#I was mercifully sick that day

[arctic-hands]

Bless my former fundie Baptist church (and by "bless" I mean "fuck"), because back in two thousand and seven-ish they tried to reconcile the Word of God with actual science by telling us that God is so powerful and we are so insignificant in comparison that six days to Him could have been thousands or millions of what humans consider years. They even used the cosmic clock timescale (I forget if that analogy even has a particular name), where the whole history of human beings is just one fraction of a second in all of the unfathomable hours of the universe. Which is great and vastly more than what fundies teach/preach now and maybe even then!

But then they took my Sunday school class on a field trip to the newly-created Creation Museum in Kentucky, which had and has displays of humans and dinosaurs co-existing and teaches thusly. Which is terrible and completely predictable for a fundie church teach/preach now and even then.

[honeyedbrie]

I love all of those memes from 2020 like "it's 2023, covids over" because guess what hoes, it is 2023, and I am officially in isolation for the THIRD TIME IN 3 MONTHS because Yet Another of my family members has covid.

[pomefioredove]

I love you're writing!! Hope the exam went well!!!

Can you give us some good Ole cheesy, romantic, vil fluff??

I just want to kiss and cuddle him FOREVER

the vil love never ends on this blog. this turned out to be more sappy than anything. hope you enjoy nonetheless~!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ comfort

type of post: short fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, established relationship, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, comfort & fluff

"Can you please come over?"

The words weigh on Vil's shoulders as he walks across campus. They're heavy.

It's dark, and the air is cold. You're probably shivering, you never dress warm enough-

He pushes the thought away. No use in stressing himself any more.

"I just don't want to be alone right now,"

Vil hadn't asked why. He had a thought. He didn't want it to be right, but he's always right.

His steps are faster. Damn the curfew. Rook can handle the dorm for a single evening. And morning. And day. However long it takes.

He lets himself in without knocking. "Prefect?" he calls for you in title first. "Sweetheart?" and in petname second.

It's dark inside Ramshackle. He pulls off his shoes and coat, and hurriedly makes his way upstairs. Your door is closed.

"Are you in there?"

He holds his breath until you answer. "...Yes,"

"May I come in?"

"...Yeah,"

Vil opens the door, mercifully unlocked, and lets himself in. It's dark in your room, too, but he can still make out the huddled shape of you in bed.

"Sweetheart, it's freezing in here," he says. "Are you cold?"

You say nothing. He sighs, momentarily catching the eye of Grim, nesting in your arms. The direbeast says nothing.

"How can I help?" he asks, eyes lingering on the strange position you've curled up in. "...May I touch you?"

You nod. Good, Vil thinks, and he gets in bed behind you. He and Grim make a sort of... you sandwich, the two on either side of your body. As soon as he's settled, though, Grim stretches and hops off the bed.

Vil takes that to mean, you've got it from here.

"Darling," he says, delicately stroking the side of your face. "Are you sick?"

You hesitate, but nod anyway. He knows what you mean. And his heart aches for you.

"That's alright. That's perfectly alright," Vil says, holding you close to his chest, his arms around your waist.

"I'm here. You're safe."

You mumble something against him. It's unintelligible, but he's sure you meant it to be.

"I'm not going anywhere, don't worry," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I love you very, very much. Everything will be alright."

You're very quiet. It scares him, but he won't say that, not now. Now, he just needs you to feel better.

He pets you softly, playing with your hair. "My love, my darling. My favorite person in the entire world,"

You hum. He can feel your arms, now, wrapping around his waist, as if to get closer, seeking his warmth and comfort. It's everything to him.

"There," he whispers, kissing your head again. "Get some rest. I won't go anywhere, I'm here. I'm right here."

It's a little funny, he thinks. The only time he can excuse cutting his evening routine is when it's for you. On your rough, threadbare sheets, in a rickety bed, in a drafty house in the cold of winter.

He'll get you out of here, someday.

But for now, he holds you, and thinks of what he's going to make you for breakfast.

[regexkind]

My dentist retired two years ago and I've been in the market for a new one since. It's a high-variance search, one that really drives home to me the power of a good word-of-mouth¹ recommendation.

The first dentist I found insisted on not using anesthesia of any kind whatsoever, and when I pressed him for his reasons he explained that any deadening of the senses was a deadening of the person. He felt certain that his view would become dominant within our lifetime and that The Justice System would punish him for what accumulated up to several premeditated murder charges. No amount of explanation about post de facto laws in the United States would sway him from his stance.

The second dentist I saw was, if anything, even more peculiar. His whole shop smelled like a mixture of an abattoir and a foundry. He took one look inside my mouth and said that ALL of my fillings were to be redone; he assured me that this would be at no extra charge, because he was "righting a gross wrong in the order of Creation." After I was situated in the chair—and a peculiar chair it was, more of a chaise lounge than a dentist's chair—I was forced to wait for several hours while he hammered metals that glinted like the surface of a blood moon. Brimstone wafted over me, and my head began to ache in time with his beating on the anvil. Finally, he came into view again, bearing an ornate silver tray with several small intricate workings, whose fine details were almost impossible to see, because they glittered like morning dew beneath a cloudless sky.

It seems that instead of amalgamating the metal within my mouth, he had shaped several small inserts precisely enough to fit into the small pockets in my teeth. The act of placing these masterworks was mercifully swift but blindingly painful. I blacked out at least twice, and once when I was on the verge of being sick, he suddenly pinched a nerve in the back of my neck and I felt the rising nausea meet with an impregnable wall.

I might still have considered this strange craftsman as an acceptable long-term dentist. After all, he took my insurance. But the full impact of his work wasn't apparent until a few days later, when I was next using my mouth to pleasure a "very close friend" at a saturnalia. As their seed spilt into my mouth, I tasted a distinctly sour, metallic flavor, and, against my usual custom, spat out a mouthful of pure quicksilver on the wide grass of the heath. I have half a mind to have the strange alchemical apparatus taken out, but the cost quoted by several (more mundane) dentists and orthodontists is frankly prohibitive.

¹No pun intended.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Cat Warrior // Mouse Trap

In the world you live in there’s a variety of races and peoples that exist. Most of them are at war due to ancestorial feuds or snobbish viewpoints about heritage. Which unfortunately means the world is overrun by constant wars and charged attacks. Being a fighter is a no-brainer. Whether or not you agree with the reasons those who do not fight shall survive. Which is why Ferrin the Cat Warrior fully believes you’ll kill him the second you’ve pointed your spear to his neck. 

“Kill me then human. End this so I don’t have to see your pathetic look of victory.”

Only to realize that you’re not going to bother killing him when you’re clearly the better fighter. Even when he tries to sneakily strike at you while you turn away. You’re still triumphant leaving them cradling the scar you’ve mercifully given them. From then on it’s this. Constantly avoiding this Cat Warrior’s backshots and sneaky attacks that just never let up. 

“Tired yet, human?! Ready to surrender in despair?!”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that considering your arm is still broken from the last time.”

“Don’t underestimate me! I am of the race of the greatest hunters in the world! You’ll be my prey today and the next!”

He vows to defeat you one day but he does it so often that you stop taking him seriously. He hates that you don’t realize how much of a threat he is. In the week he’s spent following you he already knows so many of your habits. Like how many times you turn in your sleep. Or often you yawn before bed. He already knows so much it's truly a miracle you haven’t succumbed to his mighty claws with all the info you’ve let him memorize.

“Stupid human! I’ll get you next time!”

It’s a game of cat and mouse that he adores fuels his primal desire to hunt. It’s strong enough that when his own kind sends a messenger to return to his fleet. Citing all his discoveries he’ll politely refuse the backup they want to send. This is his prey to chase. Others would just spoil his fun. All he’s waiting for is an opportunity to best you.

“You’re so weak. It’ll bring me no satisfaction to kill you now.”

You’ve fallen ill and he’s forced to tend to his prey. He wants you fresh for when he defeats you after all. He clicks his tongue as he feels the heat on your forehead rise and the sweat on your brow increase. While caring for you, the sound of your heavy breathing forces him to think. Why couldn’t he end this now? Why while you were indisposed and at your absolute weakest did he fight off the dog warriors that had come to inspect your camp? Why did he feel the need to scent you while your batting at him was weak?

“I think you’ve gotten me sick as well. This just means I’ll have to stay by your side then.”

From then on he’s your plus one, when you make plans to do anything he is involved. There are no ‘ifs’ ‘and’s’ or ‘buts’ about it. You’re his human and he’s your cat but if you ever say that he’s swiping at your face. He’s going to demand you let him stay in your tent as your journey persists, nipping at your neck and kneading into your thighs. 

“If you’re blind this is my human, you can try to get on their good side all you like but (Y/n) is mine.”

The Cat Warrior has decided to stay by your side as you continue on a journey–that he doesn’t care to pay attention to. But even as you amass attention from all walks of life, he’s promised to remain by your side. You’d be foolish to chase away this hunter because to him he’s won. He has his prey now right where he wants you. 

Complacent when he curls into the blanket with you in your tent. Groaning in your sleep casually as he nestles his fangs into your neck. His tail wrapped around your leg without so much as a twitch from you. 

He’s caught his mouse. 

And he'd never let you go.

[star-girl69]

Apocalypse

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

synopsis: a day of capture the flag, and clarisse finds out you’re ashamed of your scars.

a/n: love love love love love also from this ask

Apocalypse - Cigarettes After Sex

warnings: shitty ending but IDC!!!!!!!, hurt/comfort, more hurt/comfort, god i need to be put down, insecure y/n, scars and all that stuff, possessive clarisse, protective clarisse, soft clarisse, probs ooc clarisse, yeah, swearing, mentions of food, mac n’ cheese is y/n’s fav but you can just pretend if you’re a weirdo and don’t like mac n’ cheese, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

���I don’t get it,” he laughs. “How can you be a daughter of Aphrodite and still have those ugly scars all over you?”

You pretend like you don’t hear him, leaning your head back against the tree, staring up at the blue sky through the gaps.

Him and his two friends have been teasing you the entire 20 minutes you’ve been tied up to this tree, captured by the blue team.

That was horribly embarrassing, but you were doing your best to ignore it- instead doing your best to pray to whatever God would listen that Clarisse would win for the red team.

It’s just plain stupid. He’s been saying the same thing over and over again for 20 minutes- can he at least come up with something original?

