#Of my illnesses and injuries lately in the | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sickficideas · 1 year ago

Text

you're losin' me || skk sickfic

ao3! please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2023, day 1: hopelessly bad at self care

“’s cold,” Chuuya murmurs quietly, slurred together so much that if Dazai hadn’t known him for seven years, he wouldn’t have understood him.

“I know. Just for a little bit,” Dazai says as he fills the pitcher full of water to gently pour over Chuuya’s head again. He’d really like to properly wash his hair. It’s so caked with dust and dirt and blood, but Dazai doesn’t want him under the water for too long, he’s already shivering. So he’d like to at least brush some of it out.

It’s been a few days since he last used Corruption. Dazai’s made it a habit to check on Chuuya in some way or another after times like that, because recently, he hasn’t been tolerating it well, especially when he uses it for extended periods of time. Sometimes he’ll be too sore to move, sometimes he’ll get sick, sometimes it’s a combination of a few things - no matter the case, it wasn’t always like this.

He thinks Chuuya was already coming down with something before that day, so he wasn’t too surprised to find him passed out on his kitchen floor when he arrived at his penthouse just ten minutes ago.

He has a hundred-and-two-point one-degree fever, which paired with the fatigue and exhaustion from using his ability like that has really, really slowed him down. Dazai had to carry him into the shower even after waking him up, with surprisingly no objection from the latter. His complaint of the temperature just now is the first he’s said to him since he arrived. Chuuya always takes quite a while to come to his senses after he’s like this.

Dazai’s first thought was to shower him because of how filthy he was from their mission just the other day, but it seemed that wasn’t it. He’s covered in sweat from the fever, and Dazai’s fairly certain he wet himself at some point too. Normally, he wouldn’t let Chuuya live something like that down, but it’s a concerning thought that he didn’t even have the energy or will to get up and go to the bathroom.

He opts for the showerhead instead to wash his hair out the best he can, hoping the pressure will help clean it up a little. It’s lukewarm water, to help his fever, but he understands it’s probably pretty cold with the chills he’s feeling - and Chuuya normally showers with scalding hot water anyway.

Chuuya groans and pulls his head away once the water from the shower head hits him, and the way his eyes screw shut tells Dazai he’s probably got some sort of head injury, or at the very least, a headache. Maybe both.

“Want me to stop?” Dazai asks, trying to adjust the water pressure a bit so it’s not as harsh, and Chuuya relaxes just a bit.

He’s taken note of how Chuuya’s left shoulder is hanging slightly lower than it should. He’s been so out of it that Dazai hasn’t noticed, but he grabs his upper arm with his free hand and he’s met with a hiss. He’s probably dislocated his shoulder.

“You’re a mess,” Dazai sighs. Chuuya usually isn’t the type to avoid medical treatment. Dazai has his own reasons for doing so, but Chuuya generally takes good care of his health, so he’s not sure what happened here. Maybe that last use of Corruption really took him down. After all, he’s not sure how long he was passed out in his kitchen.

He shut off the water and hands the shower head up. He wants to tell Chuuya what he’s about to do, but he thinks it might be better in the end to just do it and get it over with, and apologize after.

So he does it. He puts him into position against the wall as quickly as he can before Chuuya can catch on, and he yelps from the pain as soon as Dazai hears it pop into place. He’s sure it’s very painful, it’s been a few days since it was dislocated and there’s no way the pain and swelling hasn’t gotten worse since then.

Chuuya leans forward into Dazai, and he's shaking much more than he was before, and Dazai holds him against his chest.

“I’m sorry. You know how bad those can get if you wait too long, Chuuya,” he says quietly. He hates how much he’s shivering. The whimpers of pain hurt him to hear, although he’d never admit it. He’s careful not to jostle his shoulder too much as he holds him.

Truthfully, Dazai hasn’t slept well at all since their mission, because he hasn’t heard a word from Chuuya. Sometimes Chuuya will read Dazai’s messages without responding when he’s feeling petty, but he didn’t even get that.

This morning, when he threw up last night’s dinner from the anxiety, he decided he needed to come check on Chuuya. Kunikida was even concerned enough to send him home right away.

They stay like that for a while before Dazai decides it’s best to get everything over with and get Chuuya to bed so he can rest properly, rather than on his tiled kitchen floor. He washes his hair, his body, all while Chuuya quietly stays leaned against the corner of the shower wall, shivering every now and then, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He doesn’t voice a single complaint the entire time.

Dazai is happy to finally be able to shut off the lukewarm water and towel dry Chuuya’s hair. Gently, of course, he doesn’t want to dizzy him on top of his suspected head injury. He’s already completely off-kilter.

He pats him dry and helps him over to the adjacent bedroom. Chuuya isn’t strong enough to walk on his own yet but Dazai keeps a hand on his waist to keep him steady. He sits down right at the corner, and Dazai backs up to get a good look at him.

He’s glad there’s no major injuries at least, nothing worse than some scrapes and little cuts, but he’s covered in dark bruises, which make the pale pallor of his skin much more obvious. He’s sure that’s part of the fever, but he can’t pin down exactly why he has a fever to begin with. Was he really sick before their mission? Does he have some sort of internal injury that’s gotten infected? Did using Corruption cause this?

Dazai grabs a random t-shirt and a pair of boxers from Chuuya’s closet and helps to dress him. It’s like dressing a doll. Chuuya isn’t unconscious, he’s still half-awake, at least, but he doesn’t make any effort to get dressed himself. He just lets Dazai do it and aids him here and there.

“Hey,” Dazai says, cupping Chuuya’s cheek and lifting his head just a bit to get a good look at his eyes. He’s not entirely there, but his eyes shift to look at Dazai after a few seconds. “You’re scaring me a little, Slug. Can you talk to me?”

Chuuya’s expression scrunches up a little like he’s confused, and Dazai’s stomach drops. He’s almost worried about him hallucinating. Dazai can’t count the number of times Chuuya has confused Dazai for one of his dead friends while suffering from a fever or some sort of major injury.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts, running his fingers through his still slightly damp hair, brushing his bangs out of his face. They definitely need a trim. “Can you tell me my name?”

“Mackerel,” Chuuya grumbles under his breath, but his expression doesn’t change. He looks like he would fall asleep if Dazai pushed him backward.

That’s answer enough for him. As long as he’s not hallucinating.

“Okay,” Dazai says with a quiet sigh of relief. “You need to lay down, alright? I’ll see if you have athletic tape somewhere for that shoulder.”

Dazai trusts his mental state enough to leave him on his own for a few minutes while he goes through Chuuya’s bathroom drawers to find what he’s looking for, and thankfully, it appears in the third drawer without too much searching. Chuuya tends to keep things in his penthouse pretty orderly, but he’s noticed signs recently of things being a little out of place. Nothing major - a roll of toilet paper down with the cleaning products, a hairbrush on the floor, things Dazai would never think twice about - but they’re also things he knows Chuuya would never let slide.

He wanders back into the bedroom as he starts to take some of the tape off the roll, but Chuuya is still sitting there at the edge of the bed, his head hanging down, swaying ever so slightly. Dazai worries for a second he’s about to pass out, until he sees the hand pressed against his tummy.

