn’t uncommon for hospital personnel to witness some rather outlandish cases of medical marvel. A rare disease; survivors of horrific injuries; even the humorous cases where obscure items became lodged where the sun doesn’t shine. Just yesterday a patient was admitted after her husband insisted on having intercourse through her stoma. Day in and day, nurses and doctors see it all.

But this...this I had not seen before. None of us had.

“E-excuse me? You want me to amputate your arm?” Using his right index finger, Mr. Jenkins drew an imaginary line across his left bicep. “Right here. See this line? That’s where the cut should be.”

Ordinarily a situation like this would lead to the conclusion of either a mentally imbalanced patient or a neurological disorder. I immediately thought of apotemnophilia as a potential explanation for the rash desire I observed in my patient. It wouldn’t be my first case handling the urge to cut off one’s own limbs. A young couple had previously came in after deciding to simultaneously bite off the first joint in the others’ pinky finger in a sexually motivated stunt.

Mr. Jenkins, however, did not exactly fit the bill. Most reverends wouldn’t. And it wasn’t just his request to be mutilated. Originally he had been brought to the hospital to have his stomach pumped after ingesting an entire bottle of painkillers. He was clinically dead for three minutes during the entire ordeal. Bringing him back was a challenge.

Actions such as these were not expected from a man of God.

I squinted back at him as he sat with that cold, cemented stare. “Is there something wrong with your arm? Are you in pain?” “No pain.” He shifted his head and stared longingly out the window as his eyes welled with tears. “‘...whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’" “Is that from the bible?” Jenkins nodded. “John 4:14.” He inhaled deeply through his nose; his snot-filled nostrils blocking the flow of air and erupting into a moist commotion that filled the room. “I’ll never get to drink that water if I have this arm.” “Would you...like to speak with someone?” “You mean a shrink?” “A psychiatrist, yes.” Jenkins’ face turned stern, his voice raising in volume. “I’m not crazy!”

The sudden outburst clouded my thoughts with uncertainty. How should I proceed with this? A man once filled with such enthusiasm for life was abruptly showing signs of mental deterioration. A man who aided many families in overcoming hardship was now viewed as the town villain. Beating your wife in her sleep will do that to you. It doesn’t matter how many people you’ve helped in life. One night can forever alter the perception society has on someone. The years Mr. Jenkins had helped others were now distant memories of a completely different person than the one who sat in the hospital bed today. He was no longer seen as kind and gentle. He was a wife-beater who had tried to kill himself, and now he was asking to be mutilated.

The number of times we help others in life becomes meaningless when we need help ourselves. And no one wanted to help Revered Jenkins. His value to the world was gone. The community tossed him aside like stale bread, feeding the languished remains to birds as they shoved their beaks into him and ripped him apart.

“I think it might be best for your mental health to speak with someone.” “I don’t need that! I need you to cut my arm off!” “I’m afraid I don’t visibly see any reason for amputation. You need mental care, not physical.” Jenkins slouched back into the bed, defeated, his voice calming. “I met him...in the afterlife...before you pumped my stomach...I met him. He whistled at me.” He stopped speaking and mimicked a whistling noise, first holding a high pitched tone for about two seconds before dropping the pitch an octave and holding for another two seconds.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

“Just like that. I think he was trying to intimidate me.” “Who was this man?” “He calls himself Patrick.” “And who is Patrick?” Mr. Jenkins lightly tapped the right side of his head with his right index finger. “Right here. On this side of my brain. The right side is his. He’s the other man that lives inside of me. Inside my head. That’s who Patrick is.” I masked the internal feelings of pity with a coy smile at the reverend. “I see. Are you familiar with multiple personality disorder?” Jenkins furrowed his brow and spoke sharply, “It’s not multiple personality disorder.” “It would appear that way to me.”

The left arm draped over Jenkins’ lap twitched, jerking around as though he were trying to alleviate a numbness. It flopped like a fish out of water momentarily before promptly raising itself and casting the obscene gesture of a middle finger pointed directly at me.