Besides, you don’t see where he gets off from this. It’s not like you give any reaction, or even look at him. The most you give him is the occasional squeeze of your hands- imagining his neck under them.

“Maybe she’s forsaken you,” he hums, kicking at your limp leg.

You finally look up at him. You’re sitting on the ground, arms at your sides, back pressed to the tree and rope digging tightly into your chest.

“Maybe your mother gave up on you after the second scar,” he says, staring straight into your eyes. “And then you’ve just gotten uglier and uglier ever since.”

You have scars all over your body. Clarisse has them too, and she shows them off proudly, a dramatic story for each one. You have a horrible memory, so you don’t remember all of them- but the tiny one on your jawline is from you accidentally tripping with scissors in your hand as a kid.

Clarisse had laughed hysterically when you told her about that one, pulling you closer when you pouted, saying something about how she was going to carry all scissors for you in the future.

The one on your collarbone is from sparring gone awry. Clarisse likes to kiss that one- it’s silvery smooth, she says some bullshit about how it feels like your lips.

The big one on your arm is from some clawed monster getting a bit too close to you- slashing at your arm and leaving a permanent tattoo of your failure to kill the monster. Or at least successfully run away.

Then, there’s all the tiny ones you can’t remember.

The boy, you seriously don’t even know his name, looks at you. There’s fire in his eyes, he wants a fight, but you won’t give him one. Especially not when your stomach squeezes inside of you in a way that makes you feel like you might throw up.

The conch mercifully blows, even as you feel sick- you don’t want to let his words effect you. But you just can’t help it.

He gives you an odd look, like he’s contemplating just leaving you out there- but eventually releases you. You stand up, dusting yourself off, grabbing your sword from where it was discarded on the ground.

“Good game!” you say, smiling brightly, but you can’t even pretend to be nice to him, so it tapers off into a laugh. He glares at you, but you’re already jogging through the woods, eager to see Clarisse again.

—-

The blue flag waves proudly above a sea of orange camp t-shirts and red helmets, so you smile widely and skip down to the beach. Your team has formed this huge pit of people, everyone congratulating each other, shouting and celebrating. You stick your sword in the sand as you head into it- one person on your mind.

“Clarisse!” you shout, heading straight towards the middle. “Clarisse!”

She actually rips apart two people hugging to meet you.

“Baby!” she says, even when the two people give her dirty looks, pushing past them and into your arms. “We won!” she giggles, kissing your cheek.

“I know,” you smile, digging your face into her neck. She holds you there for just a moment, hand on the back of your head, relishing in the feeling of her girlfriend running to her after a long day.

“Are you tired?” she fusses, squeezing your waist. “What happened? Did you get hurt? I knew I should have made you stay with me-”

“No, Clar,” you laugh, taking your face out of the hiding spot that is her neck and pressing your noses together. “I got captured,” you sigh.

Her fingers wind through your hair.

She scans the crowd, like she might just beat up any random member of the blue team.

“If they don’t learn to not fucking touch you I am going to make them learn.”

“Guard dog,” you tease her.

“And?” she says, leaning down to kiss the scar she loves kissing, right at the beginning of your collarbone. It makes you freeze. “You love it,” she mumbles against your skin.

You can’t think of an answer.

When you stay silent, she looks up at you, confusion in her face.

“What? You look… sad. Did something happen? What aren’t you telling me?”

“N-nothing,” you breathe, because it’s just embarrassing to know you let his words get to you like this.

“You can tell me anything,” she says, searching your eyes.

“I know.”

The conch blows, making you jump at the sudden loud noise. “Lunch!” someone shouts, and Clarisse settles for just grabbing your hand, walking with you back to camp.

—-

You stop by your cabins first, taking off your armor and switching into clean camp shirts. You hesitate for a second, but eventually put on a thin long-sleeved shirt under the orange.

You take extra care in reapplying your makeup, making sure to cover the scar on your collarbone and your jaw, and once everything is as covered as it’s gonna get you set out.

Clarisse is waiting for you outside the Aphrodite cabin, smiling as you open the door, applying lipstick with one hand. She grabs your hand and helps you down the steps, admiring the way you’re so intensely focused on getting the perfect lip, even without a mirror.

It’s not like you have to try very hard, but still.

“I don’t mind waiting a second longer,” she says, bringing you closer by the waist as you tube the lipstick and stick it in your pocket.

“You’re a hungry demon after capture the flag.”

“Yeah,” she says, not really trying to deny it.

You smile and lean against her, pressing a short kiss to your lips.

“Oh, do I look pretty now?” she asks, rubbing in the lipstick that came off onto her lips.

“Always,” you smile.

Her eyes focus in on the green sleeves pulled up to your wrists.

“It’s, like, 100 degrees, baby. You’re gonna boil.”

You frown and shake your head. “No, it’s not that bad. I’m cold.”

She looks at you oddly, but seems to begrudgingly accept it, hand against your forehead as she brushes your hair back. You make it into the buffet style line for lunch, grabbing plates, Clarisse quickly piling hers with a cheeseburger and a hot dog, making you laugh.

“You’re so hungry, all the time,” you mutter when she gives you a dirty look.

“I work out all the time,” she glares. She flexes her arm. “All of this takes a lot of work.”

You stare at her muscles peeking out from just under her sleeves, biting your lip as you quickly look away. She smiles brightly.

“Uh huh, that’s what I thought. You love these muscles, don’t judge me.”

You make your way down the line, scanning the trays of food.

“Ooh,” Clarisse coos, “They have your fave, pretty thing.”

She scoops probably the biggest portion of mac n’ cheese you’ve ever seen in your life, slapping it onto your plate with a smile.

You gape at the now almost empty tray, remembering the still long line behind you. Hopefully there’s another one somewhere.

“Clarisse, we should save some for everyone else.”

She seems actually confused by that statement.

“Uh, yeah, no. My girl gets the best.”

“Clarisse-” but you’ve reached the end of the line and she heads off to a table. You follow her, begrudgingly, because you really do covet this mac n’ cheese like it’s ambrosia.

—-

By the time the night rolls around, you’ve retreated into the blankets of your bed, feeling much safer completely covered up. You’re supposed to be going to the bonfire- all of your siblings have come over and bugged you at least once about going, but you’ve refused them all.

Finally, all of your siblings leave in their pretty but revealing outfits- after today, you don’t think you could ever wear something like that again.

The door to your cabin creaks open.

“Y/N?”

You make a mumbled sound in the back of your throat that’s supposed to resemble “I’m here” but Clarisse is already walking over to you and pulling the blanket off of you.

“Silena told me you were staying back. Why?”

You pull the blanket back up over yourself.

“I’m jus’ tired.”

“Okay…” she says, sitting down on the bed. She puts her warm hand to your forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have a headache?”

“No, Clar, I’m fine.”

“I’m confused,” she huffs. “You love the bonfires. Something is obviously wrong, why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m just tired, Clarisse, that’s all.”

“Fine,” she says. “I can be tired too.”

She kicks off her shoes and climbs into bed with you, under the blankets, chest pressed against your back.

“I’m not good at this. You know that,” she sighs after a second. “And I wish I was. But I do know something’s wrong. And I really don’t know for the life of me what it is, but I really want to know. I really want to help you.”

She traces her fingertips up and down your arms, tracing over the silvery scar from the monster- and you involuntarily jerk away.

“Oh,” she says. She’s painfully observant. She notices everything. She notices you pulling away when she touches your scars. “Your scars.”

Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them.

“W-when I got captured, this boy kept teasing me. And I tried not to let it bother me, I tried not to give him a reaction… but I just- what if I’m not worthy of my mother anymore? It’s embarrassing. I know. But I…”

“Who the fuck said that to you?”

She sits up, eyes blazing, like she can just imagine it and whoever hurt you will suddenly feel her wrath.

You turn around so you’re facing her, laughing.

“I don’t even know his stupid name,” you mutter.

She looks down at you, at the tears spilling from your pretty eyes.

“I’ll kill him later,” she mumbles, settling back down and kissing the corner of your cheek. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, baby. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I’ve never met your mother, of course, so I can say that without getting us both struck down by doves, or something.”

You swat her chest.

“I’ll kill you with doves, watch me.”

She hums. “Probably. Okay, stop. You’re getting me off topic.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not good with my words,” she whispers. “But I hope I show you everyday that you are the only woman I have eyes for. This is, like, really embarrassing… but I’ve planned out our entire lives together. We’re gonna go to to college in Arizona by my mom, we’ll have an apartment off-campus, and after we graduate we’ll get married. I really wanna be married to you. And I don’t care if that’s cheesy, I just really want you to look at the ring I’ll give you and be able to feel all my love. Besides, if you ever want to get away from me, it’ll be a hell of a lot harder.”

“I would never wanna get away from you, Clar,” you smile. “It’s not embarrassing. I wanna go to college in Arizona. I wanna marry you.”

“Good, because you didn’t really have a choice,” she smiles.

“And you’re plenty good with your words.”

“Yeah… okay, I guess. But let me show you, too.”

“What does that even-”

She shuts you up by kissing your lips.

“I love your lips. I love how soft they are, and how they feel so perfect against me.”

She kisses your cheek.

“I like your cheeks for the same reasons.”

Your temple, your forehead, your nose.

“Same reasons,” she smiles.

Finally she ends up at your jawline. She rubs over the scar, taking concealer and foundation with the pad of her thumb.

“And I love this scar. It looks kind of like a C, so everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Freak,” you huff, and she doesn’t have to say it. You both know you love it.

She kisses your neck and talks about how she loves the way you get mad at her for leaving hickeys, the dedication you pour into covering them up before you eventually decide it’s too much effort and let them show.

She kisses the scar on your collarbone.

“I like putting my head here, right under your chin. I can feel your pulse. I can hear you swallow, too, which is weird but also soothing.”

She kisses from your shoulder and down to your arm, skimming past the scar. She kisses the back of your hand and your fingertips.

“I love it when you braid my hair, or just put your hands in my hair for… other reasons.”

“Freak,” you mumble again. “You’re just obsessed with kissing me.”

“True,” she hums, kissing back up to your scar. “I don’t have anything poetic to say about this one. It’s just fucking badass. I mean, you got it when you were 12- you survived what most have been something truly monstrous to leave a scar like this, and that��s all you get? Most of the kids here would have died. Even the ones our age. And you escaped when you were only 12.”

You smile like a lovesick fool. The apocalypse could be going on outside, and you would just be here with Clarisse.