"Dazai," Chuuya murmurs with a gruff moan. "'M gonna - gonna throw up."

Dazai appreciates the warning.

Chuuya somehow manages to hold it back until Dazai slides onto the bed next to him with the bin from his bathroom. He breathes over the bin for half a minute or so, letting the saliva drip down over the plastic. Dazai takes his free hand and starts to rub over his back, gently, and Chuuya groans at the feeling, leaning back into it just a bit and he spits a wad of saliva into the bin.

"Deep breaths, Chuuya," Dazai says gently.

Chuuya does as he’s told, taking in a few shaky breaths that aren’t nearly as deep as they should be, but soon enough, a gag follows a retch, and a torrent of vomit gushes into the bin.

“There you go. That’s good,” Dazai says quietly, patting Chuuya’s hair back as he throws up. Chuuya’s weak tolerance for alcohol makes him no stranger to throwing up like this, but this is the last thing he needs right now. The nausea is crystal clear on his face, and the pained moans that escape his lips between streams of vomit tell him it hurts, too. "You have anything here for nausea?"

"I don' need anythin'," Chuuya breathes out, spitting up a mouthful of stomach bile into the bin before he straightens himself up, eyes screwed shut and hand still heavy against his sore belly. "Jus' needed to get that out."

"If you say so," Dazai says, setting the bin down on the floor.

Chuuya somehow manages to gather the energy to crawl to the middle of the bed and collapse there, sinking into the pillow with a little whine.

He's lying down with his injured shoulder facing up, and Dazai takes the opportunity to carefully roll up his sleeve to apply the athletic tape. He watches Chuuya's face tense up as he does it. He can be as gentle as he wants, he's sure it hurts regardless.

Dazai sits beside Chuuya's shaky, curled-up form for a while, petting his slowly drying hair as Chuuya starts to relax just a bit, enough to give Dazai some relief.

He worries about him. Chuuya used to handle Corruption just fine, but if this is all really all just from the aftermath, even days later…

“Why didn’t you go to a doctor?” Dazai asks with a heavy sigh. He’s not sure why he cares. Chuuya’s an adult, he can take care of himself. And he usually always does.

“Dunno,” Chuuya croaks. His voice sounds scratchy.

“You don’t know?” Dazai confirms, a brow raised. “I found you laying in your own piss and I don’t have any clue how long you were there for.”

“Can’t remember,” Chuuya elaborates after a few moments of silence. He’s starting to sound a little more coherent, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t like what he’s just said.

Dazai’s shoulders sink. “Yeah?”

“I jus’ remember leavin’ with you,” Chuuya says quietly. He pauses, like he’s trying to see if he can collect anything else from his memory, but he gives up. “And…and then, the shower.”

“So you don’t have any clue what happened in between, huh?” Dazai says. Chuuya didn’t seem that out of it when they met before the mission happened. He wasn’t himself, but Chuuya’s never forward about his feelings, so Dazai has a hard time guessing if he was like that mentally, or from an oncoming illness.

“Nuh-uh,” Chuuya mumbles.

Dazai bites his lip. That can’t be good. “Has this been happening every time?”

Chuuya is quiet for a moment, almost like he’s waiting for Dazai to elaborate. Maybe he’s just confused. “Every time what?”

“Every time you use Corruption,” Dazai reminds him.

“S’that what happened?” Chuuya yawns. Dazai watches his eyelids start to fall just a bit.

Dazai feels sick. He didn’t even put those pieces together, with everything that’s going on with him? Part of him wants to believe this is just from a head injury he suffered during this mission, but he’s been getting worse about using Corruption.

Surely he’s fine. If Chuuya really thought something was wrong with himself, he would take care of it.

“My shoulder’s killin’ me,” he murmurs, adjusting it just a bit before realizing moving it at all causes too much pain for it to be worth it.

“No kidding,” Dazai sighs. "I'll get some ice packs. That might help."

Dazai slips out of the bed, and heads for the kitchen to look for something he can use. He knows there’s an ice pack or two in the freezer, Chuuya’s needed them for injuries before, but upon looking in the freezer, he finds it’s nearly empty. There’s a box or two, but normally, Chuuya has lots of things in here.

He opens the refrigerator out of curiosity and finds it to be the same way. Chuuya certainly has the money to be eating out every night, so maybe that’s what he’s been doing, but he likes cooking. It’s strange for him to really have nothing. His stomach twists. He hates that feeling.

Dazai takes two ice packs from the freezer before he hears Chuuya’s ringtone, coming from the bedroom. He remembers seeing Chuuya’s cell phone on the nightstand. He wonders who could be calling him.

Dazai leans in the doorway as he watches Chuuya’s uninjured arm reach for the cell phone, and of course, he’s hiding the screen from him with an annoyed scowl.

"Hey," Chuuya says through a sigh once he answers, laying back against the pillows. The voice says something, but it’s not loud enough for Dazai to be able to figure out who. "I know. 'M sorry. Haven't been feeling so great."

Dazai's glad he's being honest, at least.

"You don't need'a come. 'M fine, just gonna rest today," Chuuya says. “I’ll see ya tomorrow. Love you. Okay?”

The voice says something back, and soon enough, Chuuya tosses his phone to the side and lays his arm over his eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Love you?" Dazai repeats as he wanders over to the bed, climbing back in next to him to lay one ice pack under his shoulder, and the other right on top of it.

"Mhm," Chuuya says he shudders just a bit at the cold feeling, but he relaxes soon enough. "You're allowed to have a side piece too. So don't start."

"I didn't start anything," Dazai chuckles. He's referring to Kunikida, he thinks. "Who?"

"Who what?" Chuuya groans.

"Who was that?" Dazai clarifies.

"Who was what?" Chuuya huffs. He’s clearly annoyed, but he really doesn’t seem to know what Dazai is talking about.

Dazai bites his lip. Maybe he just needs to be reminded. "On the phone, Chuuya."

Chuuya takes his arm off of his face, revealing a genuinely confused expression. "The hell you talkin' about, Mackerel?"

Now Dazai feels like he's going to throw up. "Nothing, Slug."

Is Chuuya losing his memory?

Is using Corruption doing this to him?

Is this a head injury? Is it just because he’s been passed out for a while?

What is he going to do if Chuuya loses his memory?

"I'll be right back."

Dazai tries to be as nonchalant as possible as he leaves Chuuya’s bedroom, trailing off to the guest bathroom on the other side of his penthouse, out of earshot from Chuuya, because he thinks he’s really going to throw up. His stomach twists as he opens the door and he hastily leans over the toilet, and then gags once or twice before his stomach clenches and the bit of food he had for breakfast comes up.

He stays standing, his hands on his knees and he chokes up whatever he can manage. His head swims and these concerns repeat in his mind as fast as a car wheel going a thousand miles an hour. Why does it matter to him, if Chuuya loses his memory? He doesn’t need Chuuya. He’s fine without Chuuya. Clearly, Chuuya is the one who needs him.

At some point his legs get tired and he’s just left breathing heavily over the toilet. He doesn’t even have the will to flush, and part of him thinks he should go back to Chuuya, but his legs give out and he curls up in the corner where the wall and the shower door meet.

