#I was mercifully sick that day

[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.

[strangecreaturewrites]

⟢ i won't leave you, pt 2 ⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖

mickey x f!reader ⊹ fresh off the printer, mickey finds you in bed. an important conversation follows. warnings: some kissing in this part, but nothing too crazy. ✧ part one ‧ ₊ ˚ . ( i don't have any further intentions for this lil fic, but please let me know your thoughts or if you would like to see more <3 )

Mercifully, you had a dreamless sleep. The next thing that broke through into your conscious mind was the feeling of a cool sheet being pulled over you, a gentle hand on your bare shoulder, a lingering kiss pressed to your forehead.

Your eyes snapped open with a gasp. The lights in the room were dim, and you guessed it must have been evening by now. It can be hard to tell in these windowless rooms.

It took a moment for your vision to focus, but when it did, the beauty of Mickey’s widened, clear, perfect blue eyes took your breath away.

He’s here.

“Oh! Sorry,” Mickey whispered, wincing a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Let me just get undressed, an’ I’ll join you.”

If you had to be honest, the last thing you wanted was to stay in bed. Your body ached from sleeping too long, your empty stomach was cramping so hard you felt sick, and your head felt like it was full of sand after crying the way you did. Instead of saying any of that though, you sat up and silently watched Mickey take off his standard issue shirt and pants. You swallowed and swallowed against the lump in your throat so that you could talk to him without sounding too emotional, too upset.

He filled the silence with chatter, seemingly oblivious to anything that might be wrong with you.

“-said I nearly fell to the floor when I came out this time, how funny is that? Bet I looked pretty goofy there for a minute, floppin’ out of the printer like that.”

He balled up his clothes and tossed them into the corner of the room. You admired his body the way you always did, thought about how it wasn’t fair that he could look this good in the generic white boxers inventory handed out, and you worked to not let the raw, tender feeling in your chest get the best of you. How lucky you were, you reminded yourself.

His new body always moved a little sluggishly, so when he swung his arm back, he clipped his hand on the edge of the table, hard. He yanked it to his chest with a pained hiss, and on a different day, you might have teased him for his clumsiness or reminded him to be careful. This time, you just winced, tears stinging your eyes. Why did you have to be so damn sensitive right now?

With an exaggerated, silent ‘ouch!’ Mickey shook out the pain in his hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed near you. “Don’t worry, pain receptors are working just fine. Anyway… how was your day? Y’ looked like you were sleeping hard, so you must’ve had a rough shift. I hate that I missed- oh, hey- mmh!”

You pulled him into a deep kiss, cradling his face. The tender feeling coiling around your heart surged, and you dragged him further into you, your fingertips pressed into his jaw, his neck. The angle was awkward, your front pressed into his side, your body wrapped around his from behind. But he moaned anyway. Smiled against your lips anyway. Shifted his body to curve toward yours so he could wrap his arms around you, as if nothing burdened him.

Your lips moved roughly against his, opening up to taste his tongue, and he met you with the same fervor, though the energy felt different coming from him. You felt out of control, wound up, hungry; he was passionate, but he was also blissful, relaxed. There wasn’t a bit of tension in his body — he would take your onslaught happily, without question.

Didn’t he remember what happened? Didn’t he remember you were there?

Mickey’s arms tightened around you, pulling you in until your knee slid over his legs. You straddled him, not a whisper of space between you, and your body felt like it was singing. Your mind floated away from you as your hands roved over his shoulders, his back, his arms. He was here and well and whole and alive. He died in your arms, and when he woke back up, the first thing he did was find you. Was there any fact more monumental than that? Could anything else ever matter more than that?

Head swimming, you pulled back to take a shaky breath. Before you could dive in again, Mickey tilted his head away. His eyes, soft with exhaustion, looked over your face thoughtfully.

Then, so gently that you knew exactly what he meant, he asked, “Are you okay?”

Your breath hitched. You were stricken once again by every complicated thought and emotion you couldn’t put words to this morning.

Are you okay? Would he feel guilty if you said no? But how could you be anything other than okay now? All of your tears and heartache — hadn’t it all been for nothing, when you knew you would be with him like this?

“Yeah,” you replied, already leaning in to claim his mouth once more.

He let you kiss him, let you tip him back onto the mattress, but before you could lose yourself in him, he drew back again.

“You don’t… seem… okay,” he murmured, his voice quiet, hesitant.

Maybe he hadn’t been so oblivious, like you had assumed before.

You pressed your forehead to his, closing your eyes. “I’m fine. I just need to be with you.”

“Okay, well… I wanna say something first, before we do anything else.” Then he paused for a moment, brushing his nose with yours. Your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, roaring over Mickey’s soft voice. “You know I can’t resist you, but some things are more important, y'know? What you did for me, in the tank… I never would’ve asked you to do that, not in a thousand years. It must’ve been hell. I know you’re strong, but… that’s the type of stuff that breaks people, and… I just wanted to say, you never have to do that again. You never have to watch me… y’know, die like that. Ever again.”