“In conclusion, your beauty is actually life changing. I mean, have you seen me? I become a total softie, just for you. And it’s all because I like seeing that pretty smile on your gorgeous face. But you frown pretty, too, which I didn’t even know was possible- so I win either way.”

You smile and put your hand on her face, kissing her softly.

“Thank you, Clar. For always taking care of me, and reassuring me…”

“It’s quite literally my job,” she smiles. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it.”

“You don’t even trust me, Little Miss Makes-My-Plate-For-Me.”

She laughs and presses her head under your chin, her hair tickling your skin, pressing a kiss to your scar.

“It’s my job,” she smiles. “As your girlfriend and future wife.”

“I love you, Clarisse,” you whisper, a secret just for the two of you. Nothing can have you here. No pain, no suffering.

“I love you too,” she says. “I love you so much, my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

—-

the kid who bullied you walking around with a big ass scar on his cheek the next day 😍😍😍😍😍 no….. no clarisse did not cut him with her spear….. ofc not….

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish

[shooting-love-arrows]

A noble or bussines person in 1800s yan and the reader is their assistant or personal butler/maid. Where the yan is hiding their feelings but show it in controling way like order the reader to do the most simple stuff even if it was not their jo just to see them? Or steal few touch like head pat or on shoulder or simply their fingers touch😔

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 x [servant] reader (gender not implied/mentioned/specified) Tw. love sick fool, soft yandere, mention of lace but every gender can wear it (?)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Who pushes to the edge of your limits. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 overworks you to the point where you often catch yourself fainting in the middle of performing tasks. Your position, pay and living conditions might be better than those of the other servants but the list of your tasks was long and more often than not ridiculous. Those little, useless things that took most of your time and energy. But who are you to oppose to someone who had mercifully hired you and give you a roof over your head? No one.

"I have some new tasks I want you to complete." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 regards you coldly and hands you a paper with a list of other (ridiculous) tasks to do.

Who more than once caught you sleeping in the middle of doing your work. But that's alright. He just takes this chance to come closer and hold your hand, caress your head or cheek. Unfortunately, he has to wake you up at some point but he always uses most of this short period of time to have some type of concat with you.

"Oh dearest, if only you knew how I long for you." He whispers into your ear while you were in a deep sleep.

Who never fails to admire (stare) at you while you work. Most of the tasks given to you are either related or include him. Either way, you spent most of your time with him. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 made sure of that and he didn't regret it one bit because he has got to be with you. Oh how he loved it when you are near him. You bring him peace he needs in his stressful and rushing life. You are just so...endearing. To this day he can't decide if he wants to flaunt you around or lock you in one of the chambers where only he would be able to look at you.

"You would look lovely in silk...perhaps some lace?" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 thought to himself, fantasizing about you in different clothes before an image of you without them abruptly appeared in his head.

Who melts when you touch him. Especially when you dress him up and take care of his visage. The cold and calculating man becomes putty in your hands. You are surprised to see him sighing softly, closing his eyes and humming when you button up his shirt or brush his hair. From what you heard from other servants, even from outside your household, no other master seemed to be acting like that. But once again, who are you to pry and complain? And when your fingers happen to touch? A pleasurable shiver runs down his spine.

"You are my lifeline and your touch is like water. I need both of them to live."

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[newyearseve1979]

Lilia and Agatha’s (housemate au) chapter preview

Let me know if this is something you’d be interested in me continuing! (and also if you’d prefer it to be on ao3 also/instead)

She was crying. She was crying earlier, a second ago (a month, a year, a moment) she was positively absolutely nearly certainly crying, so then where had this calmness come from? This warmth? These hands? Lilia was wet, sopping wet, like a drowned cat. Her eyes were closed. She felt the water dripping off of bare skin, and the towel that was -mercifully- still wrapped around her. Someone's hands were running through her hair, their nails gently scratching at her scalp. Her back was pressed against the front of another’s warm body. Their spare arm held snugly to her waist. Violets. Agatha. Lilia’s eyes snapped open but she stayed still.

She was being held (quite tenderly, believe it or not) by Agatha Harkness. The Salem witch’s legs were on either side of Lilia, gently holding her still. Her head fell against Agatha’s breast. She shifted, not to leave, but to lay her head backwards on Agatha’s shoulder. “Back with us?”

Lilia said nothing. Stubbornly, she pulled her towel up with her. But she did not move. Not this time. “I figured you were someone close to us when the screaming stopped,” Agatha muttered. Her hand still ran through Lilia’s sick wet hair.

The bathroom was soaked. Water had puddled on the floor and the curtain had been yanked down. Lilia felt bruises forming on her side from where she had fallen. This one had hurt. Her visions had never felt violent before. This was new.

“No one’s home,” Agatha added gently, anticipating her next thought, “I told Billy he had a day off.”

“I-”

“Shut up.”

Lilia huffed indignantly, “Agatha-”

“No,” her voice was clipped, “just sit.”

So she did. She let the witch killer hold her after her vision of killing witches. The faces were blurred in blood, the gasps were wet with the liquid of their veins, Lilia’s own heart pounded. Agatha squeezed tighter. Scratched her scalp. Held her. “Breath.”

Lilia moved her hand to hold agatha’s arm on her waist. “Agatha-

“It hurt,” Lilia choked out. Agatha’s wrist was held by the older witch. She quickly snatched it away, regarding Lilia carefully. They were alone in the kitchen. The teapot was boiling. The sun was streaming in.

Neither had spoken anything more than muttered acknowledgements before Lilia, as the others had started saying, went away. Lilia cleared her throat, pulling her hands back to herself. She did not apologize for her outburst. Agatha didn't ask. The tea pot boiled; they moved on.

[paingoes]

Crash Out - Joey

(Content: past abuse, whumper turned whumpee, beating, implied child abuse, claustrophobia mention, addiction mention, retraumatization, crying, guilt, self harm?, blood, brief weight talk)

Still shaking, still sick, Paris stared up blankly at the ceiling again, for want of anything better to do. The manacles chafed at his bare wrists, leaving a thick band of raw skin beneath. He’d gotten used to it.

“Did you go to a school when you were little?” He asked Johanna without looking at her.

Without looking back from the control panel, she answered: “I’m not that fucking stupid, am I?”

He shook his head — and the movement of the collar caused the chain to click against the tile.

“No. I mean, like, a special one. For psychics.” He explained vaguely. 

“I went to St.Holly’s Prep.” She answered curtly.

“Oh.” He deflated. 

He had hoped for something that might give his life a perfect symmetry. He wanted any sense of justice to fall back on, though he knew well enough not to truly expect it. His hand traced the collar again, taking slow and steady breaths. He breathed easier when he was flat on his back. Any sudden motion made him feel like he might faint, so he didn’t move at all. The lock picks were burning a hole in his pocket.

She’d missed them, somehow. She hadn’t been very deliberate in the pat down — and at this point, he was all angles. His own hipbone had been as hard and as pointed as the metal. 

He did not dare reach for them here in the dead of space. He’d be no better off once he was out of the chains. Paris knew, with total certainty, that he would not beat her in a fight. He didn’t even think he could do it healthy anymore, some new flinch mechanism that made him so tired of hitting and of being hit. He certainly could not do it in the thralls of withdrawal, not with the cracked rib and the hole through his hand. No opportunity presented itself. He was scared to.

The stygian depths appear every time he closed his eyes, dark blue, teeming. He was scared. Some ancient dread was settling onto him, sharp-toothed and feral. He missed Delta. 

It embarrassed him just how badly he missed Delta.

But when he dreamed, mercifully, it was of Lorelai. It was a frozen morning and the last night’s rain had crystallized against the pale bluegrass. Her hair was undone, hanging in limp curls against the fabric of her sweater. It was the last morning before the break. He’d given her clovers and coffee and jasmine perfume. He’d have given her anything, but he knew the wealth humiliated her. It was an affront for either of them to even wear the uniform.

All the same, her fingers had been lined with white gems that morning. They were impossible not to notice as he’d brought her hand up to his lips. He’d have done anything for her then. The memories bled out into the edges of his dreams.

His heart was all the way empty when he awoke. Lorelai was safer without him than she’d ever be with. It was cold comfort. He’d left her alone and limp in the dirt.

There was no day or night to follow, but the ship’s lights had dimmed. Paris thought it was another hallucination, another dream he couldn’t shake — but the soft sound of crying permeated and echoed throughout the ship. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. 

She was whimpering in her sleep.

~

Johanna dreamed of something cold and breathing beneath the soft wet earth. She had the nightmare often. Big walls and little hands. A playful pulsing in each of them, turned violent and mean over time. She smiled because she could, because they always liked her. She smiled too wide and laughed too hard, some screw knocked loose, faulty wiring from having been hit in the head one too many times. A nervous laugh. Wide, pleading eyes.

She dreamt of a small box. She dreamed of a pulsing that grew into a frantic pounding — and a loving flesh that always come backs. It came back no matter how many times they tried to kill her.

Johanna dreamt of a hole dug deep into the earth. She’s had the same nightmare since she was twelve — and though it gets better, it never really goes away. She woke up with her eyes still blotted with tears and for a minute she had forgotten where she was. 

From across the room, the captive prince stared at her unblinking, and she knew he had heard everything.

~

Several hours later, when they were both wide awake, Paris tried again.

“Did you know Martino?” he asked.

Immediately, he knew it was a mistake. He had about three seconds to flinch before she’d crossed the interior to him and hit him as hard as she possibly could. The intention had clearly been to knock him unconscious, but he’d recoiled fast enough that she mostly struck the side of his jaw. He gasped, sure for a second it’d been broken. There was no time to recover in between the blows. He only shielded his skull as Johanna slammed the cleat into his side, over and over again, breathing heavy. She tore his arms away, gripping the collar’s chain just to slam his head back into the wall, pinning him there.

But Johanna looked so lost. All her anger was thick with confusion. Her eyes searched him, up and down, as if something in his body might tell her.

“How-“ she asked desperately. “Who-“

Paris shivered, retreating, hiding his head again. It hurt. His ribs were so tender he could’ve cried. She released the chain around his neck, staggering a few steps back.

“Don’t say his name again,” she warned.

Paris nodded.

~

“Are you mad at me?” Paris asked. He was stupid and chastened, both knees drawn up to his chest.

Johanna sighed, sitting up against the starboard wall of the ship. She tossed a tennis ball idly, only occasionally glancing at the autopilot to see they were still on course. She did not dignify him with a response. 

