#I think its just a stomach bug or like a mild flu

[slumbering-shadows]

I think I'm sick but I cannot fathom how the fuck I got sick because I do not leave my house and my bf isn't sick. I don't wanna be sick I have to go to the dentist 😭

[britishassistant]

From one gut punch to another, but fluff edition: I think Divus hates when Yuu gets sick. Being a test tube baby, Yuu must have missed out on the natural immunities given by typical pregnancy. So when they were really young they would get ill very fast and very terrible. You can’t tell me that first time parents Roger and Anita wouldn’t panic when faced with the dreaded stomach bug. And who else to watch the pup when they run out for supplies then their “Uncle Crew”. At first, Crewel would consider it an triumph that Yuu could get sick since most of his creations have natural immunity, but that immediately changed and suddenly he was panicking too after Yuu had a pretty nasty burst of coughing. After all Yuu is the first creation that he’s ever made that was meant to be fragile, he’s not exactly equipped with how to deal with that. Nowadays Yuu mostly just suffers in silence, but if Crewel happens to hear that a certain reporter is under the weather, The Perfect will mostly likely stumble back into their apartment to find a care package from him with all their childhood treatments and the decent medicine.

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa said: hahaha how about yuu getting sick with a cold, lol the city must be the verge on a civil war with all the villains arguing who takes care of yuu, no crimes where committed but breaking and entering and the occasional medicine theft, they could've had kidnapped a doctor, but nothing says "look i'm husband material" by treating them to get better by helping them themselves. I keep imagining riddle with trey bringing some soup but then being shoved to the side from jade and floyd, with them bringing blankets and medicine, only to be beaten by the savana trio, by them taking a nap with yuu.

Thank you for the ask, dear anon and @coffee-or-hot-cocoa !

And oh. Oh. That makes so much sense and makes me so soft, I declare it canon.

Because Yuu’s lacking in these natural defenses, they tend to be someone who goes all out when they get sick. By which I mean they’re never someone who can have ‘just a light cold’, because their body just goes to the greatest extreme, from 0 to 100 in a matter of hours. They get awful fevers, migraines that leave them hardly able to think, body-wracking coughs, upset stomachs that mean they’re unable to even keep water down, sore throats which quickly devolve into tonsillitis, and that’s if they’re lucky and their symptoms are mild.

And they’ll still try to go to work in this state, because they’re a dumb workaholic.

Yuuken is in charge of turning them around, sitting them back in the car, and driving them home to rest.

It was particularly scary for Anita and Roger when Yuu was small, because chicken pox hit them like a freight train when it went through their class at school, leaving them ill enough for two weeks that they were contemplating taking Yuu to the emergency room so they could at least get the fluids they were losing via IV drip.

Crewel found it fascinating at first, as all of his creations have natural immunity built into them, so nothing can stop them when they rampage. Seeing one of them laid low by a mere disease, it’s a new experience that needs to be documented to its fullest extent to gather valuable data.

Of course it stops being so ‘fascinating’ once it becomes clear how much #Y26 is suffering, how much longer they’ve been bedridden when compared to normal rates of recuperation in children their age, long enough that the idea of them just not recovering at all becomes a viable option.

That’s when Crewel stops collecting data and starts working on a way to cure Yuu or alleviate the worst of their symptoms.

It’s also why he gets so pissy when he finds out what the supervillains are doing while Yuu’s sick. What don’t those numbskull puppies understand about avoiding stressing out the patient and the dangers of weakened immune systems?! Do they want the reporter to stay ill for longer under their antics?? It’s not like they’ll even be able to remember any of the ‘caretaking’ that they’re hoping will earn them brownie points, given how out of it Yuu always ends up!

He usually descends like a fashionable yet wrathful god, chasing the unruly puppies out of the reporter’s apartment with a rolled up newspaper before they can make the situation worse. The best thing they can do is leave their offerings of soup and medicine for Crewel’s perusal and back off quickly. Attempting to force their way in or sneak Yuu out is a fast way to incur Crewel’s cold fury. The Diasomnia, Octavinelle and Savannaclaw supervillain groups learned that the hard way.

Yuuken quickly won Crewel’s favor when they first met by staying as far away as he could when Yuu came down with flu while they roomed together, and doing exactly what Crewel advised him to after he had to leave Yuu in Yuuken’s care overnight, asking sensible questions when unclear about his directives. That at least showed Crewel that Yuuken was willing to do what was necessary to return Yuu to health rather than fulfill a certain ideal of caretaking that’s ultimately more self-serving than actually helpful.

Yuu wakes up a few days later with a can of tuna perched on their chest, grumbling about the remnants of a headache and wondering how much they’re going to need to play nursemaid after Uncle Divvy got done with their supervillain admirers this time.

[moonvains]

How would you feel about writing a Nagito x fem!Reader where he has Hanahaki over her? I’d prefer angst with a happy ending but that’s up to you

Nagito x Fem! Reader - Hanahaki Disease

‘How would you feel about writing a Nagito x fem!reader where he has Hanahaki over her? I’d prefer angst with a happy ending but thats up to you’

Hello Anon !! I absolutely love this request, I feel like theres so much I can do with it y’know? I added my own twist that is very, very angsty, and made me cry once or twice. but hopefully, this happy ending will work in some ways - Mod Mikan

Italics = Flashbacks/Past

Standard = Present Tense

TW for accidental overdose scene and seizures

TW for emetophobia, goes without saying since I’m writing a hanahaki plot!

-----

It started with the hiccups, small breathy hitches in his chest, that felt like collapsed buildings and porcelain shards, it stung his throat. Nagito, most very naive, thought almost nothing of it at first. That changed, when he sat heaving and coughing over the fancy porcelain toilet at hopes peak.

As he sat there on his knees, sweat dripping from his head, a pain in his cheek and sticky palms wiped onto his dress pants, he cursed himself with his luck.

It could be worse, just a stomach bug, my luck has obviously changed..

That is what he thought, or maybe wanted to think. A thought deeply embedded into his frail mind every time there is a mild convenience burdening his way. Its just my luck.

Though, as he looked up, green eyes glossing over what would usually be a nasty sight of a quick snack.

Nagito saw flowers, ethereal, magenta roses, dainty petunias and elegant dandelions, floating in the water below him, almost as if they were dancing.

Once again, his breath hitched, though he wasn’t sure if it was from whatever this was. This wasn’t his luck, this wasn’t despair, this wasn’t hope. This was plain, lonely, one sided symptoms of something so delicate, something so sad.

Nagito met you on a summer day, a cool breeze blowing, his hair stuck to his lips like glue. Ultimate luck he guessed. The rest wasn’t important, it was forgotten, and it was irrelevant and it was stupid.

stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid

Nagito was stupid from the moment he ran into you, from the moment he brushed his lips against yours, and from the moment he looked into your eyes. he was stupid.

Stupid to think he, a disappointment, a burden, would ever be graced with something as angelic, gentle and kindhearted as you. He was right, he was really stupid.

It all made sense after you were taken away. The words still rang in his head, quite frequently

Nagito yawned, for a day where he had almost nothing to do, he was quite sleepy. He sat in class 1-A, it was Friday “study” period for class 77-B. Usually you would sit next to him or sleep on his shoulder, or maybe play video games with Chiaki. Though this time you were sick with a bad case of the flu, and he was bored shitless. He blew his hair off his face, only to watch it float back down, then he’d blow it up again.

This went on for about 15 minutes until he got a call, he wishes he didn’t get it, though knows if he didn’t pick up, it would’ve been worse.

“Nagito.. I think I messed up”, your words were slurred, hiccuping and teary.

He knew immediately something bad had happened, he would tell in the way his stomach dropped, and the uneasy anxiousness took over his body.

“Can you please come back to my house, its only me here, I need help”.