It’s not long before he hears the bathroom door creak open.

"Did you puke?" Chuuya asks, his voice shaky. Dazai’s tempted to lie, but he’s sure he can see the evidence in the toilet.

"Had too much to eat for lunch,” Dazai says. He knows Chuuya won’t believe him. Maybe he wants to lead him on. He doesn’t know.

"That's not like you," Chuuya murmurs. He’s leaning against the door frame, holding an ice pack up to his shoulder. "What's the real reason? You anxious about somethin’?"

He does throw up when he's anxious. "No, no. My stomach just...y’know.”

"Dazai," Chuuya sighs.

Chuuya drags himself into the bathroom and sits down beside Dazai with a pained groan. He feels warm next to Dazai as he leans against him, laying his head on Dazai’s shoulder. He huffs, sounding a little more than exhausted, like it’s taken a great effort for him to get here. “Can’t believe you made me walk all the way over here when I feel like shit.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Dazai insists with a half-smile. “You worrying about me, Slug?”

“Yeah, you ran out of my room out of nowhere,” Chuuya huffs.

Dazai finds some solace in the fact that he hasn’t forgotten that.

“I’m worried about you too,” Dazai says quietly, and he’s not sure why he would say something like that out loud. He’s disgusted with himself, it almost makes him want to throw up again. Being so vulnerable with another person is so unadmirable.

“Bout me?” Chuuya starts, lifting his head and turning to look at Dazai, even if it seems to be filled with lead. “‘M fine, ‘Samu. I always feel like shit after Corruption.”

"I think you should see a doctor," Dazai says. He almost wishes he could lean his head on Chuuya’s shoulder, but doing that would likely break his neck. A shame, really.

"'Bout what," Chuuya sighs. “Thought you were playin’ doctor.”

"Your memory,” Dazai says quietly, feeling his stomach start to twist again.

Chuuya is quiet for a few moments. "My memory's fine."

"I'm serious, Chuuya,” Dazai says. He hates being serious.

"'M serious too, 'Samu. I don't need’a see a doctor. I’ll be fine in a few days," Chuuya grumbles. He’s really starting to sound annoyed, but Dazai is having a very hard time letting this go. "Quit worryin' about me."

"Do you remember who called you earlier?" Dazai bites. He doesn’t want to sound vicious. Maybe the bitter taste of the stomach acid in the back of his throat is making him sound that way. His stomach is never going to give him a break, at this rate.

Another pause. "What the hell're you talkin' about?"

“Someone called you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing his palms against his eyelids because his eyes are starting to burn and he would rather throw up on Chuuya than cry in front of him. “I asked you who it was after you hung up and you didn’t know what I was talking about, and you still don’t.”

Chuuya is quiet again.

“Can you…can you get out? Please?” Dazai mumbles, keeping his face concealed from Chuuya. He hates the way he feels. He’s not physically hurting anywhere, besides maybe his stomach, but this worry and anxiety is just as painful as any wound. “I need to throw up again.”

“‘M not leavin’ you, Mackerel,” Chuuya says quietly, not seeming to care much that Dazai tried to kick him out of his own bathroom. Dazai thinks he’s started to realize that he might be contributing to the fact that Dazai’s stomach is twisting and turning so uncomfortably,

Dazai feels it, hot in the back of his mouth, and he would really rather just swallow it, but he stumbles forward and chokes up the stomach bile into the toilet to join the rest. He coughs before he can manage to gag again. It really burns, it hurts, tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he’s telling himself that throwing up right now is the only reason that’s happening.

Chuuya is still beside him, despite how sick he is himself, a steady hand on his back, mumbling some comforting words that Dazai can’t quite decipher.

“I’ll call a doctor, ‘kay? Maybe you can get looked at too,” Chuuya says quietly once Dazai is just left huffing out hot breaths over the toilet.

Dazai shakes his head. The idea of that almost makes him gag. “No, I don’t…I’m fine.”

“‘M’kay,” Chuuya says, to Dazai’s surprise. Dazai thinks he’s gotten the hint, now. “You still nauseous? I’ll get somethin’ for you.”

Dazai shakes his head again and somehow manages to force himself onto his shaky legs without much help. His stomach is still all out of sorts, but he knows nausea medication won’t be able to help. “Can we go lay down?”

Chuuya nods with a little sigh, using his ability to stand himself up without too much effort, taking Dazai’s hand like he’s leading him to his bedroom. Dazai’s been there a million times, there’s really no reason for him to do this, but he squeezes his hand tight. It feels nice.

“I’ll be right back. Gonna get a glass of water,” Chuuya says once Dazai curls up into the bed. Dazai’s facing away from him, but he can hear Chuuya take his phone before he wanders out of the bedroom.

Dazai knows he’s calling someone.

“Hey,” Chuuya starts. He sounds far away, like he’s in the kitchen, but Dazai can still hear him fairly well. “‘M sorry. I know I said I didn’t need anythin’, but…”

The voice says something, and Chuuya sighs, answering with a defeated yeah.

Dazai feels like he can relax a little more, and his stomach doesn’t hurt so much.

He curls up in the bed as if it’s his own, and before long, Chuuya returns to do the same, lying close beside Dazai, but far enough that Dazai can still see his face. He looks miserable. If he were standing, Dazai thinks he would certainly pass out.

“You look like shit,” Chuuya grumbles, his nose scrunched.

“I was just thinking about how much you look like shit,” Dazai tells him.

“At least I’ve got a good excuse,” Chuuya huffs. Dazai can’t argue with that, Chuuya’s the one with a fever. “You’re just worried about me. Freak.”

Dazai ducks his head in and cuddles up closer to Chuuya, a little flattered that he’s remembering that despite everything being so touch-and-go right now. His warmth is still a bit concerning, but it’s almost comforting. Dazai doesn’t know why, but he’s almost too tired to care.

“Take better care of yourself,” Dazai mumbles quietly.

“Take your own advice,” Chuuya says back, sounding just as exhausted as he looks. “Get some rest, shitty Mackerel.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

37 notes · View notes

killjoy-prince · 3 months ago

Text

Finished Jumin's end

#prince's gaming tag #the more i play this the more it really hits how much i forgot this dlc #like i dont remember how any of their ends went apart from jaehee #rip Zen in this end bc not only is he single and working on xmas but the guy he hates got to spend time with the girl he loves #Zen got the bad end cg in this case lolol #in the epilogue chat Jumin's donation made news and Zen reas about it and he was like 'that jerk did he do that to impress her?'#and jumin jumped on the chat in that moment and went 'yup'#and to add insult to injury for him MC is spending the night at Jumin's place bc it was late and she was tired #this kinda makes me wanna do Zen next as an apology but imma let my choices decide #once it's midnight ill start it again and go for someone i haven't done #lowkey wanna leave jaehee for last at this point as a way to save the best for last

3 notes · View notes

bisexualbuckl-y · 2 years ago

Text

im rewatching stuck (2x04) and man that conversation between bobby and chimney got me crying in the club tonight

#kenneth choi emmy when?????#ive been thinking lately abouy chim's rebar injury and how that would be something cool to bring back #but also it's too angsty even for me #anyways ill continue with my rewatch #911 fox

8 notes · View notes

sunlitmcgee · 7 months ago

Text

boys will have vivid nightmares wherein a random teenager watches her mother crack her skull on the stairs and lays there with blood leaking out all over while she screams and cries and just stands there frozen in fear and wake up just in time for one of the characters from Cats to walk down the hall to help

#tw blood #tw violent imagery #Goodmorning gang I'm. Sla bit rattled tiday!!!#Why are my dreams so focused on parental illness/injury lately #I don't much care for it!!! Aaah!!!