“Did you know him? Delta. One Zero Seven.” Paris asked quietly.

It felt like it’d been ages since he’d said his name aloud. The sound of it hovered in the air, seemed to echo in a way the other words had not. He still remembered the numerals that followed, though by the time he first learned them, they’d lost all their usefulness. But to her, those numbers must have meant something. It’d be the only way to distinguish them.

“As if I’d remember any of them.” Johanna rolled her eyes.

Paris quieted, tucking his face back down into his arms. He only peeked up at her as she stood up, moving to check up on the air filter. 

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

He was surprised when she didn’t laugh. She only sighed again, eyes flitted up to the ceiling as if she was considering it.

“I didn’t before. I think I’m starting to.” She decided.

“Is that why?” He looped one finger in the collar, tugging it.

“Nope.”

In return, she tapped one finger to his nose, booping it gently. He still flinched.

“That’s just business.”

~

It ate at him. He turned restlessly within the chains. There was nothing to do and only her for company. She was taking him to be killed, to hurt the whole time he died, to be mutilated and changed. All his future seemed an endless void. All he could focus on was the past.

“What was it like?” he asked. There will be no other opportunities to ask, no other ways to know. He wondered if anyone else who went to that school was even alive anymore. Delta wasn’t. Was Johanna alive, really? 

He looked at her and he could not tell. 

She stood up from the console, visibly irritated at the fact he was still taking. Or maybe she just didn’t like his choice in conversation topic. Either way, he’d pissed her off.

“You want to know what it was like?” She asked incredulously.

He sat up and nodded his head. For a second, she just looked tired. She undid the belt from around her waist.

“Hands out. Now.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. He’d gotten his knuckles rapped millions of times, had the cane brought down against each part of his body. None of it ever helped. By the time he graduated, he knew it was more about anger than it ever was about correction. This was no different.

Except that all the previous times, he did not have a knife wound piercing straight through the flesh of his hand. A white bandage had been bound tight around it ever since he’d been rescued. It still held. She’d seen it, of course. She had to have known. She didn’t care. 

They must not have either.

Paris offered both hands without resistance, surprising himself. Would she have forced him to if he hadn’t? For some reason, he didn’t think so. If he wasn’t playing along, he thought, she might just give up.

He held both palms facing upward. It was what he was used to, what he assumed she wanted, and he was willing to turn them if it wasn’t.

The belt was folded over. He kept still.

It was worse than he thought it’d be. He gasped in shock and pain at the sting. He’d been comparing it to the wrong injuries, expecting the wrong kind of pain. The belt hurt his right hand about as badly as when it’d first been punctured, about as bad as an arrow through his fucking ribcage. His eyes watered immediately.

He still tried to be steady as the belt came down against his hands again. Again. Again. He resisted the automatic curling of his fingers in an effort to protect himself. It was really nothing. He’d had so much worse. He didn’t know why he was crying so badly. 

The belt swung again. He only pulled his hand back just to quickly wipe at his eyes. She got mad.

“Paris,” she hissed, exasperated, and he couldn’t remember her ever using his name before this. “I can make this a lot worse for you and you know it.”

“Sorry,” he muttered as he offered the hand back.

Again. Again. He lost track, letting his vision blur just the same as the count. All the nerves in his hand were beaten almost numb, stinging. He couldn’t keep the tremor out of them. 

Johanna grumbled in frustration, pulling the belt back to her side. She was fumbling with the end of it.

“…Are we done?” he asked weakly. 

The belt buckle hit him square in the face, drawing a pained gasp from him. He reeled to the side, barely catching himself. Blood dripped readily from the gash in his cheek. In shock, he moved two finger up to touch it. Wet. Warm. 

“You don’t fucking ask when it’s over.” She barked.

He kept his eyes trained on the ground, half-curled away from her. The impact had whipped his head to the side and he did not correct it. 

He heard her readjusting the belt. For a second, he really did think she was finished. He let himself be fooled twice.

The buckle struck him again in the shoulder. It produced much less of a reaction than the strike to the face did, but he still cried. It was worse when he couldn’t see it, but he knew better than to try and turn around. He twitched at each new impact.

“You don’t understand!” She yelled. It was infantile. And it was wrong. He did.

Then again, he doubted she was even talking to him.

The metal snapped at the bare skin of his arm, once again at his back. He shifted one shoulder up to shield his still-bleeding face and endured the hit for it. It was only then she seemed to tire. It didn’t matter. He was sobbing. Though he tried to do it quietly, there was so little he could focus on besides his own misery. The effort was futile. He hardly noticed whether she was there or not, whether the beating had even stopped.

He tucked himself further into the far wall, unable to stop crying or to even be silent about it. She did not speak to him again for the rest of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~

thank you to @floral-comet-whump for getting me to canonize Johanna being from Beldam!!! that was always supposed to be the implication w her character but i wasnt sure about making it explicit until they had the idea of her being an experiment that beldam tried to kill and ended up BURYING ALIVE. that was too tasty to leave as subtext >:)

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[haine-kleine]

A potential I wish I could see more of in this fandom is the League on their days off. Same way we briefly saw Jin before the Overhaul arc.

Just like the heroes, the villains have their villain costumes, which they put on for 'work'. Unlike the heroes, who are prevented from having this due to PR and public's overall perception of them, the villains can just take those costumes off to blend in with the crowd without being noticed. As we already know, for Shigaraki just taking off his 'family' is enough.

To Toga, the highschool girl uniform serves as a disguise similarly to how Monoma's hero costume does. But combined with her distinctive red spider lily hairstyle, it makes it fairly easy to recognize her. So on her days off crime duty, she dresses as a regular girl, sometimes stealing Shigaraki's hoodies, opting to experiment with her hairstyles.

Similarly to her, Twice's villain costume comes out only on the days they have work scheduled. Otherwise, he shows up on his regular civilian clothes. After Kamino, they tried to make him wear something else instead of his usual mask for secrecy reasons, but after he turned up with a paperbag on his head, Shigaraki mercifully allowed him to wear whatever he wanted.

Mister Compress tries to keep his fancy villain suit for memorable occasions (the state it was in by the My villain academia arc was truly devastating), so usually he dresses like this.

Spinner's Stain cosplay stays in the closet most of the time. Usually he joins Shigaraki's pajama party, especially during their gaming marathons. Due to his trauma, it's hard to get him to go outside and when he does, he tries to cover as much of his body as possible. Once Shigaraki notices this, he makes sure to join Spinner outside as often as he can. After Shigaraki decays two people who gave Spinner trouble for his quirk, Shuichi stops covering his face and hands as much. It's also the reason they targeted that heteromorphobic cult specifically in MVA introduction.

After his face being seen had led to them almost being captured, Dabi starts hiding himself behind long sleeved high collared hoodies and huge sunglasses. Compress and Toga attempt to make him dress more normal and channel his inner emo aesthetic more than amateur drug dealer, to no avail. Indoors, he tends to ditch the three layered black outfit and go for loose shirts and shorts that won't catch his staples by accident with one wrong move. Also, when no fateful meetings with oblivious family members are scheduled, he tends to forego doing his hair. Attempting to avoid infection from the chemical dye when you are a walking open wound is more hassle than it's worth, so for quick villain outings or his meeting with Hawks, he throws a cap or a hoodie on and calls it a day.

Shigaraki dresses exactly the same as he does when on villain duty, minus the hands. Even though it's convenient, it pisses him off how easy it is for him to blend in and go around unrecognized. When the League gets more popular and their merch replaces Stain's, even having Father on his face can get in the way of his recognition as the Symbol of Fear, when teenagers compliment him on his sick Shigaraki cosplay.

I'd say Kurogiri remains just as well dressed and proper as usual whether he is working at the bar, chaperoning Shigaraki or has a day off, but the image of him channelling his inner Shirakumo and going around naked is just too funny to pass up. He sends the entire League into hysterics, but he is mist, what improper is there about being mist without any clothes on?..

[delphiniumblooms]

HI @ninsletamain !!!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR and here is your gift fic! you asked for Roommates/Neighbors, College AU, Angst with a happy ending, Fantasy AU, Recovering in the sick bay, and Fix-It, and I think I've got at least half of these prompts!

Inspired by a true story from my friend Treagus and my own experiences as a college student staying in dorms :)

There is something wrong with Jyn's thermostat.

She's checked the set temperature about ten times already in the past two hours and she's sure it's at 15°C, which is the minimum. The actual temperature it's showing, however, is 35°C. Thirty-five degrees! That's almost human body temperature. And it feels like it, too. She's already stripped down to a bra and shorts, and she's still sweating.

She's opened all her windows and it hasn't even helped. There's zero breeze. It's supposed to be winter, but her weather app says it's 20°C outside. It's absolutely ridiculous. Climate change and all that, she supposes.

It still doesn't explain why it's 35°C indoors, though.

She really doesn't have time for this. She has an assignment due in two hours, but it's way too hot to concentrate properly.

She jabs at the ‘set temperature’ button again and groans. Fuck student housing and its stupid broken shit.

Maybe one of her neighbours will know what to do about it. Even if not, the stairwell has to be cooler than her room.

She crosses the landing and knocks on the door opposite hers. No answer. Bodhi must be out.

Sighing, she troops downstairs. Is she imagining it, or is it getting hotter?

She raps on the door of one of the third-floor apartments, and thankfully, it opens.

“Uh, hi,” she says to the guy who opens it. She doesn't think she's seen him before, but then she doesn't really talk to anyone not on her floor anyway.

He looks at her quizzically.

“Um, I live directly upstairs. I think my thermostat's broken. I was wondering if you know what to do about it?”

“No, sorry. I just moved in yesterday,” he replies, frowning. “I'm here on exchange.”

“Oh,” she says, then it occurs to her to ask, “Is yours working? It feels kinda hot here too.”

He looks over his shoulder, presumably at his thermostat. “Yes, I think so.”

“What temperature do you have it at?”

“25,” he says.

“Oh my god.” Everything is clicking into place now. “Why do you have it at 25? That's hotter than it is outside! No wonder it's a fucking furnace in my room. Are you insane?”

“No. I'm just cold,” he snaps, scowling, and closes the door in her face.

“Dude!” she yells. What is with this guy?

She balls her hands into fists and stomps back upstairs. Screw this. She really needs to work.