Nagito didn’t have to think twice, he ran to your house in a sprint. he didn’t know what was going on, nor what had taken place. Though with the urgency in your house, and the way you sounded off the edge of reality, he knew it was bad.

He didn’t think it would be this bad, he didn’t think it would be his fault, But it was, thats how luck works.

He walked into your house, door unlocked, the air smelt musty and there was silence apart from a dripping tap and muffled crying, it’s not hard to guess which one he went running too.

He ran into the living room to find you on the floor in a ball, your lips were blue, skin pale and eyes wider than they’d ever been before.

“Please just help me”, you sobbed. “I didn’t mean to do this”

Nagito clenched his fists while he sat, flashbacks of what happened circled through his mind. the bathroom floor was cold but his hands felt hot. He didn’t want to admit it, but this was a long time coming.

Hanahaki disease, one sided love huh? I guess it is one sided to love someone nonexistent. What hurt the most is that there was no recovering, the cure stems from the love being returned. There is no love from six feet underground, only worms, maggots and empty promises.

Eyes clenched shut, Nagito held your hair back as you expelled whatever was left in your stomach, he hated that you were in pain, there was yet to be an explanation of what was happening. Walking in only to find his lover sprawled out of the floor, crying slurred nothings before vomiting all over the carpet.

“I..I”

“Speak slowly my love, whats happened?’

“I took a handful of those herbal flu pills you left out on the counter this morning, I figured because they were plant based ”

Thats right, Nagito thought, he left his medication on the counter this morning after staying the night.

his medication on the counter

not herbal pills

a handful of Prozac 50mg capsules

he felt his heart stop

his mind searched for the side affect panel on the pamphlet when he first started taking them

strange dreams, dry mouth, decreased appetite

he remembered the second page

signs of overdose:

dilated pupils, seizures, nausea and vomiting, respiratory issues, fast heart rate and oh my god what the fuck have I done

Mind racing, hands trembling, Nagito held you close, there wasn’t time to explain, thats it, there wasn't time. His hands fumbled for his phone, holding sobs back listening to the operator instruct him to position your barely conscious body into a position seizure friendly.

Cries and mumbled words of “what have i done” escaped from his mouth as he laid you on your side, his school bag under your head and floor cleared from anything potentially dangerous. He sat there, on the floor, holding his chest sobbing, waiting for the ambulance

(Authors note ! DONT use this as a guide to help someone having a seizure or overdose, this is simply from some googling and own personal experiences, if you suspect someone you know is in danger, get a trsuted adult or medical professional)

Luck is a tricky thing, bad luck, good luck, there is a spectrum. Usually someone lives out their life on a scaled ratio of luck, some have unfortunate luck, some have spectacular luck. Though there are the unfortunate few that lie on the sidelines. Their luck a forceful rollercoaster of up and downs, tragedies and utter miracles.

The past couple of months in Nagitos life was a tragedy, who knew the dip of the rollercoaster could cost him so very much of what made him whole.  

As he sat there, the cold tile floor providing comfort for his aching palms, he remembered the paramedics, pathetically inserting a needle in your arm and calling it a day.

“We couldn’t save her, our deepest apologies”

He was angry, he knew you were gone from the moment your eyes rolled back and you lost control of your muscles, he could only sit there and scream.

But if they tried? At least do you decency? Not just act like you were another statistic is their salary, a teenager making a stupid decision.

Your parents were called, the room cleaned, and you were gone, that was it. The relationship you and Nagito held for two years crumbled. gone, as simple as that.

The white haired boy turned up to school the next day, face hollowed out with utter despair, eyes puffy and hair matted. He simply couldn’t deal with being alone, god knows what would’ve happened.

He reluctantly walked into homeroom, Miss Yukizome stationed at her desk with her almost programmed smile “Goodmorning Komaeda! I’m so glad youre joining us for another wonderful day!”

Another wonderful day? Another wonderful day watching the love of your life dying on her living room floor, loosing all control of her body and all you can do is sit there and tell her you love her, praying to all gods above she can hear it? Or Another wonderful day of crying and screaming yourself to sleep? ripping and smashing all the memories you have together in a pile because thats better than sleeping in a comfortable bed knowing she is on a plate of steel in the morgue?

Nagito kept his thoughts to himself, god knows he would probably get sent to a psychiatry institution if he spoke what was really on his mind.

With that, he sat down, eyes at the blank blackboard, fingers tapping at his desk, holding back tears that were already cried.

“Komaeda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Teruteru exclaimed as he entered the classroom

“I wish I had”

He put his head on his desk, talking he couldn’t make out among his classmates filled his ears, he wanted quiet, ‘I wonder if she got quiet?’

Was there an afterlife? Or just a void of empty words and unfinished business. he wouldn’t know unless he experiences it himself, sooner or later.

“Okay class, try and get in some work today okay! I know you can do it” Miss Yukizome sung.

“Komaeda, can you get out of y/n’s seat, she should be coming in soon, hm?”

He didn’t even realise he was sitting in her seat, he was used to sitting at her desk with her, helping her with her work, playing with her hair and just enjoying the company of each other.

“No”, Nagito replied, fast and cold. It was strange for him to act this way, sure, he had a very valid excuse. Though it was unknown territory for the rest of the class.

“Oh no, has she still got that nasty flu? I hope you don’t catch it my dear boy”.

“No”, again, the same, the class had quieted down, he was usually so cheery, so full of hope and adoration for every single one of them.

“Well send my love to her, It’ll be great to see her again when I can” She smiled, completely oblivious.

“You can, the 18th, its an open casket’, Nagito grinned at her, a grin of something so far away from happiness, it reminded Yukizome of a clown, so creepy, yet so theoretically happy.

Everyones faces dropped

Nagito got up from the bathroom floor, this had happened weeks ago, but felt like minutes ago. He waited, and eventually, it stopped.

He walked back to class, the heels of his shoes tapping the hardwood floor of the hall leading up to his classroom. he entered solemnly, like he has every day since then.

Everyones faces dropped

Yet again.

Nagito knew what they were staring at, he didn’t want to address it, but he knew.

On his cheek grew a rose, sprouting at the top of his lip to the bottom of his cheekbone. For such a tragic disease, it was quite beautiful.

For such a tragic event, it felt so beautiful

God okay this was sad and a bit quick, I really did try to do a happy ending, though sometimes, for stories like this, I think it is a little to cliché, Stay safe everyone ! I hope you like this <3

[skrltwtch]

Unwell

Prompt: Person A is taking care of a very sick person B. They eventually end up cuddling because A wanted to comfort B and keep them warm, despite B’s objections that they might be contagious and don’t want to get A sick. Then B throws up on A. B apologises profusely. A insists that it’s okay and works on getting them both cleaned up. (Source)

Word count: 1,286 words

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

‘You look like death,’ said George, pouring a glass of water.

‘I feel like it,’ I said. As if I needed convincing, a sharp pain sliced through my stomach, followed by watery rumbling. ‘At what point do I get my beneficiaries together and read them my will?’

He chuckled. ‘It’s only the stomach flu, Y/N. You’ll live.’

I took the glass of water from his outstretched hand and partook of its contents in slow, measured sips. ‘That sounds like what someone who’d stand to gain the most from an untimely death would say.’

‘That,’ he said, sitting down beside me, ‘doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Neither does this.’ I coughed. ‘It’s obviously not your cooking.’ I detected the reddening of his cheeks through bleary eyes. ‘So it has to be Bon Nomad, where we go all the time and never had any issues. Until now. Maybe.’ I added to the water in the toilet bowl.

He dabbed the corner of my mouth with a tissue. ‘Firstly, I’m flattered. Secondly, I could drop them a note. They have to know if their food’s making people sick.’

‘Get us a voucher, too, for our troubles.’

‘You’d want to go back?’

‘No, thank you.’ I mustered the strength to flash him a grin. The compulsion for an expulsion of a fresh surge of sick made quick work of my light mood. Every heave chafed the back of my throat.