0 notes

astronomalyy · 3 months ago

Text

Thinking about the lifespans of Dungeon Meshi elves... The fact that they're completely unnatural alters my brain chemistry, because you can tell just how haphazardly the demon implemented their wish. They live five times the length of tall-men, so they age at a fifth of their rate. It's simple maths and the implications are terrifying. No wonder their birth rate and population are declining - their early development is so slow that at the age of two, they're still unable to stand.

They don't reach adulthood until their eighties. What does the infant mortality look like? How many elves succumb to illness or injury before they're fully mature? It only takes one accident to lose the child you've been raising for decades - and could you bring yourself to care for another? Add to that the implication elf culture has no idea how to process grief... just look at the way the Canaries treat Rin after the death of her parents. They're callous and insensitive and detached - part of that's racism, but there's also an element of pure cold ignorance. They don't even recognise the emotion on her face.

And that's just scratching the surface... does elven memory accommodate their extended lifespan? Once you reach two hundred or so, do the years start blurring together? Kabru mentions that their temporal awareness is remarkably poor.

Two years feel like a few months. Their lives are longer but not fuller. They're older but not wiser than the short-lived races, and most refuse to understand this. Those that do grasp it are interesting - namely Otta, who's ostracised for pursuing half-foot women.

A 30-year old elf is a young child; a 30-year old half-foot has entered middle age. Otta is in the equivalent of her late twenties. She knows that her elven lifespan makes her no more mature than a half-foot - but she also acknowledges that it creates a rift between herself and her partners, and not just in the eyes of society. 'She dumps them as soon as they pass 30', but probably not for the reasons Lycion assumes. For this to be a pattern, decades must have passed - it's possible Otta doesn't want to watch them die as she herself barely ages. No doubt some of her previous lovers have already passed away. In the end, all living 400 years accomplishes is leaving them out of sync with the rest of humanity.

Marcille's perhaps the best example. As a half-elf, she's got 95% of her life ahead and the thought terrifies her. She's going to lose everyone she loves, over and over and over again, and this cycle has barely even started. She runs at a different pace. This context adds so much to her dynamic with Falin in earlier chapters.

Marcille loves her! She's scared for her! Maybe even of her! She's grown attached to a short-lived girl who she met as a kid when Marcille was a teaching assistant! Biologically and developmentally, they're the same age, but chronologically she's twice as old as Falin! Considering what happened to her mother, is history repeating itself? Her feelings towards Falin are tangled and messy and fascinating. They're also more than a little homoerotic, which makes Marcille's infantilization of her friend all the more interesting. It feels like her way of resolving their power imbalance, of remaining a responsible (former!) authority figure... but it's also a coping mechanism. She's frightened by the ways Falin is maturing and changing - aging - and keeping her mental image of her friend as young as possible is her way of denying the march of time that's destined to sever their bond.

Marcille's dream of lifespan extension would remove the need for this obfuscation, render them equal... only, they already are! This desire is imposed onto Falin, but it's primarily for Marcille's benefit. Watching her fight for a world nobody wants, for reasons both selfish and altruistic... it's as tragic as it is understandable. I love this manga.

#dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi spoilers #this has no direction whatsoever. enjoy #text posting

4K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 3 months ago

Text

Thawing Out

summary: You and Sirius are in dire need of a new coach just weeks before the Olympics. Remus is a former figure skating prodigy forced to retire after a career-ending injury. Though it's not smooth skating right away, those stiff Olympic village beds are dying to be broken in.

collab with @ellecdc

cw: modern au, chronic pain

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus still wakes before dark every morning. It’s automatic, an urgency and excitement that thrums through him like an old instinct, born from years of his alarm clock rousing him at this time. The rink is always at its best right now, when they’ve just finished resurfacing the ice and no one else is around. It was Remus’ favorite time to practice.

Now, he has a new reason to get up. His hip clicks as he does it, so he starts his day with a couple of proactive painkillers. If he really wanted to be proactive he would stretch like he’s supposed to, but there’s no time and Remus doesn’t feel like it. He’ll pay his toll for the negligence later.

The webpage of his Airbnb boasted a five-minute walk to the rink, but with his hip it takes Remus seven. It’s like an odd sort of muscle memory, an old routine from another life that feels as bitter as it does comfortable. He heads out early to give himself some cushion. The streets are empty but for bakers and baristas, the first hints of dawn tinging the sky a deep blue. When he turns a corner and the rink comes into view, the absence of his bag hanging from his shoulder is a phantom ache.

The front doors are locked but the side one staff uses isn’t, the Zamboni driver already inside. Remus lets himself in, makes a cup of tea from the hot water dispenser they leave out when concessions are closed, plants himself on a bench, and waits.

And waits.

Remus has nearly nodded off when two pairs of shoes come bounding up to him. Well, one pair bounds. The other drags.

“Hi, sorry we’re late.” You’re breathless and hauling a sullen-looking boy along behind you by the hand, but you manage a smile when Remus looks up at you. “I had to run over and get him out of bed. It’s good to meet you!”

You hold out your untethered hand. Remus might normally stand to take it, but he no longer feels like doing you the courtesy. Your grip is firm and warm.

“You were supposed to be here at six,” he says.

You wince. “I know. Sorry, Sirius is really not a morning person.”

Remus thinks that he might put more stock into your apologies if you looked a tad more contrite. As it is, your countenance is almost cheery, a fizzy eagerness about you as you look between him and the ice like you can’t wait to get out on it.

In stark contrast, the ill-tempered boy behind you seems not to have a clue where he is. He looks rumpled and disoriented, squinting in the rink’s fluorescent light.

“Then why didn’t you pick another time?” Remus asks.

He hadn’t realized he was still looking at Sirius, or that the other boy could talk, so it’s a surprise when he answers. “Wasn’t my bloody idea.”

By the way you grin, Remus wonders if you’ve even heard the obvious bitterness in your partner’s tone, or whether it’s gone straight over your head.

“I like the rink better early,” you explain. “No one else ever comes before the hockey practice starts at nine, and they’ll have just finished resurfacing the ice.”

Begrudgingly, Remus nods. “I always preferred it about now, too.”

He realizes immediately that his agreement was a mistake, because your smile grows into something far too brilliant for the early hour. Christ, what has he gotten himself into? There’s you, starry-eyed and effervescing all over the place, and your partner, who looks more inclined to fall asleep on your shoulder than put on his skates.

And this is the pair skating duo Remus is supposed to take to the Olympics.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Watch that back foot!” Remus shouts across the ice.