She heads back upstairs to grab her laptop and makes a quick trip to the vending machine on the first floor for a cold drink. Alternating between taking swigs from it and holding the can against her neck, she balances her laptop on her knees in the stairwell between the first and second floors and tries her damndest to bang out something halfway decent. It’s still warm here, but it’s better than upstairs.

She clicks the ‘submit’ button three minutes before the deadline and waves her hands around in an attempt to dry off the sweat on them. At least this is done.

She shuts her laptop, tosses the can into the recycling bin, and climbs the stairs. Sure enough, it’s still 35 in her room. How is she going to get any sleep tonight?

Where is that guy even from and what’s his problem? Honestly, she didn’t even know you could turn the thermostat that high. She’d complain to the resident advisor, but he’s never in. This is what you get when you pick the cheapest apartment that can’t pay its staff. Next year, she’ll save on something else and rent a nicer place.

For now, all she can do is cuss the guy downstairs out while dabbing at her armpits with a damp towel. She’s a computing student. She can handle a night without sleep.

She spends the next day asleep in all her classes, but mercifully the temperature outside dips to 5 at night, and even if the floor is a little warm it’s a lot more bearable.

A couple days later, it occurs to her that she should probably apologise to Third Floor Guy. The weather is better now, and she’s getting used to the slightly heated floor. Being hot always makes her irritable and angry, but that’s not really a good excuse to be mean to some poor exchange student. She is under no delusion that she’s a good person, but she feels like she should try. After all, when she first moved in here two years ago, it helped that Bodhi was nice to her. She knows it’s partly because her dad told him to, but that’s fine.

She tells him as much over chips in his room, and he nods. “Yeah, I think you… you should. Doesn’t hurt to… be nice.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, okay. I'll… I'll leave the door… open. For moral… moral support.”

She takes a deep breath, reminds herself that it's normal if he reacts negatively, and troops down to the third floor.

Her hand hasn't even touched the door when she realises that it's been left a little ajar. She raps on the doorframe instead, and there is a soft, pained sound in reply.

“Hello?” she whispers, a little frightened. When she gets no answer, she pushes the door open.

Third Floor Guy is lying on the floor, and oh goodness fuck there is a lot of blood.

Shit shit shit shit shit fuck. She rushes to his side and touches his face. “Hello? Hello? What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

He doesn't respond, and she looks around in panic, trying to figure out what he did to himself. There is a smudge of blood on the corner of the desk above him, and it looks like he hit his head on it. Holy shit.

“BODHI!” she bellows. “BODHI, CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!”

“WHAT?” his voice echoes down the stairs.

Third Floor Guy has a head wound, and it looks like it's still bleeding.

“GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND CALL AN AMBULANCE!” She tries very hard to recall whatever first aid knowledge she has, and gets up quickly, grabbing the quilt off the bed and wadding it up, pressing it to the guy's head.

Bodhi comes crashing into the room. “Ambulance called. Ho… shit.”

“Yeah,” she replies. A thought seizes her. “Oh god, what if he dies thinking I'm an asshole?”

“Don't say that!” Bodhi snaps. “Is he breathing?”

She checks. “I think…?”

“Okay. Okay. How… how long—”

“They should be here in seven minutes,” she says. “If BBC Sherlock wasn't bullshitting.”

Bodhi stares at her and takes a deep breath.

“Don't you start hyperventilating, or I'm going to too and we'll use up all the oxygen in here.”

He breathes out. “Right.”

In a few minutes the room is awhirl with paramedics and Bodhi's looking like he really wants to get out of here, but she feels compelled to make sure this poor bastard is all right.

“I'll go with him. Help clean up later?”

Bodhi grimaces and nods.

She wedges herself into the ambulance with the stretcher and studies the pale, wan face atop it. He is dark-haired, moustached, and very thin. He looks ill, and small, and she starts to feel really bad about shouting at him for being cold.

“Will he wake up?” she asks the paramedic who's fitting an oxygen mask on him.

“Depends,” they say, and she wants to throw something.

They make her stay in the waiting area while they bring him to god knows where, and she paces nervously, then looks up a Wikihow article on getting blood out of carpet and texts it to Bodhi.

Will come back to help once he's ok.

Third Floor Guy ends up needing a couple of transfusions and a huge bandage covering one eye, but the stare she receives from the uncovered one when she's allowed to see him is very much alert and hateful and immediately makes her shift uncomfortably.

“I wanted to say I'm sorry,” she tells him. “And then I found you in a pool of your own blood.”

He continues to stare at her the same way, and she wonders if he didn't understand or he's sustained some brain damage from the fall.

“You're a university student?” a nurse asks him.

He nods.

“What's your name and major?”

“Cassian Andor. Political science and mechanical engineering.”

“Oh no,” Jyn moans. “He's still addled in the head.”

The nurse completely ignores her, checking this against a file they're holding. “No cognitive impairment,” they say. “You're all right,” they add over their shoulder as they leave the room.

“Seriously?” She can't help herself.

Cassian Andor shrugs. “Double degree.”

“I'm sorry—”

“They say I have iron-deficiency anaemia. Which is why I feel so cold. I never noticed because I come from a tropical country. It was a bad fall, but I got lucky. I'll get better.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling even more idiotic and terrible. “I am so sorry.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It's okay that you're hot.”

“Don't apologise. It makes me feel worse.”

But he turns his face towards her and gives her a small, lopsided smile that does things to her insides, and it registers in her head what he's said.

“Bodhi from my floor is cleaning your blood out of your carpet,” she blurts, because she can't think of what else to say.

“Okay,” he says, and his smile widens. He is a sight to behold, she thinks. The white bandage in his dark hair, the smile on his pale lips, the flirty joke despite the gravity of the situation.

“I'm not sure you don't have cognitive impairment.”

He shrugs again. “Who cares?”

[suguruslut]

Giving Birth/Them as a Father

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴

<<< 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙏𝙖𝙩𝙨𝙪🐉| 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙖🐅| 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙖🐕 >>>

Gwen's Note: babies are only fun in fiction, lol

🐉𝒯𝒶𝓉𝓈𝓊🍳

–he is so prepared! Even more prepared than you, honestly. He’s read every article and book there is with updated info about which positions to give birth in, how to naturally alleviate pain, the sterile process everyone must take to ensure no infections or illnesses are spread. He will be watching everyone like a hawk

–you go a week past your due date, which worries Tatsu, so he does some light exercises with you hoping to induce labor. Wouldn’t you know it, half an hour later your water breaks. Cue Tatsu grabbing the bag he packed six months ago and whipping out a wheelchair you didn’t know you guys had

–Tatsu is great during labor, though he’s secretly very nervous something will go horribly wrong. What will he do if he loses you? What if he loses you BOTH? He was a yakuza, though, so he manages to keep his cool on the outside, saying encouraging things to you the entire time, and lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you can

– “You can do this, {Y/N}! Focus! Push that little sucker out!”

– With your husband’s encouragement, your labor (mercifully) goes quickly, and within four pushes they’re out! Tatsu comforts you with kind words, shaking with anxiety and adrenaline as he sees your baby for the first time

– Tatsu stands over each medical personnel to make damn sure they’re being sanitary as they pass the baby around, finally handing them back to you. Tatsu allows himself to smile, seeing your happy tears and the cries of your child–he would have never in a million years expected this sweet scene to involve someone like him

– “Aww, Tatsu, you’re crying!”

– “No I ain’t! It’s just the lighting!”

–can you say GIRL DAD?!!! Tatsu sobbed when they said your baby was a girl. He’s so excited to do dress up and have tea parties and tutus and worry about her every second of every day…very excited. (Secretly, this is because he thinks a girl would be more like you than him. He’d rather have a mini you than a mini him)

–You wanted a pretty name, but not something overused; Tatsu said no daughter of yours was going to have a typical “scrub name,” so you go with the cute but not common Shiori. Tatsu nicknamed her his little dragon immediately

–When you go home with your little girl, Tatsu is fretting about EVERYTHING. The man has prepared for things you never would have thought of, but he knows that babies always surprise their parents, and that makes him nervous. He never takes his eyes off Shiori, overreading into every little thing she does as a possible sickness or issue

–Tatsu will absolutely wait on you hand and foot. He does that anyway, but now it’s x50. He will prepare bottles, get diapers ready, clean puke stains, and in between that, will give you massages, make your favorite foods, bring you snacks, tea. He will literally wash your hair for you if you ask.

–you need a break from breastfeeding and sitting in bed all day? Tatsu is already ready with a spa day coupon for you. He can’t imagine how hard it is on your body as well as your mind, being a new mother, and whatever you need to do to feel your best, Tatsu is your number one supporter

– “If my beautiful wife needs a break from nurturing our daughter, you bet yer ass she’s gonna get it! Here’s a 30% coupon. I got it from a tomato growing contest.”

–Endless picture taking! When he isn’t worrying or rushing around trying to make things easier for you and your little dragon, he is filling his camera roll with adorable pictures of Shiori. And his beautiful wife, ofc. The last 500 pics on his phone are of you, Shiori, and quite a bit of selfies with him and his little girl. And it’s only been one week

–Tatsu’s heart is overflowing with love upon becoming a dad, filling your head with deep appreciation and revere for allowing him to pass this milestone with you. He quickly becomes the most popular dad on the block, admired and respected by everyone for his loud, but gentle parenting

🐅𝒯𝑜𝓇𝒶𝒿𝒾𝓇𝑜🍰

–Tora is constantly checking his phone, always on edge that you might suddenly go into labor. One day when he’s at the crepe truck at three in the afternoon, he’s in the middle of whipping up a crepe when you text him SOS,BB OTW! He has never dropped a crepe so fast

–He meets you at the hospital, breathless and yelling for someone to tell him where his wife is. Tora sprints into your room all dramatic like, rushing to your side with immediate worries and demands to know what’s going on

–Tora hates seeing you in pain, which makes it hard for him to watch you in labor. He knows you’re doing it to bring life into the world, life he helped create, but it hurts him to see you yelling and crying in agony. He’ll do his best to encourage you, trying to hype you up for that last push

–He is more focused on you when the baby actually comes out, constantly asking if you’re okay, if you need anything, etc. Then when they push the baby at you guys he’s like “??? Oh, yeah!”

–Much like Tatsu, I think Tora is such a girl dad!!! She would be his angel from the first moment you place her in his big hands. He is her protector, her tiger. Speaking of tigers…

– “How bout we name her Tigress? You know, from Kung Fu Panda? What a boss!”

– “Tora…no.”