The Revered immediately expressed regret for the action. “I-I’m sorry, doctor.” His hand lowered and draped itself over its owner's lap once again. “That was Patrick. Not me.” “It’s quite alright. I’ve had patients do far worse.” I buried my face in the patient chart and documented his actions. “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation. I’ll send someone to speak with you shortly so we could get a more precise diagnosis.” “You believe me, don’t you doc? You have to cut my arm off before Patrick emerges again!” “Don’t worry about Patrick, Mr. Jenkins. You’re in great care. Just let us do our job.”

I spun and ignored his cries as I walked out. After I closed the door to his room I could still hear his muffled cries from the hallway. “Patrick is real! Patrick is real!” he shouted over and over. The words faded as I walked away, heading straight for Dr. Quinn’s office, the hospital psychologist.

Later in the day, despite my attempts to shake Mr. Jenkins from my mind, his condition piqued my interest and remained in my thoughts for the remainder of my shift. What could possibly drive a normal, God-loving man to such extremes?

”It’s not your problem,” I’d tell myself. ”There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Perhaps it was my previous studies in neurology, or perhaps it was the slight scar I noticed under his hairline, but Thomas Jenkins found a cozy little spot to set up camp within me. Patrick was surely just a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. It was Mr. Jenkins’ mind that engaged the braquial plexus nerve and primary motor functions to give me that middle finger.

The image of that finger stuck with me even after I had left the facility and went home for the evening. Something just didn’t quite fit. Why had his left arm twitched the way it had before giving me that finger like it was struggling? Like it had a mind of its own?

Mr. Jenkins had tapped the ride side of his head with his right hand when he proclaimed that specific side as the area where Patrick resided. It was the left hand that had twitched and shot the middle finger at me. The right hemisphere of our brains control the left side of our bodies. Not many people were aware of that fact. Was it a pure coincidence that Mr. Jenkins tapped that side and then gave me the finger with his left hand, or had he done some sort of research beforehand? Could he really be that desperate to convince someone to amputate his arm to thoroughly study neuroscience?

I went to sleep that night still thinking of the reverend, promising myself to look more into his case the next day.

But when I arrived for my evening shift that day I was met with a rather grim situation. I remember first seeing the carpet in the lobby being completely stained with blood upon my entrance through the sliding glass doors.

The event was later played back to me on security camera footage. Mr. Jenkins had been discharged in the morning, went home for some time and came back to the hospital with an electric knife, the kind you would use to cut the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. He walked into the lobby of the emergency room with his shirt off, pulled the knife from his pocket, plugged it into a nearby outlet, flicked the switch and immediately dug the blade into his left bicep, sawing away at his own flesh in front of horrified families all waiting to be seen

I was told his screams were so intense that his vocal cords went into paralysis. But it didn’t stop him from cutting away as much as possible before the saw began to struggle cutting through the bone. He twisted the blade around, desperately trying to completely sever the limb. When it became clear to him that the blade was not strong enough to finish the job he began cutting through tissue vertically down the length of his arm, ripping through the flesh from his bicep all the way to the tips of his fingers in jagged zig-zags.

Eventually a security guard was alerted and took action, tackling Mr. Jenkins to the floor to prevent further damage. But by then it was too late. There was simply no saving the mangled remains of his left arm. It had been turned into a useless lump of meat. He was rushed into the operating room where surgeons completed the amputation.

While the whole ordeal was odd and frightening to watch, what really caught my attention was Mr. Jenkins’ face and his actions moments before he was tackled. During the process his face was filled with agony, but at one point something changed. The agony washed away and it was replaced with a burning hatred. He stopped cutting his arm and glared at everyone in the room as though he were about to turn the knife on an innocent bystander.

But, he was taken down before anything else could happen. Ultimately, I suppose you could say Mr. Jenkins got his wish. His left arm was now gone.