“If I’m there when it happens again, I’m not leaving you,” you said before your brain could catch up with the words. Your voice sounded more confident than you might have expected, and after a moment of reflection, you realized that you weren’t just saying it. You really meant it.

Mickey laughed, breathy, incredulous. “Why d’you put yourself through this stuff for me?”

You looked into his deep blue eyes, and you knew no one else could look upon you and make you feel this way. Something in you clicked into place, and you felt solid, stable for the first time since Mickey took his most recent last breath. You didn’t have the answers you were agonizing over before — all of the questions simply disappeared. It was ridiculous to ask them in the first place.

You ran your fingers through his hair. The way his body melted a bit under yours made you smile.

“Because I’m yours, and you’re mine. And I don’t think anyone should suffer like that alone. Especially not you. Not when I love you so much.”

“I love you too, you don’t even know how much,” he said, leaning up to kiss you. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What kind of person would I be if I said I loved you then left you like that?”

He scoffed, kissing you again. “A normal one.”

“Do you want me to be a normal person?”

“No.” Another kiss.

And another. And another.

And then, after much too long, you finally got to touch what was yours again.

[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.

[amateurvoltaire]

April 5th, 1794: Camille Desmoulins went to the Place de la Révolution to die.

There was no journal left to write, no crowd to stir, no chance to rewrite the last page. He had already said too much.

The Revolution had eaten through its own flesh, and Camille, once its poet, was now just another name on the list.

He left behind one final letter. Not quite a manifesto. Just a man, waiting to die, writing to his wife.

The Last Letter of Camille Desmoulins

Duodi germinal, 3 a.m. (April 1st)

Sleep has mercifully suspended my suffering. In sleep, one is free, unaware of captivity. Heaven has shown me mercy. Just moments ago, I saw you in a dream: I embraced you, Horace, and Daronnen (1), who was at home. But our little one had lost an eye to some fury that had attacked him, and the pain of this vision woke me. I found myself back in my dungeon. It was daylight. Though I could neither see you nor hear your replies, even as you and your mother spoke to me, I rose to write to you at least.

But opening the windows, the thought of my solitude, the dreadful bars and bolts that part me from you, vanquished all the strength of my soul. I melted into tears, or rather, I sobbed, crying out in this tomb: Lucile! Lucile! O my dearest Lucile, where are you?

(here, we notice the trace of a tear).

Yesterday evening I experienced a similar moment, and my heart broke anew when I saw your mother in the garden. A reflexive movement drove me to my knees against the bars; I clasped my hands together as if begging for her pity, she who must be weeping now in your embrace.

Yesterday I saw her sorrow

(here again a trace of tears)

In her handkerchief and veil, lowered as if she could not bear the sight. When you come again, let her sit a little nearer to you, so that I might see you both more clearly (2).

It is not dangerous, as far as I can tell. My spectacles are no good. I'd like you to buy me a pair like I had six months ago, not silver but steel, with two arms that attach to the head. Ask for number 15;: the merchant will know.

But above all, I implore you, Lolotte (3), by our eternal love, send me your portrait. Let your painter take pity on me, I who suffer only for having shown too much compassion for others. Let him grant you two sittings each day. In the horror of this prison, the day I receive your likeness would be a day of celebration, of pure rapture and intoxication.

In the meantime, send me a lock of your hair that I may press it to my heart. My dear Lucile! Here I am, back in the days of my first love, when I was interested in someone merely because they had come from your house. Yesterday, when the citizen who brought you my letter returned, I asked him "Well, have you seen her?", just as I used to ask Abbé Landreville. I found myself studying him as if something of you had lingered on his clothes, on his very person.

He is a charitable soul, for he delivered my letter intact (4). It seems I shall see him twice daily, morning and evening. This messenger of our sorrows has become as dear to me as a bearer of joys once would have been.

I discovered a crack in my cell; I pressed my ear to it, and heard a groaning. I hazarded some words, and a voice answered: a sick man in suffering. He asked my name. I gave it. “O my God!” he cried at hearing it, falling back upon his bed, and I distinctly recognised the voice of

Fabre d’Églantine (5).

(Yes, I am Fabre, he told me; but you, in here! Has the counter-revolution succeeded?)

Yet we dare not speak further, for fear that hatred might deprive us of even this small consolation. Should we be heard, we would surely be separated and confined more strictly. He has a room with a fireplace; mine would be a fair chamber... if a dungeon could ever be called fair.

But, dear friend! You cannot imagine what it means to be held in secret, not knowing why, never interrogated, never receiving a single journal. It is to live and be dead at once, existing only to feel oneself buried in a tomb. They say innocence is calm and courageous.