George was quick to refill my glass of water. ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking it from him. Suddenly, I was made very aware of my lips’ craggy texture. Was it bad that I’d wondered whether I could stand to stomach lip balm? His hand on my cheek snapped me out of my reverie — fever-induced, possibly, if the difference in temperatures between us was anything to go by. ‘This sucks. And I’m taking up so much of your time. I’m sure you have better things to do than play nurse.’

He pursed his lips. ‘No … not really.’

His laughter that came after was contagious. This moment of joy was short-lived: the spasms that rocked my body soon became those of white-hot agony. A new round of vomit made a hasty, loud — very loud — exit. Fortunately, I was only expelling through one end. And … nope, I’d started to cry, too, from the pain and absolute rankness of what I’d been spewing. George moved closer and wrapped us both in an embrace.

‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ I said.

He leaned his head on the back of my shoulder. ‘You’re warm.’ His tone, and the subsequent line of kisses he made along my shoulder, made it clear our situation wasn’t up for negotiation. I hadn’t the wherewithal to resist him anyway. It was easier to revel in the immense comfort his touch, his nearness, provided. His warmth was more than welcome against mine, preternatural and harsh. He’d hum some of our favourite songs in my ear and gently massage my abdomen. Though I knew full well it was for my own good, I’d hate it so much whenever he pulled away to flush the toilet, or top up my water or supply of tissues.

I didn’t know how long we stayed like this. Eventually, I felt less like I was about to keel over any moment soon, and I was 80% certain that the noises my stomach was making were from hunger, not symphonies from one of the circles of hell.

‘George? I think I’m a little better,’ I said. I led his hand over my stomach and applied pressure. Nothing. Not even the whisper of a gurgle. A while ago, doing what I did would’ve prompted my best impression of a soda fountain with only one option.

‘You want to get up?’

‘Yes, please. I don’t want to have my face so close to the toilet anymore. And I’m hungry.’

‘That’s good. I think.’ He got up. I raised my arms at him, an unspoken appeal for him to lift me up. I had to have lost at least two kilos of water after all this, and he’d been working out. (He’d thought I wouldn’t notice. Please.) It was doable. But imagine my surprise when he scooped me up from the floor and carried me bridal-style. I quickly placed my arms around his neck for support.

‘I’ve been working out,’ said George, grinning. God, he looked so proud of himself. I was, too, really.

‘I know.’ I pecked him on the cheek.

Then I had to go and ruin everything: I lurched forward — and I barfed. I barfed all over myself and him. Punctuating this twist to what’d been an enchanting story about enduring love and devotion was me burping up an enormous bubble that tasted lightly acidic … and then bursting into tears. He hadn’t dropped me to the ground in disgust. Ooh, damn him and his uncanny ability to remain calm in circumstances that called for anything but levelheadedness. The embarrassment welling up inside of me launched into a presentation on George’s fitting casting as Schofield in 1917. They were kindred spirits, it contended, because they displayed immense fortitude in the face of adversity. Ah, I countered, but a sick girlfriend couldn’t compare to the hells of World War I.

‘I’m so sorry, babe,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for being a wet, snotty, puke-y mess.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said, setting me down on the edge of the bed. ‘You need a shower anyway.’

He smirked to show he meant no ill will by that. I wouldn’t have disagreed with him. I was sticky with sweat and vomit. I’d spent most of my day steaming my face with toilet plumes. I wasn’t even sure what time it was now. I couldn’t even consult my internal clock for an estimation. I was tired. I was gross. I was hungry. I felt I was in more dire need of a hug than a shower, honestly, but I didn’t want to contaminate George further. I couldn’t bear it if he succumbed to this damn bug, too.

George re-emerged in my line of sight with a handful of paper towels. He wiped my mouth, and then he cleaned chunks off our clothes. His touch was so gentle. For the first time today, I wanted to die not because of this stupid sickness. The feeling persisted when he took off his shirt in one fluid motion. How’d he think I wouldn’t notice he’d started working out?

‘Arms,’ he said. ‘Come on now.’

I complied with his request. He took my top off for me. The breeze, mild as it was, was welcome against my skin.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Off he went again, this time with our soiled shirts in tow. I wasn’t ashamed to acknowledge that I’d mewled and pouted like a child when we parted ways. I could hear running water from the kitchen. How did I get so lucky … To show that I was still capable of autonomy, I undressed myself; I’d made sure to stand up first to prevent an unfortunate accident involving my now bare bottom. I was about to head in to the bathroom when he reappeared, and with a mildly sullen face, like, Why didn’t you wait for me?

‘I can shower by myself,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think we should really get naked together at this time … not after what happened … I’m so sorry,’ I added in a small voice.

He chuckled. ‘It’s okay! Really.’ He came closer and kissed me on the lips. ‘See, I’m not mad. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

I returned the favour: his taste was a welcome break. ‘You might just regret that.’

[serrj215]

It was a Lie

She just needed some rest. Just some time to sleep, meditate, and she would be fine. That’s what she told the other Titans, that’s what she had told herself. It was a lie.   Raven never could accept that she could use her powers to heal broken bones and seal the deepest of wounds, but they couldn’t defeat a simple stomach flu. She looked in her bathroom mirror all the color from her face was gone. Her skin was a white as flour.  She felt horrendous. Raven was always sensitive to the cold, but her room felt like a walk-in freezer. Her head felt like an overfilled balloon. As she would try to walk the floor seemed to move under her and every few hours it was a mad race to her bathroom.   All she really wanted was not to move and hope the churning in her stomach would stay calm enough to let her sleep. Raven couldn’t let the others see her this way. They had a city to protect and had more important things to worry about. She didn’t want them playing nursemaids if the city was in danger. She didn’t want to feel the guilt or the sympathy, she just wanted to crawl into dark hole and hide from the world. Raven hoped that this bug as nasty as it was, was the 24-hour variety. By morning she would be fine and there was no reason to concern the others.  