– Neither of you want a traditional Japanese name; you settle on Sakima, which means ‘warrior queen.’ Enough flare for Tora, enough uniqueness for you. Her nickname quickly becomes Kima the Killer, courtesy of her father

–Tora does not like random people handling his daughter, even if they are “medical personnel.” He glares at everyone, always asks questions on what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. You have to cool him off sometimes, reassuring your husband that they’re just making sure Sakima is healthy

–Back at home, Tora loosens up a bit. He smiles big smiles, slows himself down and really admires his little girl, staring at and watching her for hours on end. It’s a softer side to Tora no one else usually sees. Feels so relaxed around his little killer who loves tickles and kisses

–Absolutely sends a million pics of him and his daughter to Tatsu, bragging like you wouldn’t believe. Not that you can blame him, Kima is very cute, and already has her father’s intense gold eyes that demand respect

–Tora will take on any challenge brought to him, which includes dirty diapers, spit, puke, snot, spilled milk, anything, and he won’t complain at all, not even silently. Nothing compares to blood and guts anyway

– “It’s an honor to serve my family and get my hands dirty!”

–He is always the one to get up in the middle of the night if Kima cries. In his eyes, you’re already doing so much, have already DONE so much, giving birth and all, Tora won’t let you lift a finger. His wonderful wife is gonna get her beauty rest and not have to worry about a thing

-Tora loves being a bad ass dad and strolling around the neighborhood with his adorable little baby girl and his hot wife, whom he vows to protect with his life. Insert DILF era!

🐕ℳ𝒶𝓈𝒶🥡

–you go into labor in the middle of the night, and it takes you a good five minutes to wake Masa up. Dude can sleep forever, so you pinch his side hard to get him alert. When you do, he still needs to be told several times that you’re going into labor before his brain catches up

– “You’re…huh? Labor? You mean, like…the thing that…you know…really?!”

– Calls Tatsu on the way to the hospital in a panic, having forgotten everything he should do to ease your anxiety. Tatsu talks him through it, but it’s pretty clear that Masa is panicking just as much as you are. Luckily the nurses at the hospital know what they’re doing

–Masa tries to be brave and goes into the delivery room with you. He really doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but the boss said he’s gotta do it, so here he is. Poor boy tries hard to be supportive, but his ramblings only make you more anxious because you can tell HE’S nervous

–as soon as he sees the baby’s head popping out…yeah, he passes out cold, lol. Gory yakuza movies are great, but this kind of explicit imagery is too much for his manly brain to handle. Sorry, but you’re on your own now, kid, lmao

–Tatsu wakes Masa up and waits for everything to be cleaned up before bringing him back in. Masa is scared shitless, eyes wide, hands shaking as he approaches you and your newborn; but the second he sees your tearful smile at him, all his panic drifts away

– “Woah! We really made this thing? Dope! …Huh…it’s kinda ugly, isn’t it? Why does it look like that?”

– It takes some convincing, because Masa is afraid he’ll drop your baby, but you do get him to hold it, and a genuinely excited smile finally comes through. He’s in disbelief about being a dad until he holds the baby in his own arms, amazed at the lively little thing squirming about

–I can see Masa as being a boy dad. He’d be so stoked to have a mini man, would probably try to name it something like Kazuma, Yami, Link, anything from a video game he loves. You would compromise and go with Shinji, a nice name that can also be connected to several games and anime

–Masa feels clueless when you take your son home, anxious about everything you have to do right away…he spends most of his time just staring at the little guy, though, overwhelmed with awe that you two created this. It blows his mind, and he has no idea where to begin

– “So like, what do babies eat? I’ve got like, ten yen…maybe we can get them something small from the convenience store?”

– “Babies drink breast milk for the first year of their lives, Masa.”

– *Masa malfunction*

–For probably the first time in his life, Masa becomes focused, worried that he’s doing everything wrong when really, he’s doing a great job trying to keep up with your newborn. He’s doing his best, and that’s all you could ever ask for; the bags under his eyes prove it

–brags endlessly about his baby boy! He’s YouTube and Instagram famous already. Masa wants to set Shinji up for success and fame

–Although he might whine on the inside, he’ll clean diapers, wipe boogers, clean up puke, get up during the middle of the night, whatever! Masa wants to be as good a father as Tatsu says he can be. Whatever you ask him to do, he’ll do it, even if he feels like he isn’t doing things good enough

– Babies fascinate Masa, lol, and his son is especially interesting to him. He gets so excited whenever Shinji makes a new noise, or a new movement, or just does humanly things in general. He becomes convinced that Shinji’s quick fingers mean he’ll be a great video game player one day

– Speaking of video games, Masa sets his baby son down on the couch with him as he plays, explaining the lore in details a newborn could never understand. He claims Shinji is his good luck charm, and frequently casts a look down at his son to ensure he’s okay. You think it’s cute when you find Masa and Shinji asleep on the couch after completing a hard level together, your two silly boys the best of friends already

–Like Tora, Masa loves showing his baby off, feeling like a real adult when he whips out pictures of Shinji at his first photoshoot; really, it isn’t pride he’s feeling, but just pure, unfiltered happiness he wants to spread to everyone he meets. Masa might worry a lot about his parenting skills, but with you there to help, he thinks he might turn out to be a great dad

🐉 🐅 🐕

Househusband Headcanon Masterlist

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from today's writing, chapter 56 of A Stain that Won't Dissolve:

‘You know,’ Sam said. ‘I had the wildest memory tonight, of when we were all really little. We must’ve been like four, or five, in that little creche that Pam’s sister used to run, I think? I was super sick that day, I can’t remember why, and my mom was away for some reason, and I remember your mom coming to pick you up. She realised I was sick, and just gave me the biggest hug. Like, just this huge hug. ‘It must’ve been winter, because she was wearing this big fluffy sweater, and a giant scarf with an M embroidered into it, after her name. Remember how she always did that? But like, my mom gives fierce hugs, but your mom just held me so tightly and told me everything was going to be okay. I asked her if I was coming home with you, until my mom picked me up, and she said no, and I used to think it was because she didn’t want to get sick. But as I got older, I realised...it wasn’t that. I realised there was a reason no one went to your place.’ Alex’s hands were still in the sink, he’d forgotten about them. He stared at Sam, speechless, because he didn’t remember any of this at all. But Sam described it all so well. Alex’s mom loved embroidering the first initial of people’s names into the clothing she made for them, whether they were babies or adults. It might not have been winter, because she often wore full-coverage clothing to hide the bruising. She gave the best hugs in the whole fucking world. ‘I really like the name you chose for your character,’ Sam said, looking down at the floor. ‘That’s all. What a weird way to say that, huh? But I do.’ Alex nodded after a few seconds went by, forcing himself to move. ‘Uh, thanks.’ ‘So you’re playing a princess,’ Sam said, finally looking at him, mercifully saying nothing about Alex’s wet eyes, or how shocked he must have looked. Alex braced himself anyway, unsure of where this was going. He just shrugged. ‘You want to hang out some time?’ Sam said.

[wazzappp]

I took a shot at writing!

Thank you to @rokhal for letting me mess with your dream sharing idea its absolutely DELIGHTFUL

And thank you to @moosemonstrous for beta reading for me. Its so fucking cool to have an author I admire so much giving me advice <33!!

Basically, RE! Robbie having Jill’s nightmare from RE3 remake, and all the consequences that follow

A loud crash of thunder woke Robbie up. He blinked a few times and unstuck his face from the desk he had apparently fallen asleep on. Again. His mouth felt unbearably dry in the way that tended to happen after a good hard sleep. At least he had a glass of water ready to help him wake up.

He sipped it and let the sound of rain pattering surround him. It was usually so quiet this far out in the woods. It almost made it hard to sleep. There was no ambient sound of the freeway, no trains passing or people talking when they walked by. No neighbors banging on the door drunk at 3 AM pleading for their exes to take them back. Pros and cons to everything, he supposed.

He grabbed the book on local wildlife he had been attempting to read before drifting off and headed to his room. His back never really hurt after falling asleep in odd positions anymore. That kinda made sense. If he could come back from a fractured arm after a few minutes, a pulled muscle or two shouldn't be anything to write home about. 

He still didn't really know how to feel about… all that. At least the only thing he seemed to do was heal fast. The black mold leaking out of his eyes and writhing around the day he found out about his infection seemed to be a one time deal, thank god. Gabe hadn't been so lucky, but he seemed to be coping with his new plant powers fairly well. Were they plants? Technically speaking, the flowers were made of mold and he was pretty sure mold was something different. Would it be suspicious for him to ask the BSAA lady for a book on fungi? He still had so many questions.

They hadn’t really talked much about each other's powers - god. Powers. What the fuck was his life - after the initial ‘bike-meets-garden’ incident. He had questions for sure, he just wasn’t sure how to go about asking them. Really, what was he supposed to say? ‘Hey Gabe, I’m trying really hard to be chill about your mold minion deal, but I gotta ask; Why do you glow?’ Would Gabe even know the answer? Robbie really just hoped it didn't hurt. 

Maybe the BSAA were keeping him and Gabe to see if they could find a better cure. That seemed almost too good to be true. He shuddered at the memory of their last attempt. on the Baker Estate. Bodies shriveling up and breaking into pieces like statues made of crusted over baking soda, screaming all the while before falling mercifully silent.

He reached the end of a hallway that felt way too long and opened the door as quietly as he could so he wouldn't wake Gabe. The fact that their rooms were on two different floors really didn't make a difference. He set his stuff down on the side table next to his bed before flopping down onto the mattress. God he was tired. The day felt grimy on his skin, even though he couldn't remember what he had been doing when the sun was out, and a shower seemed wasteful at this point. A little face wash and then he could go back to bed and wake up without horribly crusty eyes in the morning.

He forced himself up and walked over to the bathroom. His private bathroom, jeez, what a luxury. Turned on the water and waited for it to warm up. He felt a tickle in the back of his throat.

Robbie coughed a couple of times and felt a bit of phlegm come up. Oh, come on. Being sick with one weird disease wasn't enough? He spat it out into the sink so it could drain along with the rushing water. 

It was black.

He stared as it swirled around and around in the sink. He coughed again. More black. More and more and more until it was dribbling in an almost constant stream down his chin. Okay. Alright. This had happened once before when he first started his medicine. It had sucked but he was ultimately fine. This was probably fine too.