Ah!

My dearest Lucile! My beloved! Often, my innocence is weak like that of a husband, that of a father, that of a son (6)! If it were Pitt or Coburg who treated me thus…! But my colleagues! Robespierre, who signed the order of my imprisonment! The Republic, after all I have done for her! Is this the reward for so many virtues and sacrifices?

When I first arrived, I saw Hérault-Séchelles, Simon, Ferroux, Chaumette, and Antonelle (7). They suffer less than I do, at least they are not held incommunicado.

And I, who for five years devoted myself to hatred and peril in the name of the Republic. I who kept my poverty through the Revolution (8). I who have none to ask forgiveness but you, my dear Lolotte, and to whom you granted it, knowing my heart, despite its frailty, was not unworthy of you. I am cast into a dungeon, in secret, as though I were a conspirator! Even Socrates was allowed to see his friends and wife in prison when he drank the hemlock (9).

How much harder to be torn from you! Even the worst criminal would suffer too cruelly if separated from a Lucile by anything except death—which at least makes one feel such agony for but a moment. But a criminal could never have been your husband, and you loved me because I lived solely for the happiness of my fellow citizens... They call me...

Just now, the commissioners of the Revolutionary Tribunal have questioned me. One question only: “Have you conspired against the Republic?” What derision! Is it thus they insult the purest republicanism?

I see the fate that awaits me. Farewell, my Lucile, my dear Lolotte, my good little wolf, say farewell to my father. In me, you see the example of man’s barbarity and ingratitude. My final moments will not disgrace you. You see that my fears were justified, that my presentiments were always true.

I married a woman heavenly in her virtue. I was a good husband and a good son; I would have been a good father. I carry with me the esteem and the regrets of all true republicans, of all men, of virtue and of liberty.

I die at thirty-four, yet it is a marvel that I have survived these past five years and so many revolutionary precipices without falling into them. That I still exist and rest my head in calm upon the pillow of my writings; too numerous, perhaps, but all breathing the same philanthropy, the same desire to make my fellow citizens happy and free, writings that the tyrants’ axe shall never strike down.

I see now that power intoxicates almost all men, that they all speak as Dionysius of Syracuse (10):

“Tyranny is a fine epitaph.”

But take comfort, desolate widow! The epitaph of your poor Camille is nobler still: it is that of the Brutuses and the Catos, the slayers of tyrants (11). O my dearest Lucile! I was born to write verse, to defend the wretched, to make you happy, to compose, with your mother, with my father, and a few souls after our own hearts, a little Tahiti (12).

I had dreamed of a Republic that all mankind would adore. I could not believe men were so savage and so unjust. How could I think a few jests in my writings, aimed at colleagues who had provoked me, would erase the memory of all my services?

I do not deceive myself: I die a victim of those jests (13) and of my friendship with Danton (14).

I thank my assassins for letting me die with him and with Philippeaux (15). Since my colleagues were cowardly enough to abandon us, to lend an ear to slanders, of which I know nothing, save that they must be vile, I may say we die martyrs of our courage in denouncing traitors and of our love for the truth.

We can at least take with us this testimony: we perish as the last true republicans.

Forgive me, dear friend, my true life, which I lost the moment we were parted. I find myself dwelling on my legacy when I should focus only on helping you forget.

My Lucile! My good Loulou! My hen of Cachant (16)! I beseech you, do not linger on the branch, do not call to me with your cries; they would tear me to pieces in the depths of the grave. Go scratch the earth for your little one, live for my Horace (17); speak to him of me. Will you tell him, though he cannot yet understand, that I would have loved him dearly?

Despite my torment, I believe there is a God. My blood shall wash away my faults, the weaknesses of humanity, and God will reward what was good in me: my virtues, my love of liberty. One day, I shall see you again, O Lucile! O Annette!

Sensitive as I was, is death, which delivers me from witnessing so many crimes, so terrible a fate? Farewell, Loulou; farewell, my life, my soul, my goddess on earth! I leave you good friends, all men of virtue and feeling.

Farewell, Lucile, my Lucile! My dear Lucile! Farewell, Horace, Annette, Adèle (18)! Farewell, my father! I feel the shore of life receding before me.

I still see Lucile! I see her, my beloved! My Lucile! My bound hands embrace you still, and my severed head rests its dying eyes upon you.

Notes:

The original French text comes from the Correspondance inédite de Camille Desmoulins, published by M. Matton aîné (Ébrard, Paris, 1836). The translation is mine.

(1) Daronne was a nickname Camille had for his mother-in-law

(2) Camille was imprisoned in the Luxembourg. Families of prisoners would gather in the prison garden so their imprisoned relatives could see them from the jail cells above.