Sirius doesn’t look happy about it, but he corrects the placement of his skate, transitioning smoothly into the next synced turn.

“Good,” Remus murmurs to himself.

Once Sirius got out on the ice and woke up a bit, he was good. He skates with the technical proficiency of someone who’s been in the sport since before they started primary school, and the intuitive artistry of someone who loves it. You’re much the same, though your virtuosity and obvious competence are consistently undercut by hesitation, the grace of your movements interrupted when you second-guess yourself. But these—technical prowess paired with devotion—are the basics of what makes a good figure skater. You’ll have to be flawless if you want to do well at the Olympics.

And Remus has found many flaws.

“No, no—shit!” Remus stands as you fall out of your jump again, catching yourself on your forearms. “You’re still under-rotating! Come on!”

Sirius snarls a quick “Hey!” over his shoulder before turning his back on Remus, going to help you up. He speaks to you quietly, checking you over as you stand. Remus seethes.

He has no clue why he’s been called out here to coach a pair. Remus doesn’t know pairs, has never been a part of one. He was a solo skater. And frankly, it makes him wary that what’s supposed to be the best skating pair in Britain has asked him, a former solo skater who’s been isolated from the figure skating community in general for the past two years, to coach them. But Remus does know figure skating. And he knows when skaters are making stupid mistakes behind their skill level.

“What aren’t you understanding?” asks Remus as you skate back to the edge of the rink. He really wants to know. “It’s simple. You can do this.” He knows he could have. As easy as breathing, and he would kill to have the chance again.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Sirius’ glare is sharp as knives. He steps off the ice before you can, positioning himself between you and Remus. Your lips purse with a knowing sort of apprehension.

“Sirius…”

“No, you don’t talk to her like that,” Sirius spits. “It was a tiny mistake.”

Remus raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “I’m trying to help her! It was a giant mistake, with a simple fix. You ought to be telling her the same, unless you’re okay with your partner snapping her ankle weeks out from competition.”

“None of that means you get to fucking yell at her! Who do you think you are?”

“Okay—”

“I’m her coach,” says Remus, voice rising, “and—”

“Then coach her! Maybe if you’d give some actual fucking feedback instead of just nitpicking—”

“Okay!” Your shout cuts through the space, echoing in the empty rink and silencing the other two. “That’s enough.”

You haul Sirius back by his shoulder. Your grip doesn’t look severe enough to move him, but he goes, stepping back to your side. His eyes never leave Remus’.

Your own gaze jumps between both boys, that same spark he’d seen in you earlier burning with a different light.

“Let’s call it for today,” you say firmly. “Okay? We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Neither boy speaks, though Remus nods. It seems to be taking all of Sirius’ willpower to bite his tongue. He gets the impression it isn’t something he succeeds at often, so Remus isn’t ashamed to say that it brings him a perverse sort of joy to see it now. His tiny bit of smugness fizzles out, though, when your eyes land on him. There’s something desolate in your expression that’s a salient deviation from how you’d looked at him before. Remus has the sinking feeling that he’s disappointed you. It’s more distressing than he can account for.

“We’ll be here on time tomorrow,” you say in that same steady tone. “And my jump, I’ll work on it.”

Remus nods again. You return it, and when you turn to leave, you drag Sirius after you by his shirtsleeve, picking up your bags along your way. Remus’ mouth feels dry. His lips are chapped, his fingertips hurt from the cold, and the sight of your skates sinking into the rubbery floor makes his hip ache terribly.

It’s only once you’re nearly out of earshot that he manages to mumble, “Thank you.”

1K notes · View notes

inknopewetrust · 4 months ago

Text

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝.

Summary: After days of uncertainty, you catch Aemond in the throne room and envision the future of what power can hold. [Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader] [WC: 2.8k]

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, smut, oral (f receiving), public sex, exhibitionism, overstimulation, enemies to lovers dynamic.

Quick Links: Masterlist | gif by @vizual-demon

“Knee deep in the [throne room] and you’re eating me out… is it casual now?”

“Do you always look so smug after killing your own blood?”

In your shadows, Aemond Targaryen stared at the Iron Throne in the storm.

Thunder eclipsed the skies over the castle. In the late evening, you could feel the shocks of lightning beneath your fingertips as they grazed the columns of marble that flanked the room. Each scream of anger echoed through the stones, you could hear it so clearly.

You could see him in the shadows of the throne.

Aemond Targaryen had returned from battle two days ago.

In those two days, the world had changed drastically compared to the one that it was before. A King incapacitated, a legend buried in the rubble of a fallen house, and two sides burning as bright as the cascading terror above.

The tide was shifting and the power in the halls was striking.

Aemond’s arms hung limp at his sides. For someone so thirsty for the power the room held, his apathetic nature would bury him. He could see the darkness of the swords; twisting and bleeding each person dry for their aspirations.

He wanted to be someone who was remembered.

Aemond Targaryen did not want to be immortalized in history as a weak member of the greatest family to ever exist in this world. In his dreams he saw a man of profound strength and terror—someone who reigned a fearsome government with unyielding standards.

In his cruelty, he wanted people to see a person who would not sacrifice his name for peace.

So yes, he was a bit smug at Rhaenys’ demise and ultimately Aegon’s injury. He would not be in this position now had he not done what was asked of him.

But he didn’t answer you—Aemond did not feel the need to acknowledge it because he knew you understood. Even if you were to be cutting and cynical, Aemond knew you rationalized his beliefs in a similar fashion.

And that enticed him.

You had always enticed him. So simple yet cunning, an outsider amongst the other ladies in your class. You were not a whore, you were not a mother, and yet he wanted to know what it felt like to be a feign of your touch.

How would your hands feel on his body? Your delicate fingers wrapped around him?

“Ah,” you ticked at him, pushing off the stone pillar and moving in his direction. “You see, My Prince, when you allow a dragon’s head to be paraded for the city to see, people are going to notice.”

“Power is power. We needn’t parade it unless it was necessary to remind them who they should bend the knee to.”

“At the ill will of a sacred creature?”

Meleys was once a beautiful dragon. It was such a shame that the second time you were able to witness her beauty it was in the butchered attempt of showing off. The grandstanding sickened the soil.

“It does not take a Targaryen to understand that.”

“What would you know of Targaryen customs?” He spoke back. His voice was thin and dry. “You will never know.”

“I apologize… for my lowly status is not on par with such a great house. I am sure my Lord Father would appreciate the sentiment.”

You have a coy, playful smile that he could feel in his bones. The kind that would chide him, never take him too seriously, and one that rarely doubted him.

It was an uneasy feeling. One he would never quite get used to.

“His ambitions are not unknown. How people without power seek it.”

“Is that not why there are whispers of what you have done?” You questioned and his hands turned to fists quickly. “Small folk talk, Aemond. Power is power but when you misuse it, the omen may come true.”

The omen hovered like the storm above. The God’s were battling in the realm in the sky; giants of proportions unfathomable in their richness of blood. They scorched and rattled in the sky as cracks of thunder rumbled throughout the Keep.