He met his own eyes in the mirror and tried to take a steadying breath. The mold had started dripping out his nose. His left eye blackened and seemed to deflate. Shriveling and sinking into his skull as more mold spewed out of the rotting socket like a fountain. He wheezed and slapped his hand over it to try and stop everything inside him from leaking out. 

There was a sort of snapping in his right eye as blood vessels there started to burst. The same feeling as breaking the last few nerves holding a loose tooth in. In seconds it was entirely bloodshot. His iris lightened from it’s usual dark brown to a jaundiced yellow. The same eyes covering the creature in the boathouse that called itself Jack Baker.

He stumbled back from the mirror and felt something in his jaw break loose. He reached up to try and feel what was wrong but stopped when he caught more black spreading up his hands. His scars formed deep grooves as his flesh molded over and shrunk down to the bone. It was creeping steadily up his arms, shooting through his veins like little spiderwebs, turning his skin the dull gray of a long dead corpse. He grabbed at his arms, desperately trying to stop it from spreading, only to spill more black as his new claws dug deep into what should have been skin and muscle. It didn't even hurt. He didn't feel anything except the panic presently choking him.

The endless black spilled over and dribbled into little puddles on the floor. He shuffled further away from the mirror until his back was against the wall and watched the mold spread across the linoleum as it had spread across himself. It was spilling over the edges of the sink now. Growing on the mirror. On the cabinets. On the walls. Each part of the bathroom that he made a habit out of bleaching meticulously was covered in black speckles. Everywhere he had stepped, each place his fingers brushed. Everything he touched was rotting.

There was a gun on the counter.

Something that sounded like distress came out of his throat. It was hard to tell. It was garbled and choked and chittering. Its reverberations ran deep into his chest and rattled his teeth. The sound was utterly inhuman. He forced himself forwards and grabbed the gun. He didn’t remember how it got there. Has it always been there? He couldn't remember.

His sharp fingertips were digging into what remained of the countertop, and he was having trouble fitting his claw through the trigger guard. He eventually managed. This wouldn't kill him, he knew that. But maybe it would allow enough time for Gabe to run away and get a head start before he totally lost himself. Would it be worse for Gabe to find him with a hole in his head or as a rotting husk of himself, attacking everything in sight?

He chittered again. A strip of flesh fell off his cheek and landed in the sink with a wet plap. 

Robbie raised the gun up to the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Or eye, rather. It didn't matter. For some reason he could still see his reflection. Whatever was doing this wanted him to see it through to the very end. The teeth under his horrible red eye were starting to peek through his rapidly decaying cheek.

The bang of the gun sounded off alongside his garbled shrieking.

-

Shrieking that woke him up.

No chittering that shook his skull and disjointed jaw. Just plain screaming. He never thought he would be so happy to hear it. He huffed, trying to catch his breath. Checked his hands; no traces of black mold. Just tanned skin striped with scars and damp from a cold sweat.

He breathed a sigh of relief and let himself relax back into the twisted sheets he had apparently been thrashing around in. There was a loud thump from downstairs, like someone had fallen down, which was swiftly followed by smaller thumps. A sound he had grown to recognize as Gabe rushing up the steps. He sat up and mentally prepared to put his brother back to bed.

Gabe slammed the door to Robbies room open before he could even stand up. His eyes were red, just in the normal way. Not the nightmare red and yellow. Tears were streaking his face. He sobbed and ran at Robbie, tackling him in a hug.

“You aren't allowed to do that!” He cried into Robbies chest.

Robbie held him close and stroked his hair, “Sorry, Gabe. I didn’t mean to wake you. I can try and get some good headphones for you so it won't happen again.”

Gabe sniffled against his shirt. He adjusted himself so he could glare up at Robbie. It would be adorable if he weren't so clearly upset. 

“What? No, I don't care about that. I mean you can't do that!”

“I don't - I’m really sorry Gabe I don't know what you’re talking about.” Gabes glare got narrower. He raised his pointer finger to the side of his head and mimed ‘pow’.

Robbies spine went ridgid. What the fuck.

“I don't care how sick you get. I don't care if you heal fast. Don't. Do. That.” He felt his heart break a little. Gabe had buried his face back into Robbies shirt. That was nice. It made sure Robbie didn't have to try and hide whatever the hell his expression was.

Something repeated in the back of his head: It gave you my nightmares. That was what Gabe had said. It felt like an eternity ago but it had probably been just a little over a month. 

“I didn’t--” Jesus, motherfuck, what the hell was he supposed to do? Maybe if he just started talking, he could find the right thing to say. Was there even a right thing to say at all? No parenting manual he’d ever read had a guide for what to do if you started sharing dreams with the person you looked after. Especially horrific nightmares like the one he just had.

Breathe. Focus. Gabe is upset. You know what to do when Gabe is upset. 

Robbie pulled him closer, “It's okay. Everything is going to be okay.” He really couldn't guarantee that, but it had to be said for his own sake as much as it was Gabes. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. I didn’t want you to see that.” I didn’t want to see it either. “I don't think that's going to happen. I think it was like your dream. You remember what I said then, right? It’s just our brains coming up with what scares us most.”

“That's what scares you?”

“Yeah. If I–--” he swallowed, “if I'm not… myself, then I can't take care of you.”

“I get it. I didn’t like losing myself either.” God, he was so stupid. Stupid and selfish, of course Gabe knew what that was like. He had been stripped of his own self control, changed on a fundamental level and had powers Robbie was too scared to ask questions about. Here he was, running away from things, and his brother was stuck paying the price for it.

Robbie tried to talk past the lump in his throat. “I'm so sorry, Gabe.” He could feel tears leaking down his cheeks. He prayed to God they were normal. “I don’t - I don't know how any of this works and it freaks me out a little. You don't scare me, I meant that when I said it, but it’s hard for me to understand things I can’t see. I don’t see stuff in my head the way you do.” He took a moment to breathe and leaned back so he could get Gabe to look up at him. “Do you think you can explain how it works to me? I think you might know better than I do.”

Gabe scrubbed his eyes and sat up. “I have an idea, but I don't know for sure. I’m really not like Eveline, Robbie. She talked like she knew how everything worked and I just don’t. I could be really wrong.”

“That's okay. I don't expect you to know everything, just do your best.”

Gabe kept his eyes down, “So, the plants and my fr- flowers. My flowers. They connect and talk to each other. You can do that with people too, Robbie. Evie used it to tell everyone what to do, but I think you can just make it smaller. Like connecting just two people.” Gabe looked up at him, “I think sometimes, in our sleep, you and me talk like my flowers. Talking without talking. Showing each other things.”

Okay. That was a lot. It made sense, it did. But accepting that would mean that his brain had been more affected than he thought, that his body was probably more affected than he thought. If they could do this, what else was possible? Knock it off. Solve the problem in front of you.

“Alright. Do you know how to stop it?”

Gabe shook his head. “No. I thought my flowers made you sick and that was why we dreamed together, but it's not that. It takes a lot to break that connection.” Robbie remembered Gabe stomping on one of his flowers until it was nothing but a smudge on the forest floor. Probably not a good method to repeat. 

He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, “Maybe we could just try to have good dreams instead?”

Robbie let out a short laugh, “That would be nice. I’d like to have good dreams with you. What would we dream about?”

“Hmmmmm… maybe ice skating? I can actually try it now! Ninja Wolf went ice skating before and he looked so awesome. He hopped on his swords and skated around on them, Robbie!”

Robbie would almost assuredly fall on his ass right away, but he would gladly take a dream about repeatedly slipping on ice over what their nightmares had been in the past. “That sounds nice. Do you want me to put you to bed downstairs and see if you can dream that?”

“No!” Gabe hugged Robbie tight again.

“Okay, that's okay, hey,” he started petting Gabes head again, “do you want to just stay with me tonight?” Gabe nodded and sniffled. “Alright, here let's just get a little more comfortable.”

He leaned back until he was resting just a little upright on his pillow so Gabe could lie down. His arms stayed wrapped tight around Robbies torso, like he was scared he’d disappear. Robbie shimmied the blankets up and over to cover them both.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

Gabe hugged him tighter and looked up at him very seriously, “I don't care if our dreams are close. I want to be actually close.”

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. “I want that too.”

They slept dreamlessly. 

[mintywolf]

Imogen awoke to something burning her toes. She flinched away from the heat with a whimper — must have dozed off too close to the stove, damn fool thing to do — but the fire was in her fingers, too, and her cheeks and ears and the tip of her nose. And someone had a hold of her feet, preventing her from moving away.

“There, there,” cooed a voice close by, in a melodic half-whisper.

“Laudna?” she mumbled groggily, fumbling for consciousness.

But wasn’t Laudna’s voice. And they weren’t Laudna’s cool, soft hands gripping her ankles; they were rough-fingered, with nails like claws.

She opened her eyes, through eyelids still swollen and raw from the rasp of stinging snow, to candlelight. She was lying on a narrow bed amid a row of them in an unfamiliar room. A wood stove stood in one corner, giving off the first real warmth she could remember in days. The dried blossoms of sweet woodruff and lavender strewn across the stone floor gave off a sweetly herbal fragrance that almost masked the mingled odor of medicine, soap, and sickness. An infirmary?

Raising her head, she looked around for Laudna but the room’s only other occupant was an eisfuura woman whose striped head and grey-brown feathers gave her the appearance of a rock bunting. She was dressed in the simple black habit of a cleric, and she was steadying Imogen’s bare feet with one taloned hand and weaving a healing spell over her toes with the other.

“Where’s . . . where’s Laudna?”

But she could not hear her mind. The only other thoughts in the room were the cleric’s, bent on her in concern that she should have been grateful for, but at the moment her own thoughts were whirring and bashing up against the inside of her head like a bee against a closed window.

“You are awake!” the cleric warbled softly, “You were near to frozen when you were brought to us. Praise unto the Matron for delivering you back into our hands.” She ducked her striped head in a quick gesture of reverence. “Please be still while I heal you. Do not be afraid, you are safe here. I am Sister Samar.”

The touch of her hands was surprisingly gentle, despite the length of her claws, and as she worked the stinging redness mercifully ebbed from Imogen’s frostbitten toes.

“My . . . my friend.” Imogen scanned each of the beds again, one by one, as though she had only overlooked her somehow. Laudna took up so little space in a bed. With her dark hair hidden under a blanket she might have looked like little more than a lumpy mattress. But all of the empty beds were neatly made, with smooth sheets tucked primly up to the pillows and a woolen blanket folded at the foot of each. Imogen looked back to the cleric. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

Her heart sank as Sister Samar put her head sadly to the side. Her curved claws came up to fidget with a talisman around her neck, the simple emblem of a raven’s skull hanging from a silver chain.