(3) Lolotte was Lucile’s nickname

(4) "Intact" in this case means uncensored, as prisoners' letters were routinely read and censored..

(5) Fabre d’Églantine (1750–1794) was a playwright, poet, and revolutionary politician, best known for creating the names of the months in the French Republican Calendar and for his close association with Danton.

(6) The phrasing is a bit awkward in English, but what Camille is trying to say is that human bonds make him vulnerable. He's not admitting guilt; he's defending his innocence, but he's acknowledging that emotional attachments can make one act from the heart rather than from strict principle or legality.

(7) Hérault-Séchelles was a member of the Committee of Public Safety and played a key role in drafting the constitution. Though not strictly aligned with the Dantonists, he was executed alongside them on April 5th.

Simion most likely refers to Jean-Baptiste Simon, less prominent, but known as a journalist and moderate revolutionary

Ferroux's identity is problematic. While there was a Ferroux imprisoned at that time, little is known about him as he wasn't a prominent figure. Some editions of the letter suggest this is a misrendering of either Philippeaux's name or refers to Jean-Pierre-André Amar.

Chaumette is Pierre-Gaspard Chaumette a leading figure of the Hébertist faction; radical dechristianiser; President of the Commune of Paris

Antonelle is François-Joseph-Marie Fayolle d’Antonelle A moderate republican, journalist, editor of Le Républicain, and supporter of the Girondins.

(8) Camille is very much stretching the truth here …

(9) Socrates was sentenced to death by the Athenian court in 399 BCE and died by drinking a cup of hemlock, a poisonous plant, as punishment for impiety and corrupting the youth.

(10) Dionysius I, tyrant of Syracuse in Sicily during the 4th century BCE, known for his authoritarian rule and for transforming Syracuse into a major military power. He became a symbol of despotism in classical literature and later political thought, often cited as an emblem of how power corrupts and tyranny can be glorified despite its brutality.

(11) Brutus and Cato the tyrannicides refer to Marcus Junius Brutus and Marcus Porcius Cato the Younger, two influential figures of the late Roman Republic who stood against dictatorship. Brutus helped kill Julius Caesar in 44 BCE to protect Rome's freedom, while Cato opposed Caesar through political means and chose suicide rather than live under his rule.

(12) The original is "composer, avec ta mère et mon père, et quelques personnes selon notre cœur, un Otaïti." Camille is referring to Tahiti (Otaïti being the 18th-century French spelling). After Bougainville's 1768 voyage, Tahiti captured the European imagination as an idyllic paradise, a place of natural abundance, innocence, and harmony, untouched by civilization's corruption.

(13) To see the jests he is referring to, I recommend you take a look at Camille's last publication, Le Vieux Cordelier. The first two issues aligned with Jacobin's sentiment, but from the third onward, he diverged from the party line and called for moderation. His tone, satirical, accusatory, and morally urgent, was perceived by many as politically subversive and ultimately led to his arrest.

(14) Georges Danton (1759–1794) was a leading figure of the French Revolution, known for his oratory, role in founding the Revolutionary Tribunal, and early leadership of the Jacobin movement. He and Camille Desmoulins were close friends and political allies… their relationship is far too involved and complicated to explain in a short note.

(15) Pierre Philippeaux (1754–1794) was a Convention member sent on mission to the West. His detailed report exposed the brutal repression in the Vendée, especially atrocities by Republican forces under Jean-Baptiste Carrier. Camille used this report in Le Vieux Cordelier to support his plea for clemency. Philippeaux's testimony provided concrete, documented evidence of revolutionary excesses, strengthening Camille's argument that the Revolution had strayed from its principles.

(16) Translation from the original notes of the 1835 edition of the letter: Cachant is a small village near Paris, on the road to Bourg-la-Reine, where Madame Duplessis owned a country house. During their visits to Mme Duplessis, Camille and Lucile had often observed a hen in Cachant that, grief-stricken at the loss of her rooster, perched day and night on the same branch. She would emit heart-rending cries, refuse all food, and seemed to long for death. This is the hen to which Camille alludes here.

(17) Horace was the young son of Camille Desmoulins and Lucile Duplessis, born in 1792 and just a toddler at the time of his parents’ execution in 1794.

(18) Translation from the original notes of the 1835 edition of the letter: Lucile's sister, who never married and lived with her mother, became her sole consolation after the deaths of Camille, Lucile, and M. Duplessis.

[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

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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.

[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

[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?”

[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.

[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)

[the-badger-mole]

I know I'm super late, but I saw you were doing those sick fic asks last week. Can you do one for Jude and Cardan where Jude is sick? Maybe this line:

“You’re sick, so you have to listen to me today.”

Oh, heck yeah! Absolutely.