Yet someone knew. It wasn't obvious at first. The next morning, she could have sworn that she fell asleep with a light blanket on her bed. She woke up with a heavy comforter wrapped around her. Raven wrote it off thinking that she must have grabbed it during the night and just didn’t remember. It's hard to think strait when your stomach insists on turning itself inside out.  After another sprint to the toilet the comforter was all but forgotten, but apricated when she shuffled back into bed. Apparently 24 hours was not going to be enough to exorcise this curse from her stomach. Raven woke up several hours later after she heard something moving around in the dark. By the time Raven could get her eyes to focus she was alone in her room.  A small plastic tray was on her nightstand.  On the tray was her favorite cup full of hot tea and a few crackers on a napkin.     That’s how it went for the next few days. Raven would drift in an out of consciousness and would wake up and find simple meals; mugs of hot broth, with crackers, toast, and her tea cup would be full. There were a few times when she came back from the bathroom, she would find her bedsheets had been changed and her pillows fluffed. As soon as she was sure she could stay on her feet long enough she forced herself to take a shower. When she came back, found fresh PJs laid out for her. The soft blue flannel was warm to the touch, her mysterious nursemaid had run them though the dryer. It was like a children's story with magic elves, elves that knew how to brew English breakfast properly.   Raven wanted to be angry. Someone had decided not to respect her privacy, decided to violate the sanctity of her room, decided that risking her wrath was worth taking care of her. Her rage was an engine without gasoline.  It just wouldn’t start.  She had more important things to use her limited energy on, like calming her stomach and sleeping. It was almost 4 full days before Raven felt like herself again.  She sat up in bed and surveyed her room. Nothing seemed out of place.  But without the distraction of her stomach she was finally able to focus. Raven was able to sense his presence right away.   "Beast Boy you can come out now."  She called out to the air. There was no response. She shook her head in mild annoyance and scanned the room again. There was no trace of movement. Her eyes closed and reached out with her mind. It only took moment to focus on where he was hiding. "Azerath Metrione Zinthos" she chanted smoothly raising her hand. A moment later encapsulated in black energy a small green hamster was pulled into the open.  He had hidden under the bookcase and was curled up asleep. The bubble of energy with its passenger floated over the foot of the bed. The small furry animal shook one his front paws as he slept.  Raven dropped her hand an instant later it the black bubble burst letting its passenger fall to the bed. . Beast Boy woke up as soon as he hit the mattress.  He instantly shifted back into his human form and rolled off the foot of the bed in a panic. A dull thud and a muffled "ow" came from the floor. "Come here Beast Boy" she commanded. Raven's voice was icy. "Raven, this is not what it looks like." Beast boy responded still face down on the carpet. "Now!" Immediately he was at attention standing ridged at her bedside a look of nervous dread painted on his face. "What are you doing here?" she asked.   "I…a…you see…" "Answer me!" She said grabbing a fist full of his shirt and pulling him closer.   "IHEARDYOUPUKEANDIKNEWYOUWERESICKANDIWASTRYINGTOHELPANDIAMSORRYICAMEINYOURROOM!" came out in one bust of sound. His eyes were closed shut and his whole body tensed.  Whatever was going to happened he braced himself and did not want to see it coming.   "Thank you."  Raven said quietly. Beast Boy opened one eye cautiously.   "You are not mad?"   "No" She said releasing him and slumping back into the pillows. "I suspected it was you."  Raven reached over to her nightstand to pick up a mug. "The vegetable broth was a big tip off. Robin or Cyborg would have given me chicken soup and Starfire would have tried something from her planet that most likely would have dissolved the cup. " She held the cup in both hands and asked, "Do the others…know?" "That you have been splitting your time between sleeping and stress testing our plumbing? No. " He risked sitting on the foot of her bed.  "They think you have been doing some sort of mystic ritual that takes days"   "Good"   He looked away and back at her nervously "So how are you feeling?" "Better, I think it’s run its course." She said starting push the covers away.   Beast Boy knew he was pressing his luck when he grabbed the edge of the comforter. "One more day?"  He took the empty cup from her hands and started to tuck her back in.  "Give yourself one more day to rest. and let's try some real food and see if that stays down?"   Raven didn’t move for a moment considering this. He was trying to help, and he had helped. Looking back the previous days had been miserable, but they would have been much worse without his care. "I don't care what it is, I will make you anything you want?"  He offered. "Even Meat?" "I will trick Cyborg into making anything you want?" He said though a stiff smile. "Fine." Beast Boy didn’t hesitate, tucking the covers around her shoulders. Leaning over her he said “You have no idea how hard it was not to do this for you"   "Augh was I really that pathetic" "No…adorable" He said his face just inches away from hers. Raven getting to see just how vibrant his green eyes were.   A quick rush of heat rose into Ravens face but before she could say anything. Beast Boy retreated to the door. "I am going to get you a cup of your tea, you think about what you want to eat. " The door closed leaving Raven alone to stare at the ceiling. Hoping that flush and the jump in her heart was just flu trying to reassert itself. Because if it wasn’t she was in a great deal of trouble. 

Beast Boy stood across the hall from Raven’s door his back against the wall. Both his hands grabbing handfuls of his hair.  “Adorable” he said to himself. He couldn’t believe that he let that slip. He told himself that he was just being a good friend. That he would have done the same thing for Star, or Cy or Robin.  That this was for the good of the team, that they needed Raven on her feet as soon as possible, that’s what he told himself. It was a lie.  

The moment he heard her get sick that first time it was like someone took a can opener to his gut. He couldn’t stand to hear her, see her suffer.  Even if it meant getting blasted into next week if he was caught.  

“Dude it’s going to be okay” He assured himself. “Get the tea, act like you didn’t say anything and maybe she will think it was just a flu hallucination.  Right those happen right.  I’ll go with it” He headed to the kitchen.  

http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/174214297700/person-b-hiding-away-whenever-sick-or-injured

Person B hiding away whenever sick or injured because they despise others seeing them vulnerable. Person A knows this but leaves care packages, sneaks in to soothe B in their sleep, or secretly watches over them. Unfortunately, A is really bad at covering their tracks and Person B always witnesses Person A’s “stealthy” climb out the window.

@otpdisaster Thanks. Didn’t quite do this to the letter, but I think it works.  

[marie-the-astrochemist]

Prompt: Let's have some fun and think creatively. Pick one of the diseases or pathogens Diamond describes. NOW, explain your strategy for infecting as many people as possible. Be ruthless. The only rules are those that the disease itself must follow (i.e. if it's blood borne, you can't use "air" to spread). Tell us your story! 

[you said story, here I go!]

The following is a declassified statement from an individual whom is believed to be one of several carriers of the A/H3N2-variant pandemic of 2018:

“My name is [name redacted], and I was an involuntary biological weapon.  

I went to see a doctor after having symptoms of what I thought was a persistent stomach virus; they informed me that my liver was failing. I was a heavy drinker with cirrhosis who now needed a liver transplant if I wanted to live to see my grandkids grow up. We didn’t expect to be contacted so soon by a non-profit organization called [name redacted] about an anonymous donor who not only was willing to part with some of their liver, but also was willing to pay for the entire process, provided I came to them in Chicago. In retrospect, this should have raised some red flags, but I didn’t question it at the time; I was just relieved that someone was helping me, that I was going to get better, and I could reclaim the years and memories that would have been taken from me and my family due to my own negligence. Now, people are dying because of my ignorance.

The process went as smoothly as one could hope for, a subtle kindling to my complacency regarding the situation. During the recovery period, I was requested to stay admitted for a further five days for safety precautions. I didn’t question it, after all I wasn’t the one who had to deal with the bill. It was during this recovery period I believe that I was infected with the A/H3N2 super virus while the immunosuppressive drugs were still affecting me. The five days passed; I was cleared to return home. [Name redacted] scheduled my flight home the next day via O’Hare International to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International. Again, in hindsight, I should have been more aware of what I was being set up for, being sent to two of the busiest international airports in the country.

A cab was scheduled to bring me to O’Hare approximately four hours before my flight departed. I arrived an hour later, with three to spare. It was during this cab ride that I began to experience symptoms: coughing, mild sore throat, and the sniffles. I only figured it was just a cold coming on, and after all I went through I didn’t want to think anything more of it. Because of this, I admit that I wasn’t careful at all with where I sneezed, how I coughed, nor keeping my hands sanitized. The only thing I was careful of were my bandages, so when I did cough and sneeze I had to lean to one side, so I didn’t aggravate the site of surgery. During my three-hour stay within the airport, I had lunch at a sushi bar and was seated in the fenced-off area where heavy passenger traffic walked by. I was pretty isolated where I was, except for passersby, so I didn’t bother covering my mouth when I coughed or sneezed. I left my used tissues on the table. I walked around to different shops, browsing magazines and books and souvenirs. I sat in the massage chairs. I must have done just about a little bit of everything to keep myself occupied. I went to the bathroom at least twice and I, as embarrassing as this is to admit, didn’t wash my hands. Yeah, I was that horrible. I just wanted to get home. I didn’t think about much else at all.

The plane was a Boeing 787 Dreamliner that seats up to 335 passengers. I flew Qatar Airways which stops in Atlanta and departs for Hamad International in Doha, Qatar. Many of my fellow passengers were laying over in Atlanta to head to Qatar. I landed in ATL safely and was greeting by my son, his wife, and two young children. Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and they drove me to my house in [redacted]. My son expressed concern for me since I had been exhibiting symptoms and looked ill, but I told him I was simply jetlagged and needed rest. By this point I had flu-like symptoms, including fatigue and achiness. My son and daughter-in-law agreed to care for me while I continued my recovery and ensure I went to my follow-up appointments.