“Yet I speak nothing of it,” he eyed you solemnly. “You talk of rumors and fallacies as if they hold truth. Perhaps it is I who should ask where your loyalties preside? Does war scare you?”

Aemond approached you with long strides. His hands lingered at his sides but never held onto his hilt, threatening you with violence or harm for your disagreements.

He could see you did not fear war. Your father would have called on your return if the prospect of war scared a house with the name of your own. A prominent family in the Vale—to the Greens you were a key.

And he could play you a fiddle if you let him.

“No,” you replied, keeping your head tall. “I live in a gilded tower.”

“That has been infiltrated before. It has seen death before.”

“They do not seek me,” your eyes ran along his face as the sky illuminated his sharp features. “But you know that.”

Aemond hummed and in a moment of faulted want, his right hand reached to brush your own. The electricity of shock pulsing through your veins as though it was as important as blood itself.

You swallowed the nervousness that built in your throat at his actions. He was so sure of himself, so different from the man you had known before.

He took his sins and bathed in them. Aemond let the water dry in confidence of himself as Prince Regent. If he was going to rule in his brother’s stead, he needed the reverie of power to seep inside of him.

“Men will seek anything if they are given the chance.”

You traced the direction of his eyes to your hand, how he ghostly itched to touch you again.

“And what is it that you seek?” You questioned quietly. “Is being a ruler not enough?”

In the lull, your ears filled themselves with the sound of your heartbeat. Pumping and beating to the thrills of anticipation you sought in the sordid walls of an ugly Keep. To please a King, well… It was a dangerous thing.

Aemond’s hand touched yours loosely again. His fingers gently grazed yours with a profound intent that was something he sought.

“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

His hand bypassed yours and rested lowly on your hip. The touch stilled you. In the darkness of the hall, the world stopped moving and your vision tunneled. His hand moved higher to rest upon the crux of your hip and stomach, thumb caressing the fabric of your dress. He stepped closer.

Without thinking, you took a step back out of the chills that erupted on your skin, not out of want. He took the space you created and closed it again but followed you as you moved backwards and backwards until your back hit one of the marble columns you had hid behind not twenty minutes earlier.

One of your hands caught yourself on the column and the other wove itself around a post. The wings of the throne room were elevated for spectators that were nonexistent now.

Aemond’s other hand mirrored the other and he held you there.

“If someone came looking for you,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side which allowed his eye to narrow. “What would you let them do to you?”

You furrowed your brows yet the feel of his hands burning through your dress allowed your mouth to run dry.

Nothing. You would let them do nothing to you. You would fight to the death to defend yourself but if it were Aemond, you would let him devour you.

“What about me, hm?” There was a faint smile on his lips. “What would you let me, your Prince Regent, do to you while the Gods watched over us?”

His hands slithered up your torso, drawing a staggered breath from you as he cupped your breasts over your dress and groped hard to feel the flesh. Aemond saw your chest stutter under his touch.

“Tell me,” he whispered, pulling his head in close to yours. His lips became a mere centimeter from yours; breath lingering in the space between you heavy and taught.

“I-I-I,” your nerves got the better of you. Stumbling over your words like a dolt, his hands moved back down and began to gather your dress in his hands.

“Poised to stick pins where the plans now lie but a stuttering fool now.”

“I am not a fool,” you huffed as the cool night air began to make itself known against your ankles, then your shins. “I know what I want.”

Aemond leaned in, knocking his nose gently with yours.

“Tell me,” he repeated.

“I want you to touch me,” you instructed him. “I want to feel the mouth of a King on my lips and under the Gods I do sin, but I wish to feel his lips elsewhere.”

“Oh?” Aemond hummed as his hands continued their path. “I may not hold the title of King-”

“You are a King, Aemond,” you said assertively and his hands stopped.

“You rule in the place of Aegon’s incapacity and by all law and rules, you are the one to carry the heavy sword. You speak the actions and see them true.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed at the reality.

Aemond’s power lingered. It lingered in this great hall but it was a shell. The Aemond he felt in his bones was still as scared as the one who killed Lucerys.

“I wish to feel your lips elsewhere,” you whispered, breath fanning his face. He tilted his head upwards and for a split second, his lips touched yours.

Intoxicating; you would have fallen to your knees had you not already wished to see him on his.

“I want to see a King on his knees.”

Aemond could only smirk. He planted a quick, brief kiss on your lips before bunching up the skirt of your dress as he knelt down to the floor. A beckoning, ethereal call from above led him to his knees to worship. With his hands collecting the material of your dress, Aemond’s hands met yours and opened them the best he could for you to grab onto it. He used the leverage of your assistance to bring down your stockings, clear the way of his alter as the thunder roared from above.

You let your head fall back against the pillar as his hands roamed your thighs, inching higher and higher but still skimming past the now unguarded temple.

You could not help but look at the exits in view as though someone would walk through them at this hour.

This late hour when all of the good, pious Lord and Ladies, Prince and Princesses, laid in their beds asleep—sans the King he would never fault himself for burning.

“Aemond,” you spoke with a voice that shook. “What if someone were to see us?”

He stopped his hands, gazing up at you from the ground on which he knelt.

“Let them see then,” he kissed the front of your thighs. “If they see, then I will marry you.”

Fuck. It made your heart leap in your chest. A frog in your throat, the honesty in his eye was enough for your anxieties to settle but your excitement to grow.

He would marry you. What a world you wished you lived in.

If all were true, it would have happened the first time he touched you.

“Drop your dress,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, you dropped the skirt of your dress and he vanished before your eyes.

But you could feel him.

You could feel the breath of his body releasing itself just beyond where you ached for him the most. His grip on your thighs was bruising. Aemond used his position to prop one of your legs on his shoulder, sending you off balance and into the bannister behind you.

But then his hot breath met where you wanted him and the feeling melted you from the inside. Aemond peppered kisses on your mound, waiting until the perfect moment to lick a stripe through your folds and with it, you folded yourself.

Daydreams of his hands on yours was not enough. The feel of your hand in the solitude of night where the sins of pleasure were trapped behind heavy doors could not compare. Aemond attached himself to your flesh and sucked, hard, before lapping again in a more gentle fashion. He repeated it again and again until the wetness began to gather more audibly.

There was no stopping the breathless pants escaping your lips.

You gripped hard on the marbled post. If you were the strongest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you could have crushed it beneath your fingertips. Aemond’s tongue laded the wetness and gathered it in a lewd slurping noise to your clit only to run his tongue over it in brisk movements.

“Aemond-” you swallowed your moan. Knees threatening to buckle, you wanted to grip onto him. Your hands sought his shoulders, his head or hair, and a soft bed.

The Iron Throne was taunting you in the background. Power so divine, so close yet a million miles away.

Aemond wouldn’t marry you, but in the moment, you would live sinfully until the Gods caught you in truth.

He let out a low hum that made your senses tingle. He too was enjoying the pleasure he could bring, growing his own in his trousers that begged for its own mercy. Aemond could feel you palm at his head from the fabric that fell over his head—a delicacy; the rapture of someone he could love one day if he let himself.

Your helpless want forced you to roll your hips against his face as though his tongue was not enough. Aemond gripped your hips tightly to guide you against his mouth.