The first year of Cardan's reign seemed to consist mostly of parties and revels. One bled into another until Jude couldn't even separate the dancers into individuals as they whirled around to the music. The candlelight didn't help. It only gave the entire hall a hazy dreamlike quality that made Jude feel as though she'd had too much wine, even though she hadn't had any. It was also unusually hot tonight.

"If they only knew at whose command they danced," Cardan murmured snidely. His voice hit Jude's ear strangely, as if he had spoken from a distance. The words themselves didn't even register.

"Yeah," she replied mostly out of an obligation to respond to being spoken to. Another night, perhaps, she would be more cautious about answering yes or no to questions she didn't understand. Cardan turned to her and studied her face, as if seeing her standing beside him for the first time.

"Are you alright?" he asked. That Jude heard. She blinked rapidly, coming back to herself.

"I'm fine," she said.

"You're flushed," Cardan's hand came up as if he were going to touch her face. "Too much wine?"

"Haven't had any." Jude sighed and leaned against the throne. She was rapidly losing the energy for this conversation. She longed to slip away and go to bed, but she didn't dare leave Cardan to his own devices. Not so soon after Mother Marrow had nearly tricked Cardan into marrying her daughter. All she needed to do was keep him out of trouble for another few hours. Then she would try to get a full seven hours of sleep. She would have Tatterfell bar anyone from bothering her. That would make her happy, Jude thought. Maybe she'd even get the chance to snap at High King Cardan himself. That would make Tatterfell's entire year.

Cardan stood suddenly, startling Jude out of another daze and drawing the eye of all the revelers.

"I grow bored," he announced. "You may continue this drudgery without me." He motioned for his guards, and the Roach and the Ghost materialized at his side. Cardan took a few steps away from the dais when he looked back at Jude, frown still on his face. "Aren't you coming, Seneschal?"

"Oh, yeah," Jude muttered. She fell into step behind Cardan with the Roach and the Ghost bringing up the rear. The Bomb was already at the door waiting for them. Every step for Jude was beginning to feel like a struggle. Her tired legs felt as if they were moving through thick mud, but somehow she managed to keep pace with Cardan until they were out of the dance hall and in a comparatively empty corridor. Her steps slowed noticeably. The Ghost raised a brow, eyeing her with concern. Jude tried to say she was okay, but suddenly even that was too much effort. The floor rocked violently beneath her feet, although none of her companions seemed to notice. What they did notice, though, was the way she clutched at the wall as her legs finally gave up.

"Jude!" someone, she wasn't sure who, cried out. She was half-way to the floor when she was caught up in someone's arms. Then she was looking into Cardan's dark eyes. There was an expression there she hadn't seen since the night she took him hostage.

"Has she been poisoned?" the Roach asked.

"I can't tell," the Bomb said. "I need to get her where I can examine her."

"Is there a tunnel near here?" Cardan asked sharply. "One that will get us close to her rooms?"

"I'm fine," Jude said. "I was just dizzy." No one acknowledged her. They were too busy trying to inconspicuously access a hidden tunnel before too many people saw the King of Elfhame cradling his seneschal. When the mercifully cool air of the tunnel hit Jude's overheated skin, it gave her enough of a boost to try again.

"I'm okay," she said, wincing at the growing tickle in her throat. "I'm not poisoned. I just had a dizzy spell. I can walk now."

"Oh really?" Cardan scoffed. He set Jude on her feet. She was steady, but her limbs felt heavy and she dragged her feet. After she'd taken a few steps, Cardan snorted with disgust and swept her up in his arms again.

"Woah!" Jude gasped. "I said I can walk."

"We'll get to your rooms faster if you don't," Cardan retorted.

"I could take her if-" the Roach started to say. Cardan turned to him with an absolutely murderous look, though, and he shut his mouth.

"I don't know of any poison that would do this," the Bomb said. "She's probably just sick." Jude scowled in her direction, unable to see well between the dim light and pounding in her head.

"I am not sick," Jude snapped. "I just didn't get much sleep the last few days."

"I'm sure," the Bomb said. "And when is the last time you ate?"

"Who made you my mom?"

"Well, you made me king, so I'm pulling rank," Cardan said. "If you're sick, you're not leaving your rooms until you're well."

"I'm not sick." Jude ran out of energy to continue fighting after a moment and dropped her head onto Cardan's shoulder. He flinched when her forehead grazed his cheek.

"She's feverish," he told the Bomb.

"We'll have to send for some medicine. There are human physicians in the palace, right? They'll know what she needs." The Bomb began discussing Jude's care with Cardan, which Jude found irritating. They were discussing her as if she wasn't there.

"I just need to sleep," she said to no one in particular. " 'm okay." Sleep was indeed stealing over her. Between the soft murmur of voices around her, the steady rocking of Cardan's gait, and her fever, Jude was already fast asleep by the time they made it to her room.

But wait! There's more! Read the longer version here

[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. 