A few days later, my grandkids began showing cold-like symptoms. I implored my son to take them to a doctor; I knew they got it from me, and it was then I knew that I had been a fool to keep my symptoms to myself. He told me when he took them to urgent care, there was a press conference on TV from the World Health Organization about the current flu pandemic; the A/H3N2 virus had evolved to be considerably more aggressive than its parent strain, and it had presently been tracked from Chicago to Atlanta, to Qatar, and throughout Asia and North America, in addition to 3 other paths. I then knew that I needed to inform somebody – anybody – that I was involved in the spread of this A/H3N2 super bug.

Everything I have stated is true to the best of my knowledge and I hope the information provided proves helpful. I deeply apologize to everyone affected by this virus, including my own grandkids, for my ignorance and complacency that fueled this pandemic.”

[Name redacted] is one of fifteen suspected victims from the United States who may have been involved in what appears to be organized biological warfare. The statements from these individuals have many striking similarities: sudden onset of symptoms and diagnoses, illnesses related to poor lifestyle choices and lack of self-care, procedures requiring the use of immunosuppressive drugs. Speculations state that, if there is a person or persons behind this pandemic, the individuals targeted were those whose symptoms and diagnoses were sudden and due to factors stemming from poor diet, consumption of alcohol, tobacco use, and other diseases due to poor self-care. Similar reports are being obtained in India, Saudi Arabia, China, Russia, Japan, Italy, and the UK, following pathologies across the globe. This information is being used to study patterns that may determine if the cause of the 2018 A/H3N2 pandemic is of natural origins or due to human interference.

Disclaimer: This is 100% a work of fiction using real places, a real plane, and a fictional twist on a real virus for a class assignment. The associated Google searches were for writing purposes only (looking at you, NSA).

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

I want to apologize to my followers for spamming your dashes lately with fics featuring my original characters, since I know most of you likely started following me because of my headcanons and other non-OC offerings. I’d like to get back into writing headcaonons soon—I’ve had a questionably tasteful one I’ve been reticent to start kicking around in my head for some time—but if you’re hesitant to take the plunge reading my longer fics, do know that I’ve made a concerted effort to establish them firmly within the realm of canon compliancy (if that makes any difference in your leanings).

I’ve said this before, so take my predictions with a grain of salt, but I’m inclined to believe this really will be the last installment of The Strategist and the Redhead; in contrast to the, ahem, roughness of Part 7, Part 8 features copious amounts of fluffy angst, and takes place the night before the official prologue chapter Parting Ways. I drew yet another mostly-unfinished companion piece to go with it, but as Tumblr restricts the size of images placed beneath a cut, you’ll have to follow the link here to check out the full-resolution of it.

Click on the link up top or the cut below for the entirety of the text; Stunningly NSFW.

“Have you seen a doctor recently?”

She’s sitting on his living room couch nursing a cup of herbal tea when she hears his voice call out from inside the bathroom; Ebony would only exacerbate her upset stomach, the strategist had told her, so the redhead wrinkles her nose before attempting to choke down another sip of his bitter concoction.

“And when, pray tell, would I have had the time to do that?” she asks tartly, only barely managing to swallow the unpleasant tonic. “Some of us have had to work twelve-hour shifts this week, rather than enjoy the luxury of packing for a leisurely vacation.”

“The Citadel makes concessions for unexpected illnesses. You could’ve requested a sick day.”

“The peace talks aren’t going to organize themselves. I have explicit orders from The Immortal himself not to take any sudden leave of absences unless absolutely necessary.”

“Successful diplomacy between nations begins with the health of their constituents. You wouldn’t want to start a war because you accidentally vomited all over a foreign ambassador.”

She rolls her eyes when she sees his lanky figure returning from his expedition to the medicine cabinet, remedy vial in hand. “I’m sure it’s just a mild case of the flu. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

“It could be the flu, or it could be something else entirely. Best to know for certain what precisely it is you’re dealing with.” He stops beside her and peers down at the vial’s label through his spectacles. “Here, this ought to help.”

Her features crumple into a scowl as he presses the small bottle into her hand. “Are you generally this overbearing? No wonder the prince always has a sour look on his face whenever you’re around him.”

He levels her with a withering stare and nods at the vial; when she doesn’t immediately activate the curative, he wraps his fingers around her grip and crushes it for her. “Better?”

The medicinal properties in the remedy quickly work their way into her bloodstream, but she resists the urge to acknowledge the tension easing in her abdomen, lest she give him the satisfaction of being right. “Marginally.”

“I should’ve known something was amiss as early as yesterday,” he says, lowering himself next to her on the sofa. “I gave you no less than three opportunities to parry my lance on the sparring mat, and you fell for every one of my feigns.”

Her scowl deepens as he settles into the cushions. “I didn’t fall for anything. I was merely a little distracted, is all.”

She had been uncommonly preoccupied as of late; the redhead had always taken pride in her ability to disregard matters that did not explicitly concern her, but the gravity surrounding the upcoming peace accord had weighed heavily on everyone’s collective mind, and she’d found herself afflicted with heartburn and indigestion more days out of the week than not. Perhaps running repetitive military drills for hours on end—coupled with the distasteful notion of fraternizing with Niflheim dignitaries—had simply taken its toll on her immune system long enough for her to pick up an inconveniently-timed bug.

The strategist crosses one knee over the other, the concern in his stiff body language obvious. “Even if that were the case, had I known you were feeling under the weather tonight, I would’ve insisted you stay home.”

“And miss my chance to see you off on your testosterone-fueled road trip? I think not.” Her scowl is replaced by a cheeky grin. “What if you were struck down by an Astral before you returned to Insomnia? I’d never forgive myself for not telling you how I really feel.”

A wayward eyebrow appears over the top of his spectacles. “Which is?”

She lifts her teacup to her lips again and sips at it demurely. “I think that shirt you packed is hideous. You know—the one with the Coeurl print.”

“My purple shirt? You think it’s hideous?”

“I always have.”

His jaw slackens in bewilderment. “I love that shirt.”

She smiles at his feigned outrage, but in truth, there was something rather peculiar about being in the strategist’s presence like this; with intimacy likely out of the question—attempting to copulate between unpredictable bouts of nausea seemed like an exercise in poor judgment—and his constant fretting over every one of her aches and pains, their current rapport felt almost… domestic.

And while she might’ve allowed herself to relish in the experience of being doted on by him, or at the very least contemplate the significance behind this unusual display of attentiveness, the mild curative he had administered not moments before is already losing its effect. “Would you mind terribly fetching me another cup of tea?” she asks, pressing a hand to her abdomen as a second wave of queasiness washes over her. “I’m going to see if I can dig up something stronger out of your medicine cabinet.”

He’s already out of the sofa and gripping her gently by the elbow when she moves to gather herself to her feet. “I believe there’s a few hi-potions on the top shelf, if the remedy wasn’t sufficient enough to settle your stomach.”

She waves him off with an irritable hand and slinks toward the bathroom, but a third, more intense wave hits her senses like an angry Spiracorn before she can even make it a dozen paces. She steadies herself on a nearby chair and fights the urge to wretch all over his hardwood floors; he’s on her in an instant, supporting her waist with two firm hands as her legs begin to buckle beneath her.

“Easy does it,” he says softly, locking an elbow behind her knees and hoisting her up with a gracefulness that belied a remarkable amount of athleticism. “Perhaps it might be best if you waited in the bedroom and left the potion wrangling to me.”

“Really, Ignis—I can walk on my own.” She makes a halfhearted attempt at wiggling out of his arms, but her flailing serves only to encourage the strategist to reinforce his grip over her. “I’ll have you know this is utterly humiliating.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Darling. You wouldn’t be the first nauseated houseguest I’ve had to carry out of my living room—remind me to tell you about the time Prompto devoured one too many slices of my fluffy chiffon cake in a single hour.”