“Why do you think he did this here?” Dr. Quinn asked me, her voice shaky with uncertainty as the two of us looked through a window into the room where Mr. Jenkins was sedated and resting peacefully while a nurse checked his vitals. “Why didn’t he do this at home?” “Probably knew he was going to need immediate medical attention,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on Mr. Jenkins. My focus landed on the subtle scar in his hairline once again. “Did he ever have brain surgery?” “I believe so. Had some sort of procedure done to treat epilepsy around ten years ago, if I recall.” My eyes narrowed, squinting at Mr. Jenkins. “So he’s a split-brain?” She shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, Kenny.” “A split-brain. You know...to treat epilepsy the corpus callosum is severed, leaving both the left and right hemispheres in the brain independent from each other.” “Oh, well, why does that matter? That doesn’t have anything to do with his mental state.” “Well, actually...it does. Sort of. Studies have shown that split-brain patients experience a second personality, so to speak. The right hemisphere controls the left side of the body and will act independently from the left hemisphere, which controls the right side of body. At times the two sides will disagree with each other. There were cases where the left hand would swat away food it apparently did not want to eat. In one case doctors had trained the right hemisphere to answer questions by pointing at words laid out on a piece of paper. The left hemisphere, our conscious, vocal selves, answered on a different piece of paper with the right arm. The man was asked simple questions and provided mostly the same answers with each hand, until they asked whether the subject was male or female. The right hand pointed to male, while the left pointed to female.” Dr. Quinn shot me a menacing glare. “So you’re saying his procedure ten years ago birthed a whole new person?” I gave a frown. “I don’t really know. No one does for sure. There’s conflicting conclusions drawn from the experiments conducted on split-brain patients. Some say the idea is nonsense and that the two hemispheres are a collective, single person. Others tend to think that there’s always another person or soul or whatever you want to call it attached to the right hemisphere...that the mind houses two separate people at all times...and that the corpus callosotomy procedure somehow unleashes the right hemisphere as though it were a caged beast dwelling within our whole lives.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You observed him yesterday. What do you think?”

I recalled the events from yesterday - the twitch in his left arm, the middle finger he gave me, the tap he placed on the right side of his head. The truth was hard to deny.

I finally took my eyes off Mr. Jenkins and turned to meet the gaze of Dr. Quinn. “Patrick is real,” I declared.

Our discussion was interrupted by a scream inside the room. Dr. Quinn and I quickly turned our attention inside to see the nurse bent over the bed at the waist. Mr. Jenkins had buried his head into her neck. The nurse struggled and screamed again, frantically flailing her arms around in a frenzied panic. In one swift jerk, Mr. Jenkins pulled his head away. Hanging from his mouth was a thin slab of skin that dangled in between his teeth. Its red texture glistened in the flourescent lighting above as he leaned over and spit the skin out, projecting it forward onto the floor beside the bed.

The nurse rolled over onto her back and instantly a stream of blood shot upwards as though it was propelled by a super soaker. Repeated surges of blood squirted into the air with each beat of her heart, quickly painting the blankets in bright red gore.

There was only one reason for blood to shoot like that. Mr. Jenkins had bit into the nurse’s carotid artery. If we didn’t immediately help her she would soon bleed out.

I rushed into the door, eager to aide my fellow medical co-worker. Her screams persisted as I reached her side, pressing my hand against her neck.

“I need to stop the bleeding…” I advised, hoping it would calm her and keep her from squirming like a worm cut in half. “Hold still...please...oh Jesus…”

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

Whistling. The second pitch an octave below the first. Just as Mr. Jenkins had described.

I looked up and found Mr. Jenkins standing over us on the opposite side of the bed in his hospital gown that was now drenched in blood. He looked down at us both with a raging fury in his eyes, making it abundantly clear he intended on causing further harm.

I quickly grabbed the nurse by her arm and began dragging her towards the door. We needed to get to safety, and I had no intention of leaving this poor nurse alone to be devoured. As I pulled the nurse away, I heard the whistling again.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

The location of the noise had moved slightly. I looked up and saw Mr. Jenkins was walking towards us slowly, stepping with left foot first, then dragging a stiff right leg behind him. The remaining stump of his left arm raised itself as though he were reaching out to us. His right arm retaliated, balling its fingers into a fist and thrusting itself into Mr. Jenkins’ face. His breathing labored and he began taking short, quick gulps of air.