[theseshipsshallsail]

The Most Common Lies (Are Those We Tell Ourselves)

Chapter 3

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Oliver asks: hushed on account of his parents who’d dealt them a terse bonne nuit not five minutes prior.

One side of his face is cast in darkness - the other, mercurial in moonlight - and Elio sighs as he fixes the collar of a warm, burgundy sweater: an unusually stylish purchasefrom Isaac and Mounir that’s entered his regular rotation. “Honnêtement! All this fuss over a silly outburst,” he says, well-versed in evasion. “Can’t I just pretend I didn’t make a fool of myself? Play the good host instead?”

“You didn’t make a fool of yourself,” Oliver replies with eminent diplomacy. “And I’m not fussing, either. That was a lot of blood you lost.” 

“It is what it is.” 

“What it is, is meshuga,” Oliver refutes: worse than his mother and Mafalda combined.

Mercifully, his protective streak soothes rather than chafes, and Elio clings to the theory he can’t be harmed any further as he straightens a copy of Martin Mystère where it teeters on top an old, forgotten toolbox. “You still owe me an explanation,” he says, pursing his lips. “A decent apology too. So unless you have a plane to catch…”

Oliver fidgets anxiously. “My ticket’s exchangeable,” he replies, tweaking a busted thread on his sleeve. “As for when I exchange it to…” His shrug is lacklustre at best. “I guess that all depends on you.” 

“On me?” Elio demurs, gleaning some semblance of nonchalance as he averts his gaze. “Your fiancée must be thrilled.”

Oliver barks a laugh: a bit too forced - a bit too manic - but a laugh nonetheless. “There is no fiancée,” he mutters, ripping loose the metaphoric band-aid. “Micol and I… we called it off.” 

“The wedding…”

“Yes.”

“You called it off,” Elio repeats, woefully similar to a witless parrot as he perches at the corner of his bed. “Pardon my insensibilità… but why was it even on to begin with?”

Oliver wrings his hands. “It’s complicated...”

No shit.

“Then uncomplicate it,” Elio snaps, incapable of masking his exhaustion as the other man musters the courage to join him. 

“Look. I was a mess that first month back,” Oliver says, a paltry addendum to his previous statement. “Hardly eating. Rarely sleeping. I’d convinced myself I’d never see you again. That honestly, you’d be better off for it. Micol provided a shoulder to cry on. Kicked my ass into touch when I was too hungover to teach...” 

A barrage of raindrops pelt the south-facing windows as he lowers his weight to the creaky mattress. 

“She’d recently broken up with her roommate,” Oliver resumes, something inscrutable in his tone. “And you know what they say about misery liking company?”

Elio’s grunt is unintelligible: the sour note of envy refusing to abate.

“A crutch of convenience. That’s all it was,” Oliver continues quietly, stifling a jet lagged yawn. “She was lonely. I was depressed. There wasn’t a day that went by I didn’t feel sick with guilt, but neither of us wanted anything serious. It was purely -”

“Fun and games?”

Oliver flinches as if he’s been struck. “Christ…” he groans, scraping at his cuticle. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Elio clamps his Star of David between thumb and forefinger. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he says, squeezing the six-pointed pendant ‘til it smarts. “And a lie is a lie. Even by omission. You didn’t just wake up one morning and accidentally propose.” 

Oliver sets his jaw. “If it’s any consolation,” he mutters, stirring the waters of their temporary ceasefire. “I barely proposed at all.” 

The ensuing silence is deafening.

“There was a discussion,” Oliver ekes out dolefully; clasping the crook of his elbow. “Administered by my father: orchestrated by our mothers. Some sugar-coated enticements to put down roots. Do our duty.” A beat. “The same spiel they’ve been preaching since graduation.”

Elio frowns. “You make it sound so impersonal,” he replies, snatching the dented cardboard carton from his nightstand, and Oliver’s brow furrows as he fishes a cheap, plastic lighter out his pocket.

“Our families: they’re not like yours,” he says, offering it over. “My bubbe… her support was unconditional. The rest of them, though…” His left knee bounces erratically. “I knew it wasn’t healthy: drifting through the motions. Constantly comparing the life I had to what might’ve been. But -”

“Old habits die kvetching?” 

Oliver plucks a stray piece of lint from his joggers. “Precisely.” 

Be that as it may, stolen paradise seldom goes unpunished, and Elio encounters a frisson of empathy as he sparks the Gauloise’s tip. “Your dad… you said he’d have carted you off to a correctional facility?”

“If the psychologist he whisked me to at fifteen is any indication.” 

“Psychologist?” Elio blows out a thin halo of smoke; savouring the acrid sting. “Vraiment?”

“Too many GQ magazines in my gym bag,” Oliver replies, accepting the cigarette eagerly. “It’s funny.”