His anecdote does little to improve her spirits, but her waning stamina scarcely stands a chance against his superior strength, so she heaves a disgruntled sigh and resigns to leaning her cheek against his shoulder. He navigates a path across the apartment to an open door on the other side, easing her carefully through the threshold before setting her down gently on the edge of the bed; he then disappears into the attached bathroom, only to return a short while later with yet another curative in tow.

She’s sitting upright and averting his gaze when he seats himself next to her. “I’d generally administer an elixir only when severe physical trauma is involved,” he says, offering the vial in her direction, “but with emesis as acute as yours, it may be just the thing needed to take the edge off.”

She doesn’t bother asking him to clarify his fancy medical terminology for a lowly commoner like herself, nor does she protest his incessant hovering like before; she simply crushes the capsule as quickly as her trembling fingers will allow for, her face relaxing visibly as the healing properties in the restorative take immediate effect.

“You should’ve given me an elixir from the start,” she says, slumping her shoulders forward as the muscles in her lower abdomen mercifully begin to unclench, “unless you enjoy the prospect of mopping your floors at midnight.”

“One has to be extremely cautious when dealing with high level curatives. Their effects can be rather potent to the unsuspecting.” He plucks a hand from her lap and presses two fingers to her wrist, turning his gaze toward the analog clock resting on the nightstand. “I still think you should arrange a doctor’s appointment at your earliest convenience.”

She realizes as he takes her pulse that she is witnessing yet another facet of the strategist; he may have been hailed as the Citadel’s greatest tactical mind, but he had another nickname—The Grand Chamberlain. “Maybe coming over tonight was a bad idea, after all,” she concedes. “I’m sure holding my hair back is only appealing when I’m kneeling in front of your trousers, rather than the toilet.”

His gaze drifts from the second hand on the clock to meet her own. “That’s not true.”

A wry smirk tugs on the corner of her lips. “Why else do you keep me around?”

She is unable to quite decipher the odd expression that crosses his features just then; he’d never gone out of his way to make her feel like she was unworthy of his respect, but there was admittedly only one motivating factor behind their perpetual agreement, and it certainly didn’t stem from a source of devotion.

So why he looks like she had just hurt his feelings with a remark she’d made in jest—truthfulness notwithstanding—gives her pause. “Any other unusual symptoms?” he asks, evidently content with his observations and returning her wrist to her lap. “Fever, perhaps?”

The sudden indifference in his tone makes her heart wince slightly. “No.”

“Rashes? Cotton mouth? Fainting spells?”

“Just a little fatigue.”

“Any changes in your menstrual cycle?”

Her eyes narrow in mild irritation. “What are you, my gynecologist?”

“I’m simply trying to rule out any commonly occurring ailments by process of elimination.”

She purses her lips for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m not sure. I’d have to look at my calendar.”

The way he stares at her a few seconds longer than would normally be considered polite leaves her feeling strangely vulnerable. “Any soreness?”

“Some.”

“Where?”

“Oh, you know—here and there.”

“Could you be more specific?”

His unyielding interrogation is beginning to wear down on her patience, and she grits her teeth in frustration. “If you absolutely must know, my breasts have been rather tender as of late.”

“Well then, let’s have a look.”

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it from bubbling out of her throat. “I beg your pardon?”

He’s already fluffing a pillow and gesturing for her to remove her blouse. “Massage therapy has been shown to release endorphins into the bloodstream, thereby improving the body’s sense of wellbeing.”

He isn’t wrong, exactly—whatever chemical it was that flooded her mind whenever he traced his hands lightly over her nipples had never failed to put a skip in her step in the past. But her fingers hesitate when she moves to tackle the top closure of her shirt, and it’s only when she notes his expression of clinical seriousness that she swallows her reticence and unbuttons the rest of them. “I’m not sure if this is entirely necessary, but I suppose I’ll try anything at this point.”

He rises from the bed and disappears into the attached bath once again, and she can hear the sound of cabinet doors opening and bottles clinking as she discards her blouse on the floor. “Go ahead and lie down,” he calls out. “Feel free to take your pants off, if you’ll be more comfortable.”

Had she known the evening would end with her winding up naked in his bed regardless, the redhead might’ve politely excused herself from his apartment the moment he’d inquired about the state of her fertility. But the waistband of her trousers is admittedly putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on her bloated abdomen, so she peels out of her pants before slipping under the sheets of his bed.

He’s carrying a bottle of scented oil and pouring a small dollop into his palms when he returns to her side. “Your brassier as well, if you would.”

When the tart expression souring her features elicits nothing more than a blank stare from him, she reaches around her back and releases the clasp of the constricting undergarment; the strategist scarcely even blinks at the sight of her exposed torso, rubbing the oil in his hands together with all the erotic sensuality of an elderly urologist. She then lowers herself gingerly into a reclining position and stretches out beneath the sheets, relaxing into the pillow he had fluffed earlier as he runs a warm hand across her sternum.

But she flinches in mild discomfort when his fingers graze the tops of her breasts. “Too much?” he asks.

She resorts to pressing her eyes shut and shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

His hands maneuver away from the sore spot he had just touched, but he doesn’t move to adjust the pressure bearing down on her; if anything, his caresses strengthen when he glides his oiled palms across her collarbones and down the sides of her chest. He works his fingers into the muscles between her ribs, pushing and pulling at the tight knots that had taken up residence there with his thumbs, then sweeps them across her torso before stopping to cup her breasts softly with gentle hands.

A moan leaves her lungs her when his fingers find her nipples, a whispered cry of pain mingled with relief. The tenderness in her chest had grown increasingly persistent over the last several days, but it was no match against the circular motions he was administering with pinpoint accuracy; as the last of her soreness melts away, the redhead surmises only a man as straight-laced as Ignis Scientia could fondle a woman’s breasts without any lecherous intentions whatsoever.

She sees his brow furrowed in concentration when she opens her eyes again; it was just like the strategist to apply himself with as much dedication as he committed to any other task, and it’s only when she runs her hand up his forearm that his focus breaks long enough for him to meet her gaze. “That feels nice,” she murmurs.

“Perhaps it’s best if we stop there,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t want to further aggravate any inflamed tissue.”

His hands slow to a halt, but hers continues to wander up his arm until it reaches the skull pendant peeking out of his shirt. “Wearing your necklace after all, I see.”

He glances down at the fingers she is presently entwining around the delicate chain. “Indeed.”

In contrast to the rest of his wardrobe, it was actually a rather tacky accessory; she’d given it to him last night—before he had brewed her one final cup of Ebony on her way out the door, but after she’d cleaned his genetic material from out of her hair—and the dubious expression on his face when he’d opened the box it came in made her think he might pawn it off online for a few measly Crown City credits as soon as she left his apartment.

But she’d wanted to give him something to remember her by—if his prediction of being trapped on the island archipelago of Altissia against his will for months on end ultimately came to fruition—even if he didn’t appreciate the joke of ‘designer clothes before death’ it represented. “I thought you made it fairly obvious pewter clashed with your fashion sensibilities.”

“Yes. Well. I can’t exactly formulate an objective opinion about it if I don’t try wearing it around a little.”

“Is the chain too short? I could probably find you a longer one before you leave.”

“Maybe a tad. Although I must say, the bright shade of purple my face turned when I went to adjust the clasp complimented my Coeurl-print shirt quite nicely.”

She knocks him playfully in the shoulder, then reaches for the brassier she had abandoned along with her blouse. “If you can’t take my generosity seriously, then I suppose there’s no reason for me to linger here any longer.”

His teasing expression turns earnest, and he seizes her wrist before she can push herself upright on the bed. “Stay a while. Get some rest.”

Her eyebrows knits together in confusion. “What about the guards?”

“Don’t worry about the guards. I’ll find a way to sneak you past them in the morning.”