“Shit.” The words fell from your lips freely.

“Aemond, I don’t think I will fare much longer,” you admitted to him and felt yourself burn from the inside. His accommodations to your wants, the fluidity of his tongue against you in need was sending you barreling toward the edge.

Your mewls became whines that rivaled the thunder.

In an instant, he removed his mouth from yours and appeared from under your skirts. Your clit throbbed as the blood began to rush downwards and a sickening wetness that was not your finish began to trickle down your leg.

“Wha-”

You could not speak before his lips met yours aggressively. You could taste yourself on his lips and for a second, you wanted to recoil at the thought but his hands cupped the back of your head softly and everything melted into you.

You wished he would marry you.

“I am not done,” he broke the kiss and admitted. “But I could not hold that in any longer.”

His sentiment took you aback. Your eyes searched for a lie; begging for a fallacy to come true and reveal itself in the ugly colors of night but there was nothing. There was nothing but truth and in it, it broke your heart in the slightest.

Aemond wanted to kiss you. He wanted to please you, pleasure you, hold you tightly as a husband would do but he wouldn’t marry you.

He couldn’t marry you.

But he would love you in the depths of darkness as his power soared for a brief moment in time and the hands of a fair lady, opposed by his mother, warmed his bed in the evening. May the throne be his witness, Aemond Targaryen was a sinner.

He kissed you again before falling to his knees once more.

As promised, he worked in quick licks to ignite the spark. It lit up the room brighter than the sky as the Gods boomed in discontent but they worked to drown out the sounds of your elation the closer you became. Aemond let you gather the dress back in your hands so you could see him as his tongue circled your clit and he pierced your cunt with two fingers sliding in the wetness easily. Your legs trembled. His other hand ran soft strokes along the muscle to sooth you but it was fruitless.

His fingers curved inside of you, massaging your walls as they clenched around him and swore to the heavens for a release.

“Fuck, Aemond.”

He enjoyed hearing the words no Queen would dare mutter. It dared him to move faster, to move more heavy against your walls, against your lips as he continued to lap the juices that made the ghosts in the halls look away in a blush.

It was building to a precipice inside of you. As though a volcano was erupting, you let out sounds he had never heard. You were not trying to be quiet. You were letting the castle hear your pleasure that would send you to a horrible fate.

And you begged him to bring you to the end. His name lost its true meaning as it became lost in the night, falling from your lips breathlessly and your eyes shut tightly as the chills in your spin sent you spiraling.

He was no God, but Aemond Targaryen gave what he had as a God should.

“Darling,” he murmured from below. “Let them all see what a King can do.”

And you did.

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and thanks for letting me write this little self indulgent fic.

1K notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 5 months ago

Text

Part 2!

Finally finished moving house so hopefully I’ll be updating semi-regularly again.

Content: brief and non-descriptive explanation of Rasputin’s backstory (injury and illness)

Agatha is over again.

You don’t know why. She doesn’t like you, your cats, or anything as far as you can tell. It seems her primary motivation for talking to you at all is to exercise her role as neighborhood matriarch. She “keeps tabs” on everyone, but especially you - the unmarried woman living alone that keeps odd hours.

A rebellious part of you wants to roll your eyes and make snarky comments whenever she sniffs at your life choices. The same part of you that would make scenes at holiday dinners or slam doors when you were a teenager. That girl has long been smoothed and polished - or maybe just worn down. It’s so much effort to make rude, nosy, traditionalists clutch their pearls. Much easier to smile in their face and do what you want anyway.

Still, that part of you itches at the surface sometimes. Makes your eye twitch.

“I know your generation is different but that’s just not the type of neighborhood we live in,” she’s saying.

You’re a bit foggy from a late night patching plotholes and haven’t registered much of anything she’s said. You really just want to go inside and stare at the TV until words make sense again.

“What do you mean?” you ask, for once not feigning your confusion. But of course this is the one time she doesn’t buy it.

She looks down her frail little nose at you, cornflower blue eyes baleful. You don’t feel scolded, but you sense that you’re supposed to.

“Now you know just what I mean. People will talk.”

People always talk, it’s an unfortunate byproduct of the human condition. Like a deaf bird, you’ve never understood all the chatter.

“Talk about… the buttercups?” you wonder, pointing at the blossoms. You’re quite proud of them actually.

Agatha puffs up and hisses out a breath. “You ought to keep to this side of the street. Away from those men.”

You blink. Men…?

A bang comes from across the street, followed by rough German cursing. (At least you think it’s cursing.)

Ah. Those men.

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.”

It comes out of your mouth automatically, innocent excuses for something you remind yourself you don’t need to justify.

“I’d rather they didn’t feel welcome,” she snips. “Better they sell that awful house and go somewhere else.”

You flick your eyes over her bony shoulder. Konig passes by a window, massive biceps on display as he lifts something outside of view.

“They’re nice,” you say. Nice to look at. Krueger’s face alone quite makes up for his conversational shortcomings.

“The only reason men like that act nice is because they want something,” Agatha snaps. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

Yeah, soooo respectable when Bertram rifles through your mail or Lisa looks into your backyard.

“Well,” you muse, “better to be on good terms with them, I think. They're not the type you want to piss off.”

That defiant streak lights up at the way her face sours. If only she knew what sort of words you use when it’s just you and the cats.

“You’ve just proven my point. Those are not the type of men young ladies should associating themselves with.”

You have to try very hard not to scrunch up your face. One blessed day, people will stop referring to you as “young lady” in that insufferably condescending tone. You can’t wait for that day.

Some of your mounting irritation must show on your face because she takes on a sickly sweet “teaching” tone.

“Neighborhoods are like gardens. Everything grows best when the rows are kept separate. That’s why the farmers plant them that way.”

You glance pointedly at your own yard, where the flowers are blooming in haphazard sprigs wherever you tossed the seeds. Agatha’s lips get thin.

“Best that you stay on this side of the street, missy. That’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

She spins on her heel and stalks off like a particularly drab bird. You stand on your porch for a second longer, face contorted in annoyed confusion. You don’t even have strong feelings about the three men; the simple act of someone - Agatha of all people - labeling them as “Off Limits” makes them instantly more appealing.

Maybe you should see someone about that or something. Then the pathetic cries of Guy through the window lure you back inside.

It’s nearly sundown when there’s a knock at your door. Still agitated from your talk with Agatha, you puff up like Shithead when Rasputin sits on her favorite toy. March up to the door, fling it open - and come up short when you see the three men looming on your doorstep.

Before you can recover, a little gray blob scrambles past your ankles, crying like the sky is falling.

“Oh!” Konig gasps in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, Bubchen!”

And all 6-foot-plus of Austrian instantly folds to scoop Guy up. You��ve barely managed a now-useless shout of alarm when Shithead wedges her fat head between your calves. Behind you, Rasputin politely screeches his little chainsmoker call.

And somehow, in the chaos of fumbling for furballs, you end up with all three men in your foyer.

Guy is purring away in Konig’s thick arms. Shithead is attempting to scale Krueger’s tight cargo pants. And Rasputin is pawing the air at Nikto, visibly calculating the jump to his wide shoulders.