It isn’t.

“He always assumed I’d major in investments,” Oliver says, bringing the filter to his lips. “Make partner in my uncle’s firm.” 

“Three cheers for nepotism,” Elio snarks; unable to parse a more dystopian career path for a devotee of art and history. “What sort of dissolute gravitates to hedge funds?” 

“What sort of Philosopher baulks at ambiguity?” Oliver says: frustration building. “Truth is, pursuing my Doctorate was my only real rebellion.” A scoff. “Until I met you, that is. And you? God… you were everything to me. You deserved everything. So when I couldn’t give you my all -”

“You gave me nothing.” Elio reaches sideways; scooping a chipped China demitasse from his bedroom floor. “Would it have made a difference, do you reckon?” 

Oliver shakes his head as he flicks the smouldering ash. “Would what have made a difference?” 

“If I’d told you?” Elio tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. “That I was miserable too? That come September, I’ll be studying in the States?” Not trusting his own voice, he nudges Oliver’s sneaker with his sock. “Would you have -”

“Waited?” The cherry glows red as Oliver fails to hide his subtle trembling.“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? You’re young - no, you are,” he says,  putting the kibosh on Elio’s token complaint. “Your talent could take you anywhere. So when I rang last November. When you told me you didn’t mind…” 

When his self-recrimination led to morose staring into the dining room fireplace.

When his blurry vision had naught to do with the blazing heat rising above the grate.

“You had no business asking me that,” Elio asserts, swiping the cigarette for a deep, drawn-out drag, and the other man shoots him a glance. 

“Believe me; I know.” Oliver hooks his ankle sheepishly. “It was a mistake. Putting you on the spot. One of many, I suspect. Because then I figured why postpone the inevitable if you’d already moved on.” 

“Goose…”

“Thanks ever so.”

“Well clearly you didn’t succeed,” Elio says, stabbing out the butt as the wind whistles through the eaves. “Appealing to your inner-martyr, I mean.”

Oliver smirks. “Did I hell. It was like jumping in a river to wade against the current. I wanted to want that apple-pie existence. To be the man everyone else invented. But when push came to shove, I wanted you more.” A pause. “Twenty-five years it took me to grasp that: how wanting can be reason enough for having.” A muscle tics in his cheek. “Micol’s no schmuck. She’s said all along we were like rats in a maze: chasing our tails day after day ‘cause it’s safe and familiar.” A wealth of emotion floods his eyes as he flattens his palm to the duvet. “Nobody should have to compromise that much to settle for something less, but yesterday… yesterday was the final straw.”  

The tip of Oliver’s pinkie grazes his wrist. “My folks… they paid a visit upstate. Invited us out for brunch,” he says, tracing the tiny stitching of a silver fleur de lis. “Two hours of seating plans and flower arrangements later, and we’re all spouting the same tired lines. Rehearsing the same tired roles. And I just - I just couldn’t do it anymore.” For endless seconds he blinks at the Persian rug. “Eight months nearly wrecked me. A few more years might actually kill me. And I need… I need to be selfishhere.” Hope springs eternal. “Simply put: I need you.”

Elio’s mouth betrays a grin. “Me?”

“You,” Oliver confirms: wan and introspective; nestling his forehead upon his shoulder. “No one else.”

Goosebumps pebble Elio’s skin as the mood between them grows increasingly charged. “You are... perilously close to crossing the Rubicon,” he warns, bravado turning bashful, and Oliver waves him off.

“I think that ship has sailed, don’t you?” 

Several times over in all probability, so Elio can’t blame what happens next entirely on the nosebleed.

“Would you marry me if you could?”

Oliver’s hand finds his thigh; absently clutching the stonewashed denim. “Yes,” he chokes: one word, one breath. “Gladly. Proudly. In front of the wholeworld. There’s no more half measures,” he murmurs, trading confessions like currency. “No more lying to anyone. Least of all myself. That’s why I maxed my credit card on a red-eye out of JFK. To set the record straight. See if we can’t do this properly.”

Elio sniffs, inhaling the stale musk of travel over the mild, citrus remnants of high-class cologne. “You should have done this weeks ago.” 

Oliver’s smile is like sunshine after a hurricane. “I should have done a lot of things.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” he asks, scrambling onto his lap: bold, certain, all hesitance gone. “You act like your happiness is expendable, and it isn’t.”  

“I'm an idiot,” Oliver says, wincing as he steadies his hips. “I thought you hated me.” 

“Never,” Elio denies, though not for the lack of trying. “I cared too much.”

“Cared?”

Elio shudders, belatedly addressing his Freudian slip. “Loved,” he whispers, chest to chest; thumping heart to thumping heart. “I love you.” Soft lips brush his hummingbird pulse. “I’m in love with you,” he adds - compelled to make the distinction - and the gulp of Oliver’s throat secures his damnation: the immutable glide of the whetstone on Damocles’ proverbial sword. 