“I’m very sorry,” she said softly, and the sorrow in her thoughts matched the sorrow in her inkdrop eyes, “Your friend was taken by the Matron.”

Imogen pushed herself up with her hands until she was sitting up. “What — what matron? Where is she?” Her throat squeezed around her voice, so that her words came out a sob. “Where’s Laudna?”

(Read More on AO3)

[darl-ingfics]

Sicktember Day 11: ALT - "I didn't mean to wake you up."

Fandom: Seventeen

Sickie: Vernon (stomach flu), Joshua + Dino (regular flu)

Caregiver(s): Joshua, Dino

Word Count: 1,953

As he trudged through the door of the dorm behind the rest of the hip hop unit, Vernon believed he had never truly felt this tired before. The week had been excruciatingly long. Seventeen had been asked to attend a collaboration stage with a handful of other artists on Saturday, which had been derailed when over half of them had gone down with the flu. Or, to put it more specifically, two separate flu viruses that had assaulted them from all sides. No one had thought much of it when Seungcheol had made the decision to send Seokmin home on Monday with a cough and low-grade fever, and still didn’t after lunch when Mingyu barely made it to the trash can before throwing up. It was overwork, exhaustion. Or at least it was until Seungcheol had to run out of the subsequent meeting with their management team to avoid throwing up in the room with them. It was at that point that everyone (members, managers, EVERYONE) realized something bigger was going on, and subsequent tests revealed that, while all three members had the flu, the virus infecting the two rappers was different from the vocalist. 

But that hardly mattered when everyone knew they were in for a rough week.

The group had been picked off one by one until only five healthy members remained on Friday: Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, and Vernon. Their managers considered cancelling their appearance on Saturday, but Jeonghan (acting leader) and Hoshi (actively leading also) had convinced them to just send BSS, since both Soonyoung nor Seungkwan had been spared thus far, and Seokmin, as one of the first to get sick, was starting to turn the corner and argued he’d be healthy enough to get back out there if they pumped him with meds the morning of. They had, of course, been taking measures to keep the last healthy members as germ-free as possible. So their managers reluctantly agreed. But their hopes were ended with Soonyoung throwing up at 2am Saturday morning, and Seungkwan spiking a fever at 7. And because it was too late to back out now, the group chosen to represent Seventeen had been the hip hop team, since neither Seungcheol nor Mingyu had thrown up for 48 hours, and Wonwoo and Vernon hadn’t been sick at all.

The performance had been perfect. There was nothing better than sharing the stage with their colleagues, combining talents and seeing their fans eat up the interactions. 

What was less perfect was the dull throbbing assaulting Vernon’s brain. As each song wore on, it became harder and harder to ignore the pounding in his skull, the pulsing at his temples. He started to feel claustrophobic in his own skin; the sweat pouring down his face, sticking his hair to the nape of his neck, adhering his clothes to his body, was agonizing. 

Even more agonizing was that Vernon immediately knew he was getting sick. There was nothing he could do about it now. Except pray he hadn’t caught the stomach bug. 

Thankfully, the rest of his bandmates didn’t seem to pay much mind to his listless silence on their journey home. Wonwoo was usually quiet after performances, recharging his social battery, and the other two clearly weren’t back to a hundred percent yet, so everyone was mercifully quiet and lost in their own thoughts on the drive back. Vernon certainly appreciated their distraction to hide his own condition, but at the same time, he had nothing to distract him from the growing pressure in his abdomen. But he could, and definitely was, owing that to the placebo effect. 

When they arrived home, they were met by a welcoming party in the living room. 

“Hey superstars!” Jeonghan smiled brightly from his spot on the chair with Chan wrapped around his abdomen, (Vernon didn’t have the energy to figure out how Chan was doing that, but knew that an unwell Chan wanted nothing more than to curl into one chosen hyung’s body and not let go, so he figured physics didn’t apply to him.) Jun waved from one of the couches, but the effect was dimmed since it was only one hand waving from around Minghao’s head, as the younger dancer was slumped against Jun’s left shoulder while Jihoon’s head was pillowed on his right thigh.

At Jeonghan’s words, Soonyoung’s head appeared from the back of the other couch, hair smushed up and face red with the pattern of the throw pillow. “How’d it go?”

Seungcheol chuckled adoringly, rubbing Soonyoung’s cheek. “Fantastic.” The dancer captain nodded contentedly before falling back against the couch. Vernon smiled in spite of the horrible feeling in his gut, moving quickly away from his members to escape into the void of sleep. If he could just fall asleep right now, maybe he could avoid the inevitable. 

As Vernon hurried to his room, his feet automatically stopped outside a closed door. There was only one thing he wanted as much as, if not more than, sleep. Vernon considered the handle carefully, then tapped twice. There was no response. So he pushed it open. The hall light fell on the bed, on a deeply asleep Joshua’s arms already wrapped around Seungkwan. Vernon’s heart sank. Both of them looked so peaceful, yet so obviously ill, so in need of this sleep. Vernon wasn’t selfish enough to take the few steps to awaken his chosen comfort person. He closed the door with the gentlest click possible, and scurried to his own room, rubbing tears out of his eyes with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. 

***

Vernon had been able to sleep for all of an hour before his body decided enough was enough. He awoke to the worst pressure he’d ever felt in his abdomen, a tangled, cramping pain as if there were a monster writhing beneath his skin. His head was pounding worse than before. His skin was clammy and sweaty and too tight. He was going to throw up. And soon. 

There were no memories between the moment he woke up and the moment he was in the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach. In fact, Vernon would very much like to not be present in this moment at all. The churning in his stomach, the horrifying, acidic feeling of bile in his throat, the loss of control, the desire to instantly clean everything… Vernon would rather suffer anything else than vomiting. 

He had no idea how long he’d been in the bathroom, how many times he’d lurched over the toilet, when a hand, ever-so-gentle, was placed on his back, right between his shoulder blades. And, try as he did, Vernon couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing, an automatic, uncontrollable response of ‘get the fuck off me.’ A sign that his body knew exactly what it wanted and would reject anything else. 

And his attempted comforter knew it too. The hand withdrew, only to be replaced by the softest of grips on both of his shoulders as Chan’s voice whispered in his ear, soft as honey: “It’s okay. I’m getting Shua.”

As Chan’s soft footsteps retreated, Vernon hung his head in defeat and felt tears threatening. This was the very last thing he wanted, to be a burden to others. Now he’d likely insulted and hurt Chan by rejecting his help, and Chan was going to wake Joshua, who was also sick and needed his sleep, and the roiling of his stomach had yet to stop, and both Joshua and Chan would probably stay up to take care of him, which was the worst possible outcome in all of this, not to mention how horrific his entire body was feeling at the moment, and…

Vernon’s brain stopped completely when gentle hands wound around his abdomen, and he was enveloped in a cloud-soft hug from behind. The contact, the only thing his body wanted, opened the floodgates that had threatened for the past hour, and he let out an unrestrained sob.

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Joshua asked, his grip tightening ever so slightly to calm the sobbing without upsetting the rapper’s fragile stomach. 

“I don’t feel good,” Vernon cried. 

Joshua clicked his tongue. “Oh, Sollie. It’s gonna be okay, baby.” Vernon sobbed again, falling back into Joshua’s arms. “Have you thrown up?” Vernon nodded. Another sympathetic tongue click. “I know you hate that.” One hand left Vernon’s stomach and pushed his hair back from his forehead. The other stayed firmly in place over his abdomen, the warmth already soothing the pain there. Vernon closed his eyes as he nodded again. “Think it’s gonna happen again?” Instead of nodding, Vernon’s face screwed shut with another round of tears, prompting Joshua’s finger to smooth over his cheeks. “Oh, sweetie, I know. I know. It’s gonna be ok-ay…” The elder broke off coughing, leaning away and retracting his hand to bury his face in his sleeve. Vernon whined against his will as Joshua’s fingers left his face, and his eyes swam with new tears, this time with guilt at his selfishness. It was only a moment before the fingers were back in his hair. “Sollie, it’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry…”

“Hey, hey, none of that.” 

“You shouldn’t be here…”

“Honey, please…”

“Hyung, you’re so sick too, I can’t…”

Joshua’s hands cupped Vernon’s face, gentle but firm. “Chwe Hansol, listen to me. It is one in the morning. You are in a heap on the bathroom floor, throwing up, which is something you fear with a burning passion. You need to focus on you. I will be fine. I am going to sit here with you until you are ready to go back to bed, and then I’m gonna stay with you until you fall asleep. Got it?” 

Vernon’s answer was to collapse forward against Joshua, face buried in the older man’s shoulder and arms scrambling for purchase around his waist. Joshua couldn’t wrap his arms back around him fast enough. 

They had been sitting like that, Joshua rocking them back and forth, for an indefinite amount of time when Vernon heard a whispered, “How can I help?” He squirmed enough to see that it was Chan, leaning in the doorway, looking incredibly young. Vernon felt like crying again for rejecting the younger’s help earlier. 

“Can you grab us a water, please?” Joshua replied quietly. “Maybe a damp towel too?”

“Of course.” The younger man sprang forward, pulling a clean wash cloth from the cabinet below the sink and dowsing it with water. He handed the cloth to Joshua before disappearing into the hallway. 

“Okay, love, I need to sit back just a bit, there we go.” The older man pressed the damp cloth to Vernon’s forehead, smoothing the damp material across his overheated skin, cradling both cheeks and the nape of his neck. Vernon’s eyes slipped closed. 

“Thank you, Shua,” he slurred. 

“Anytime, love.” 

Vernon didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep sitting up until he was jostled awake, hands tugging at both of his arms to try and stand him up. He pushed himself to his feet, only stumbling a little bit as his knees shook from sitting on them too long. His supports (Joshua and Chan, of course), wrapped his arms around their shoulders as they led him back to his bed. Vernon crawled under the waiting covers, his entire body sighing with relief at the soft surface of his bed after the cold discomfort of the bathroom floor. He settled further when he felt Chan slide into the bed against his back, Joshua climbing in on his other side. 

This was all he’d wanted. Warm and content, safe with his best friends in the entire world, Vernon let sleep pull him under once more.