The right hemisphere of ours brain is not capable of controlling speech. Although a few hospital personnel would later argue that he whistled because of his vocal cord paralysis from earlier in the day, I knew the real reason. It was the only way the right hemisphere could communicate. Patrick was announcing himself to us.

Mr. Jenkins was clearly no longer in charge. The will of Patrick had somehow taken over. I was seeing an internal struggle where the right side of his brain overpowering his left. It was Patrick, frustrated by the removal of his arm that was now acting out. And all Mr. Jenkins could do to fight this monster was to keep his leg stiff and beat his own face in, hoping it would slow Patrick down.

Dr. Quinn rushed into the room with another doctor she had hailed down. Together the three of us pulled the nurse out and placed her on a gurney. I pulled the door shut behind as we exited and after watching the other doctor wheel the nurse away I looked back at the room and saw Patrick standing right up against the window looking back at me and Dr. Quinn. The anger that had shaped his face was now replaced with frustration. Without a working hand, there was no way for Patrick to turn the knob and exit the room.

“P-Patrick? Is that you?” I asked, hoping to confirm my suspicion.

He didn’t whistle this time. Instead he widened his eyes like a madman and curved the left side of his mouth into a small smile.

Maintaining the mad look on his face, he pulled his head backwards and then violently thrust it forwards into the window. The blow cast a spiderweb of jagged cracks in the window and sent the piercing sound of broken glass echoing through the hallway. He repeated the act again. And again. And again. Rapidly he bashed his own head against the window over and over, each blow spreading more cracks through the glass. Blood began to flow out of numerous laceration in his forehead, covering his entire face.

With one powerful blow the glass finally shattered. Patrick’s momentum sent him tumbling through the new opening and crashing against the tile floor. He lay there, unable to pick himself up with just one working leg. Instead he rolled onto his stomach and began pushing himself forward with his left leg, slowing inching his way towards me, breathing heavily with his mouth open wide, all too eager to sink his teeth into another person.

I stood frozen, unsure if I was believing what I was seeing until a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me backwards.

“What’s happening to him?” Dr. Quinn urgently asked me.

A team of police officers rushed into the hallway from around the corner. They pulled their weapons and aimed them directly at Patrick, but before they could say or do anything Patrick abruptly stopped. His body went limp and his heavy breathing ceased. An uncomfortable silence took over the scene, all of us standing over the body in awe.

“Mr. Jenkins is gone,” I said, answering Dr. Quinn.

We have a long history of associating evil with left handed people. In biblical times it was considered a sign of moral compromise. Matthew 6:3-4 reads, But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.…

For Mr. Jenkins, his left hand cost him his life.

The official cause of death was a ruptured brain aneurism, the result of severe head-force trauma. The area of the aneurism was on the right hemisphere which leads me to speculate as to whether Mr. Jenkins had somehow caused the aneurism from within.

Since that day a lot of questions have been asked by many people, some of which believe that Patrick was real, and some that refuse the notion. The most intriguing so far has been where split-brains end up in the afterlife if one hemisphere is considered worthy, and the other is deemed evil. Would they both go to heaven? To hell?

I can’t answer that for certain. I can only hope that Mr. Jenkins got his wish. I hope he achieved atonement for his water.

And most of all, I hope the strangers dwelling inside us all won’t prevent us from doing the same.

[homeiswherethestuckis]

3 7 20 27 29

3. What color are your eyes?    They’re like…blue/green/grey?  It’s weird and the color they look like really depends on the lighting and what I’m wearing and whatever.

7. What color hair do you have?    It’s like a dirty blonde, leaning closer to brown.

20. How tall are you?  I am exactly 5 feet tall and I hate it.

27. Do you have a job?  What do you do?  I’ve worked in the packaging section of this really big costume warehouse awhile ago, and I spent over a year working at a tiny local gas station.  I don’t have a job right now except the occasional babysitting gig right now, though.

29. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?  You know, that’s a hard one considering I’ve already mentioned the whole thing about how I dared my friend to eat a pepper and made her throw up at her birthday party in a different ask, and that’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entire life to another person.  I guess I might have a story about something else?  But it’s more embarrassing than horrible or anything.

Okay so here’s a long story: When I was five or six (I don’t remember exactly, kindergarten age I guess) I went through this whole scientific phase of comparing the size of things to parts of my body, like “oh this pencil is the width of my hand” and look at this blade of grass it’s so small it’s thumb sized that’s cute” well, this one time I found a button, like one of those clear, spare buttons you’d use on a button up shirt or something.  You know the ones.  Well, I looked at this button and I noticed that it was roughly, I thought, the size of my right nostril.  Obviously this was something I had to verify because of science reasons, so I went to the bathroom and held up the button as close as I could to my nostril to get a better comparison in the mirror.  Here’s the part where I tell you what I learned. 

1. My nostril was slightly bigger than the button.

2. A button can be lodged all the way up a human nose without hindering the human’s breathing.

I can’t exactly explain how that happened, but one minute the button was positioned in my clumsy fingers, and the next minute it was inside my nose.  I tried my best to fish it out of my nose, but it was too big for my finger to get around to push out, and my nostril was too small for me to get another finger in to potentially pull the button out that way.  I think I tried tweezers at one point, but that just made it worse.  Anyway, despite all my best efforts, I couldn’t get the button out and managed to push the thing completely out of my finger’s reach.  Luckily, that’s when I learned the second fact stated above.  My breathing was perfectly fine, so there was really no immediate danger.  Everything was fine.

This seems like the end of the story, right?  No, no it’s not.  The story is far from done.  At this point it’s just an embarrassing thing I did when I was a kid.  It gets worse.  So, since I was five or six years old when this story happened, I was capable of enough thought to realize this was not a good thing to have happened.  It was bad.  And if it was bad, that meant I would be in trouble and, most likely, ridiculed about doing something this stupid.  Probably forever.  So I….didn’t say anything.  Eventually I would figure out how to get it out by myself, right?  In that case, it didn’t really matter if I told anyone.  So I sort of shrugged it off and went about my day.  I left the button in my nose.

I left the button in my nose for four years.

At this point, I’ll be honest with you, I was nine or ten years old I’d realized my time of coming clean about this stupid thing had passed.  I resigned myself to secretly having a button lodged up my nose for the rest of my life.  That was it.  This was my fate.  One day I would get an x-ray or something and a doctor would find it and then, and only then, would I fess up to this embarrassing thing I’d done when I was a kid.  I thought I was going to have to get surgery on my nose to get the thing out, and I really didn’t want that.  For obvious reasons, I still hadn’t told a soul about it.

Well, one day, I got this nightmare of a cold.  I was coughing and leaking snot everywhere, it was disgusting.  I had a tissue to my face 24/7.  It was so bad I got to stay home from school, but not bad enough to make my mom stay home with me instead of going to work.  So I was just sitting there, watching a movie, when there was this weird feeling in my nose.  Like there was something hard that was clearly not snot traveling through my nostril.  I’ll be honest, my first thought was that it was a piece of my brain.  So I was sitting on my couch, tissue held firm to my face, trying to keep myself from freaking out about seeing what part of my brain looked like when I realized, as it came closer and closer to leaving my nostril, that this wasn’t some random piece of stray gray matter, it was that freaking button.  Words can’t describe the amount of shock I was in, finally fishing that thing out on a string of mucus from my nose after giving up all hope of ever being rid of the thing.  I glared at this stupid snot button for causing me so much unneeded stress up to this point, wrapped it up in my gross tissue, threw it away, and went on with my life. 

Anyway, yeah, that’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life?  I mean kind of, I guess.  It’s definitely one of the weirder things.

…my mom still doesn’t know about it.