“I am… madly in love with you too,” he says, cautiously encircling Elio’s waist. “Then, now, forever if you’ll have me.”  

“If I’ll have you?”

“If that’s what you truly want?” 

“Per dirla tutta…” Too long, he’s spent wandering the desert: dreaming of the promised land. “I want you, Oliver. I want us,” Elio says - the subsequent hug at polar opposites to that which they’d shared earlier - and leaving no room for doubt seals it with a kiss so toe-curlingly decadent it burns brighter, fiercer, than anything gracing the hallowed skies above.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63662050/chapters/164270938

[abiiors]

A small little blurb of Matty taking care of sick reader on a cold rainy day. (Im totally not sick and I’m totally not projecting)

because ik sicktember ‘23 is happening, i just thought i would use their prompt for today "sick in an inconvenient place"

hope you feel better soon, babe. sending you hugs <33

walking into work today was a bad idea. fuck, getting out of bed in the first place was an even worse idea. perhaps the worst one ever or so you’re convinced now that you sit at your desk shivering and sweating simultaneously. 

for some reason, cool air blasts out of the ac. the temperature is set so low that the whole area feels like a walk-in freezer. and then there’s the torrential rain outside on top of everything. 

you know, despite having an umbrella you will be drenched by the time you make it to the bus stop. and just the thought of being cold and damp while you feel like you're on the verge of death, makes you want to burst into tears. 

another sniffle from you. another glare from the new guy sitting across from you and you decide enough is enough. 

matty :( is the only thing you need to text him before he’s calling you within thirty seconds. 

in the background, you hear the same pitter-patter of rain, muffled and drowned out by other sounds and the riff of a guitar here or there. but it’s very much present. very persistent. 

“what’s wrong, darling?” he asks as soon as you pick up. 

when you pathetically sniffle some more, you hear him move. a door opens, then closes and the sounds behind him vanish. 

“hello?” he asks again, “you there?”

“i feel like shit,” you croak out. maybe you even speak for the first time that day because you surely don’t remember your voice sounding this dull and hoarse. 

“no shit,” he sighs. “you don’t sound all that well…”

“i don’t feel all that well…” you rub your face tiredly, massaging your achy temples. it’s only 3 in the afternoon. you still have 3 more hours of work to go. 

“can you pick me up? please i can’t, i feel so shocking, i–”

“sweetheart,” he interrupts. “go tell your manager you’re leaving. i’ll be there in fifteen.”

—

and he is there in fifteen as promised. his car is parked as close to the curb as possible and matty stands next to the open door holding out an umbrella, and holding out his other hand for your bag. 

the sight fills your entire body with relief, even as you watch him get half-drenched trying to hold the umbrella above your head, shielding you from any stray droplets. once you’re safely in the car, he closes the door, running to the other side to get in and tossing both your bag and the wet umbrella onto the backseat before he fully focuses his attention on you. 

matty tuts in sympathy. “oh you do look awful…”

you roll your eyes, annoyed and weirdly emotional but as soon as his cool hand touches your forehead, half of it melts away. 

“you’re really warm,” he frowns, bringing the same cool hand to your cheek and checking again. “lets get you home, okay? you’re practically falling asleep here.”

“i’m just really cold,” you complain in a small voice, wiping at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater like a small child. it makes him smile. 

“i’ll turn the ac off,” he says and leans over to press a kiss on your head. 

the car is mercifully warm after that and even though the chills are still there, at lease there’s no cold air blasting in your face. you know he must be uncomfortably warm under the flannel he’s wearing but the drive only lasts another ten minutes before you’re rounding onto the familiar street and stopping in the driveway of your home. 

matty turns around to get the umbrella again, stopping halfway to press another kiss, this time on your cheek, and hurries out the door to come to your side. you coax your achy body to move, to get prepared to make a dash inside. but the most you manage is a wobble up to the front door followed by wheezing and groaning. 

matty’s face falls in sympathy. “aww, c’mere baby,” he coos, letting you burrow your face into his chest while he unlocks the front door. he tries his hardest to walk like that, to let you stay close to him and steal some of his body heat while he gets your stuff inside. 

“can you tell me what hurts?” 

“everything,” you whine, “my head, my body. my throat hurts a bit too.” 

setting the things aside, matty cradles your face, bringing you both to the sofa to sit you down. 

“no more moving for you okay?” he speaks into your hair, seeing as how your face is once again tucked into his chest. “gonna take care of you.” 

you nod, closing your eyes and breathing in his comforting scent. 

“now how about you lay down. i’ll get you some stuff and we can just relax and cuddle for a bit. does that sound good?”

and you only need to nod once again to convey that it sounds absolutely fantastic.