The redhead had admittedly bent the rules of their arrangement on more than one occasion, but this was the first time in memory Ignis had ever explicitly allowed her the freedom to remain at his apartment past their mutually agreed-upon hours. “Are you feeling all right?” she asks. “Perhaps a bit of my illness has rubbed off on you.”

His gaze is directed at the wrist held in his grasp; after a moment, he releases it and slides his hand across her palm. “I feel fine. It’s just—it’s going to be a rather long time before I see you again.”

The slight hitch his voice pierces her heart like an arrow, and she closes her fingers around his own. “You’ll be back before you know it. You said as much yourself.”

“While I’d like to believe in my own assessment, plans have an annoying way of falling through sometimes.”

She isn’t sure how much longer the elixir’s effects will soothe her temperamental stomach, but the look of melancholy suddenly befalling his features overrides any fear she might’ve had about dry heaving into his sheets, and she is unable to resist the impulse to reach absentmindedly for his face. “Will you lay with me?”

His gaze shifts to her emerald orbs as her fingers trace the outline of his jaw. “I’m not sure if that’s in your best interest right now.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe it’ll promote my body’s sense of wellbeing, as you so eloquently implied.”

“A light massage is one thing. Intimacy may raise your heart rate to unsafe levels.”

“I’ve taken greater risks.”

They’re the same words he’d used to enrapture her the very first night they spend together, what felt like an eternity ago; a inkling of recognition flickers behind his spectacled eyes, and he presses his lips together into a thin line as the wheels of deliberation turn in his mind. After a moment, he nods wordlessly, shifting his weight against the edge of the bed as his hands drift to his chest.

She studies his movements, absorbing every minute detail; the long fingers that tackle the buttons of his dress shirt with quick dexterity, his tawny hair that floats like seaweed being carried along a tranquil ocean tide, the way he plucks his glasses off the bridge of his nose and sets them carefully down on the nightstand. When he moves to extinguish the lamp perched beside the bed, she stays his hand. “Leave it on. I like seeing your face.”

He hesitates, then quietly shrugs out of his shirt. She shimmies out of her remaining smallclothes as he unbuckles his trousers, sliding over on the bed to make room for him once he’s removed the last of his wardrobe. It’s not his stark nakedness that makes her heart suddenly pound inside her chest, nor is it the fingers he glides up her leg beneath the sheets, but the way he looks at her; his bare face is an unreadable mask, the resignation in his voice from earlier at odds with the expression of unusual intensity presently veiling his features.

When he’s made himself comfortable beside her, and she can feel the beginnings of his arousal pressing up against her thigh, he brushes a lock of red hair away from her cheek and touches his lips to hers. His caress is gentle, the breath exhaling slowly from his nostrils warm on her skin, and she reaches up to capture his face in her small hands. His own hand is traveling down her neck, grazing past her collarbone, circling over the curves of her breasts, before finally coming to a stop at her belly.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispers. “We can fall asleep together, if you’d rather.”

For a moment, the redhead contemplates his offer; she’s never allowed herself to pretend there was anything more to their arrangement that what it ultimately was, and the notion of abandoning all reality—if only for an instant—in favor of drifting peacefully to sleep in his arms is more than a little intriguing.

But the moment passes, the fantasy of a life just beyond her grasp evaporating with the heat rising from her skin, and she resigns herself to tracing her fingers lightly over his cheeks. “I want this. I want you.”

His face darkens and he returns his lips return to hers once more, but it’s not a chaste kiss like it was before, and she can almost taste the desire flooding through him when she feels his tongue slither between her teeth. The hand he has resting on her belly moves southward, and she opens her mouth against his own when he buries his fingers in her heat; the wetness he finds there seems only to ignite his ardor, the erection pressed firmly against her thigh growing more and more rigid with each passing second, and she is unable to entirely stifle a moan as he probes her walls with increasing intensity.

His lips then drift to her neck, and she runs her fingers through his feathery hair as he nibbles softly at her collarbone. But his mouth doesn’t linger for very long, because there was too much territory he had evidently hoped to cover in a single night, and he’s behaving as if this is the first time he’s ever sampled the bounties of what her body had to offer. He grazes his lips over her shoulders, her breasts, her abdomen, trailing light kisses along her arms and the insides of her wrists, dragging his teeth across her hips and upper thighs, before finally withdrawing his fingers from her warmth and settling his head in between her legs.

The redhead would’ve felt guilty for not reciprocating the attention he was lavishing on her, but it becomes rather difficult to return the favor when he locks his hands around hers and pins her wrists to the bed. All she can do is flinch helplessly beneath him as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against her pulsing nub, and her writhing intensifies when she feels his rough tongue glide across her flesh. A sharp hiss escapes her lungs and she draws her knees up around his shoulders, ensnaring his head firmly between her thighs; his grip over her wrists tightens and he drinks in the flavor of her sex, raking his teeth over her sensitive hood as she arches herself hard against his mouth.

It might’ve been worth it to turn out the lights just to save on electricity—her eyelids are pressed tightly shut and the only thing she can see anyway are white stars dancing across her mind’s eye—although if the energy flowing through her veins could be captured in a bottle, a talented mage could craft a limitless number of Electon spells and still have enough left over to power all of Insomnia. He’s channeling his focus entirely on her nub now, circling his teeth around the frenzied nerve endings and teasing her hood with a delightful tongue. She claws desperately at the strong hands that are trapping her wrists to the bed to little avail; his grip is relentless, the agonizingly slow caresses directed against her sex unyielding.

“Darling,” she pants, her knees clenching ever tighter around his neck, “please—this isn’t how I wanted this to end.”

For a moment, it appears as if the strategist’s ears are not working properly; he continues his sinful torture, pushing her closer over the edge with each passing stroke of his tongue. The redhead has her knees wrapped so tightly around his neck now it’s a wonder he can even breathe properly, and it’s only when the inferno raging in her lower abdomen reaches nearly its tipping point that he eases the pressure off her nub and plants a light kiss against the inside of her thigh.

He then releases her wrists and untangles the legs that are wrapped around his neck like deadly Coeurl whiskers, and the redhead breathes a small sigh of relief when the roaring in her belly mercifully subsides. Her eyes open tentatively and she watches as he gathers himself to his knees, his palm gliding across the smooth skin of her abdomen as he positions himself above her; she moves to touch his face, trailing gentle fingers along his jaw and lower lip, and he reaches up to capture her hand with his own.

But she can see the hint of sorrow disturbing his features even in the dim light of the bedroom, and she tilts her head in concern. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispers.

He turns his face and presses his mouth to her fingertips. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m not made of glass. You can do as you please.”

“You may be more fragile than you think.”

“It’s just the flu, Ignis. You have enough to worry about without overanalyzing the color of my snot.”

He snorts softly, but she is unable to quite shake the bizarre feeling of melancholy she can sense emanating from him. Instead of responding to her quip, however, he simply leans down and touches his lips to her own, the weight of his body settling in on hers like a comfortable blanket; he then reaches down between their legs, and soon she can feel the head of his shaft pressing hard against her folds.

Her hands slip around his waist when he pushes himself slowly inside of her, but she doesn’t cry out like she usually does; her throat tightens abruptly almost to the point of asphyxiation, her fingernails digging into the thickest part of his buttocks, and her vision blurs as tears begin to pool in her eyes. The warmth in her belly is nothing compared to the searing heat of the man touched by fire, and she has to force an exhale through flared nostrils just to accommodate the full length of himself scorching every fiber of her being.

It’s a small mercy that he takes a moment to settle his hips against her pelvis; her breath returns to her lungs when he presses a hand to her forehead, nuzzling his nose in her hair and nibbling at her earlobe. She isn’t sure if this brief interlude is for her benefit or his own, but she notices a slight trembling in the biceps he has braced on either side of her head, as well as the flexing of his jaw when she feels his shaft pulse faintly inside of her.