Which leaves you with the clean serving platter you dropped off just yesterday. You blink at it for a moment, then glance at them.

“So… the cookies were good then?”

“Very good!” Konig rushes to say. Krueger and Nikto each nod, almost comically solemn.

“We have no baking or cooking skills,” Krueger continues, “so tell us what needs fixing.”

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. The house. He wants to fix your house. It’s surprisingly sweet, and you laugh a bit, shaking your head. “You don’t need to do that, I was just-“

“Is custom,” Nikto interrupts.

Konig nods with all the enthusiasm of a bobblehead as Krueger crosses his arms. (Whatever effect he’s going for is ruined by Shithead clinging to his pocket and screaming.)

“In our country, we bring gifts as guests. Our gift is repairs,” he explains.

You arch your brows playfully. “I don’t remember inviting you to be guests.”

He arches his brows right back. “We did not invite you either.”

Well shit.

“Okay, okay. I guess there’s a couple things…”

Konig perks up. “We would be happy to help, Biene!”

It’s strange having men in the house. You think you should be more nervous about it, can’t remember the last non-family man allowed into your space. Especially alone.

There’s a sharp awareness, of course. Hard not to be aware of them. It’s not just that they’re big, dwarfing all of your you-sized furniture. There’s a presence to them, something felt but not seen by your untrained eye. Maybe it’s in the set of their shoulders, the way they stand with both boots firmly planted. Maybe it’s the precise way they speak and move, not just separately but as a unit. Acting more like a collective consciousness than as individuals.

Whatever it is, you couldn’t ignore them if you tried. And you’re definitely not trying.

You set Krueger to work on the kitchen cabinet you’ve been meaning to replace. He clicks his tongue at the tape-and-lean method you’ve been using to keep the old one in place. Shithead immediately sets to work helping by gnawing at his shoelaces.

Konig is stationed in the guest bathroom, where the sink doesn’t run right. Guy comes mewing into your arms when he’s set down, effectively tattling that his new friend is mean and awful for withholding affection for even a moment.

You try not to visibly hesitate when you corner yourself in your own laundry room. Nikto has followed you right in, seemingly unaware that he’s invading your personal space. He’s not even looking at you though, eyes zeroed in on the dryer you point to.

“It’s not heating up, so the clothes stay wet or take forever to dry,” you explain.

He grunts in acknowledgement, then nods to Rasputin, who has taken up residence on the washer. His one golden eye blinks slow and serene at the two of you.

“What happened?” he asks.

You hum, softening in pleasant surprise at the question.

“I’m not sure how he lost his eye. It was infected when I found him. But I know for sure the tail and leg are from getting hit by a car.”

You sigh, scratching at Rasputin’s chin. A rusty purr starts up as he tilts his head, revealing some nasty scars around his throat.

“The vet said that that’s probably from a fight with another cat,” you add.

Guy steps from your arms to cuddle up to Rasputin, shoving his face into his ragged ear. Grooming time, then. That’s as good an indication as any that Nikto’s probably safe enough.

“I ran down from an office building to save him.” You blink hard, eyes stinging just from the memory. “But anyway, he gets to rest and be pampered now.”

When you glance up from Rasputin’s happy little face, you almost startle at the sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. Your face feels warm, even though you’re not embarrassed.

“I’ll, um, get out of the way,” you say, clearing your throat. “Keep an eye on things, Ras.”

With the men occupied, you find yourself once again at loose ends. You drift towards the den, but it feels awkward to sit on your ass watching TV while your neighbors fix your house.

You check the time on your phone - ignoring the text from your mother - and figure it’s not too early to start dinner.

“Will I be in the way if I start cooking?” you ask Krueger.

He flicks you a dimissive glance. “A little thing like you?”

You scoff and cross to the fridge. “You could have just said no.”

“Nein,” he snorts.

Rude bastard, you think - though not without fondness, unfortunately. The surly attitude is already growing on you.

There’s meat and spare boxes of pasta and veggies - that’ll work. You start tugging out ingredients, mentally doubling portions for your guests. They look like they work out even beyond the construction labor, hopefully you’ll have enough to satisfy their appetites.

“So what’s the plan with the house?” you ask as you get to work. “Just fixing it up to sell or…?”

“We will live there, the three of us,” Krueger answers. He swipes a screwdriver from Shithead’s batting paws. “Somewhere to stay when we are not working.”

You hum, biting back the next obvious question, loathe to become as nosy as the rest of your neighbors. Still… getting to know people, right?

It sounds like they expect to travel a lot. You can’t imagine them as business types - not in the traditional sense anyway. Though the image of Konig sitting in a tiny cubicle does make you smile a bit. Between their statures, their clothes, their shoes, and the occasional nasty scar, you take a guess.

“Are you guys military?”

“Contractor,” Krueger corrects.

You perk up. “Wait, really?”

He scowls. “Does it sound like a joke?”

You huff and turn back to the veggies you’re cutting. “No, no. I just - you know about guns and knives and things, then?”

He pauses. You shoot him a curious glance, only to quickly look away at the intense scrutiny directed your way.

“Yes,” he answers slowly.

“Then… could you maybe answer some questions…?”

His eyes narrow. “Questions?”

You keep your gaze on the cutting board. “Okay, wait, it's not suspicious. I’m a writer and it’s hard to google very specific questions sometimes. It’s just easier to ask an expert in person.”

Never mind that majority of your readers would never know the difference. It bothers you when things aren’t accurate.

He makes a considering noise. “A writer?”

You flush. “That’s what I do. Why I’m always home? I publish fiction.”

He stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. You peek his way, shocked to see a task you’ve been putting off for weeks already done. Hell, it looks sturdier than the rest of the cabinet doors, too.

“And your fiction requires knowledge of guns and knives and ‘things’?” he asks.

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Sometimes…”

“Fine. I will answer your questions,” he allows.

You beam. “Thank you!”

He grunts, snatches a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth.

“What else needs doing?”

Dinner ends up much more pleasant than expected. Nikto abstains from eating, you assume because he doesn’t feel comfortable removing his ever-present mask, but he sits at the table with Rasputin in his lap. He speaks little, and has that intense gaze that prickles at your freeze instinct, but you grow used to it as the meal progresses.

Konig, however, becomes chattier with food in his belly. He’s much more forthcoming when he answers your polite and totally casual questions - though you notice Krueger kick him under the table once or twice.

You suppose he gets you back by effectively announcing to the others what your career is. Which just kicks off the usual line of questioning about how and why you got into writing. Still, there’s no judgment from these men that make their living in labors of blood and sacrifice, where you expected censure. You only find genuine curiosity and intrigue, good-natured questions. Not even Krueger makes backhanded comments about it not being a “real” job.

Before you know it, the moon is high and you’re sending the three of them off, bellies full and a little friendlier than before. Nikto nods to you (and Rasputin) as he leaves, a big Tupperware of his dinner portion in hand.

You tell yourself it’s not anticipation that goes through you, knowing they’ll be back with it soon.

Previous | Next

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #cod krueger #sebastian krueger #konig #konig cod #cod nikto #polyamory #bad neighbours #men at work

1K notes · View notes