She tilts her chin up in search of his mouth, and it’s only when their lips meet again that he quells the vibration afflicting his arms and begins to move. His cadence is unhurried, his hips almost lazy in their wanton efforts, and he deepens their kiss with each agonizingly slow thrust. Her fingers relax around his buttocks and glide up the taut muscles of his back, and she arches herself against the sword he has sheathed fully inside of her; as their bodies fall into a familiar rhythm, the redhead can almost envision the image of his shaft grinding hard against her nub.

There is a method to his movements, she knows, because the strategist had a method for practically everything; in this instance, they had both discovered quite serendipitously that the slenderness of his waist met the angle of her hips in such a way as to fit together like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle. Penetrate her sex just so, and the pressure on her hood intensified; withdraw slightly, and the tension eased. Slow motions gave way to a steady momentum—rather like pushing a large boulder up a steep incline—and it takes Ignis all of one minute of concentrated effort for her to feel the beginnings of her climax hovering on the periphery of her mind.

So she stays his motions by wrapping her thighs around his waist, because if it were to be months before they would be able to meet like this again, she’d damned if she didn’t at the very least try to draw this evening out as long as she could. The forged iron inside of her is proving to be somewhat of a challenge to her willpower, however, since her screaming nub refuses be ignored; as a last resort, she moves her hands from his back to clutch desperately at his face.

“Wait,” she breathes. “Just—I need a moment.”

His cheeks are dotted with a thin layer of perspiration, the product of his exertion evidently taking its toll on his own discipline. He nods and presses his lips to hers once more, exploring her mouth with tentative inquisitiveness; she yields to his kiss and rakes her hands through his hair, chasing the lingering taste of herself on his tongue with the fervor of an addict in dire need of a fix. His manhood buried deep within her walls like a pike impaling a target is pulsing harder now, his hips shuddering against the shackles of his restraint, and he grips at the sheets beneath her as her wetness trickles down around both their thighs.

But even in the stillness of their embrace, her aching nub will not be denied its singular desire for release, and when his hips resume their slow drives into her heat, she feels the threads of her resolve slipping through her fingers one by one. The redhead isn’t the only living entity losing control over herself, however; for a man seemingly defined by his enduring stoicism, the strategist is uncharacteristically expressive, the quiet grunts that pass through his lips as he draws ever nearer to the edge ringing audibly in her ears.

It’s inevitable what will happen if they keep this pace up, but the she no longer cares about prolonging their ecstasy; she no longer cares about anything, for that matter, other than the man holding her tightly in his arms, the one who had taken her under his wing and schooled her in the art of warfare, who had both seduced her at her haughtiest and comforted her at her most vulnerable, the man who—despite the explicit terms of their agreement—she cherished beyond all measure of reason. He could at times be tender and witty and utterly infuriating all at once, and although the strategist and the redhead had made love more times that she could count, he somehow felt closer to her now than he had ever felt before.

She can sense the culmination of his ardor drawing precariously close to its terminus; the hard tissues of his shaft are engorged nearly to their saturation point, his back slick with perspiration, his breath ragged in his lungs. The pressure in her own abdomen feels likely to burst at any given moment, the nerve endings in her nub firing electrical impulses from one end of her body to the other as if she were touched by the Fulgurian himself. She makes one last attempt at extending their rapture by covering his mouth with her own; what she was hoping to accomplish with this futile distraction, she isn’t sure, but it’s too late now, because the dam bracing the tide of her resolve is already crumbling, and it was only a matter of milliseconds before one of their bodies would betray them.

The strategist breaks first. “Darling,” he groans, his hips trembling against her sex, “I—I can’t—”

“I can’t either,” she gasps. “Don’t you dare stop.”

She tightens her legs around his waist and urges him onward, and the redhead has but a heartbeat to glimpse the expression of surrender enshrouding his features before he lowers his forehead to hers and grudgingly heeds her command. His eyes are closed, his biceps flexing under the weight of his exertion as he pushes them both past the brink, and her walls clench tightly around him when the first crest of her orgasm crashes over her like a torrential wave. She lifts her head off the pillow in an effort to draw oxygen into her lungs, but the sensation of drowning only intensifies when she feels him thrusting furiously through his final throes and filling her belly with his seed.

A second wave is followed by a third, then a fourth, then a fifth; by the sixth wave, her body is shivering like a newborn Anak calf, the vice hold she has over his waist weakening as she loses her grip on reality. His thrusts are growing less erratic now, his strength fleeing his body like an exodus, and it’s only when she starts to feel his fluid trickling down the back of her thighs and onto the sheets that his movements finally cease altogether.

For a long moment, the redhead is unable to discern where precisely the strategist’s body ends and hers begins; their hearts beat as one in the stillness of the bedroom, their lungs expanding and contracting quietly against the others’ chests. His head is still pressed to her forehead, his eyelids sealed firmly shut, his soft exhales warm against her damp cheeks, and as she traces a hand across the planes of his chiseled face, she wonders briefly if there might not be a way to stay here with Ignis forever and never move again.

But then he does move, pushing himself upright on shaky elbows and slowly withdrawing from her. She rolls onto her side and drags the comforter up around her breasts, bracing herself against the chill of the evening wind she knows is forthcoming; rather than immediately bolting from the bed to open a window like he usually does, however, the strategist simply sidles up alongside her beneath the blanket and circles his arms around her smaller form.

She can’t help but frown at his peculiar show of tenderness; once the deed was done, he generally resumed a more aloof air of indifference, at least until his libido had recharged enough for another round of intimacy. Cuddling and pillow talk had never been one of the expectations of their arrangement—much like pet names and public displays of affection—and the redhead begins to seriously consider whether her illness really had rubbed off on him, after all.

“Are you all right?” she asks, turning her head over her shoulder toward him. “You’re not often this—er, attentive.”

His hand traces the outline of her thigh before stopping at her belly, and she can feel the cold metal of his necklace pressing up against her spine. “Apologies. Perhaps I haven’t been as considerate of your needs in the past as I should have.”

“I wouldn’t say that. And besides—I like to think I’m not a particularly needy person.”

“It’s a funny thing, neediness,” he whispers. “Sometimes you never know how much you really needed something until it’s too late, and you’re already running off on some grand adventure.”

His hold over her belly tightens as an odd silence befalls them; it was hard to tell whether the familiar twinge in her lower abdomen was a direct response to the distress in his voice, or merely the effects of the medicinal he had administered earlier losing its strength. “Speaking of running off,” she says carefully, “I really ought to be going soon. That elixir isn’t going to settle my stomach forever, and I’d rather not throw up in the bushes on my walk home.”

“I told you, I’ll deal with the guards. Stay the night.”

Her bewilderment finally gets the better of her, and she rolls over to face him. “Don’t you have to help the prince clean out his apartment first thing in the morning? You’re not going to want to field his burning questions if he spots me sneaking out of your flat like a thief.”

“I’ll… figure something out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly. But do me a favor, won’t you? Schedule an appointment with a physician as soon as possible, I beg of you.”

The odd look of remorse on his bare face gives her pause, and she narrows her eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Ignis?”

He loosens his grip over her belly and traces his fingers lightly over the soft skin there. “There’s always something I’m not telling you. Just like yourself.”

She knows what he’s referring to; it’s that word, just one little word, the word that wholly defined the meaning of their relationship even though they’d never uttered it aloud in one another’s presence before. But they’d expressed it in other ways—be it in the shower, or on the breakfast table, or in the front seat of the Regalia—and it had never occurred to the redhead to verbalize what he truly meant to her until now.

But maybe it was worth mentioning after all, addressing the sentiments left unspoken on the eve of his departure. “Would you like to talk about things? Maybe there’s something I could say that would put your mind at ease.”

His fingers continue circling her navel, his forehead furrowed in deep thought. “There’ll be time enough later, Astrals willing,” he says finally, pressing his lips gently to her cheek. “For now, get some rest.”