#biscuit injury cw

[bloodywolfwings]

I'm going to be killed for this

Kimber by @kkolg

Biscuit and Spike by me

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Chicken Noodle Soup | Guest Check

Kyle is bedridden after the Piccadilly attack. Nina promised his mum she'd take care of him.

cw: description of injury, sexual assault mention

masterpost

“Thanks for dropping me off!” Nina grinned as she heaved the soup pot up from John’s backseat. There was a fresh layer of snow on the ground and fairy lights up and down the street. The light was on in Kyle’s apartment. He’d only been out of the hospital for two weeks. Still mostly bed ridden beyond physical therapy and the bathroom. His mum had asked her to keep an eye on him. She promised she would so now she had to haul soup, fresh bread, and biscuits up several stories. 

“Of course, love. Let me know if you or Kyle need anything.” John had helped her make everything earlier in the day. Classic chicken noodle with fresh roasted chicken and enough noodles and veggies to make it a hearty meal. She’d made sourdough and biscuits. 

“I will!” She closed the car door with her hip. She shivered as the door to the building closed behind her and the warm air hit. It was a struggle with everything in her arms. She never minded it. She was just happy Kyle was okay. 

It was late October when they heard the bomb go off. She, John and Simon were working on the menu for John’s new restaurant. Kyle had told her the day before to stay in or stay with John. That something bad could happen. John had to hold her to keep her from running out. She knew in the pit of her stomach something was wrong. Started wailing when Kyle’s mum called her. 

He was alive but beaten to hell. Broken legs and ribs, concussion, internal hemorrhaging, shrapnel embedded almost everywhere. She and his family took shifts watching over him in the hospital. Took him days to wake up. No brain damage but he was going to be medically discharged from the army. She knew it broke his heart. As much as she hated that he enlisted, she didn’t want it to end like this. 

“Nina! What have you got cooked up for us today?” Declan greeted. He was one of Kyle’s roommates. Irish, incredibly kind but a bit of a bellend sometimes. Gary, the third roommate, was behind him. Gary was also very sweet but she had never heard him speak. “It’s a once in a blue moon thing,” Kyle had said. Gary waved before offering to take the pot out of her hands. 

“Soup, bread and biscuits. There’ll be leftovers,” she assured. 

“I don’t know what Kyle did to deserve you but I’m glad he did it. Let me get the lift for you.” Declan hit the buttons for her. She refused Gary’s offer of help. They were headed out anyway. It would be nice to be alone with Kyle for a bit. 

“Thank you. See you guys later.”

Once she was inside she set about putting the pot on the stove and getting everything ready for dinner. She peeked inside Kyle’s room and he was asleep. He slept a lot, needed it to heal. He’d always apologize for it but she liked just watching him sleep. The boys did their best to help him on the day to day but Kyle had always been independent. He didn’t like asking for help. 

He wouldn’t let Nina help with his wheelchair despite the fact his arms were still sore from the numerous surgeries to remove the shrapnel. Anytime she got him out of the flat he only wanted to go to John’s restaurant and that was only because he’d got a ramp for Kyle to get in and out easily. It was a gamble for most other places and Nina struggled to lift him up and over even small steps. It was easier when Roach and Declan were around. Always eager to help those two.

While the soup heated up she crept into Kyle’s room. It wasn’t easy to wake him. He was a deep sleeper (mostly due to the painkillers) and now startled awake no matter what she did. Sitting down on the bed, she took one of his hands in hers and squeezed gently.

“Hey baby,” Nina said softly. He still jumped awake.

“Nina?” He was groggy, eyes blinking open slowly. 

“Good evening, sleepyhead. Here, drink.” She took his water from the nightstand and held it up to his mouth. “I made soup and bread.”

“You really are an angel. Got me worried I died in my sleep.” He gave a toothy smile, giving her hand a kiss before she pulled it away. She bit her lip, turning her head to hide her face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that.”

Kyle wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him and leaned his head against her side. “You’re still an angel though.”

“Let me get you food.” She ran a hand over his curls before standing up. She heard him cuss at himself under his breath. She knew how hard all this was for him. Having all these career prospects ripped away in one explosion. She also remembered being the first one to the hospital. His parents had to drive down from Birmingham. Evie, his sister who was freshly at uni in London arrived shortly after Nina. She and his sister just held each other in the hospital waiting room. Evie never told him she was out with friends that night, just a couple streets away. “I had no idea he was there,” She cried. Nina promised to keep that a secret. 

She thought about all those wasted years. How she was so upset over him joining the service and how she refused to talk to him for almost a year. How much she missed him. How happy she was when he came back from basic and fucked her in the back of his car. How they played a continuous game of “what are we?” because she was afraid to commit, that her own secrets would come out eventually. They were friends with occasional benefits. She wanted more. She wanted to be his girlfriend again. Things felt different now. A brush with death would have him wanting more than her. 

She quickly wiped her tears on her sweater sleeves before plating up his dinner. She buttered his bread and got him freshwater. 

“Bon appétit,” she grinned as she brought the tray in and set it in his lap, careful of his casts. 

“Thank you, Nina.” 

She sat and ate at his desk while some panel show played on the telly. She mostly watched Kyle. Making sure he wasn’t struggling and that he finished everything. He didn’t like it but she just reminded him she promised his mum. 

“Nina?” He was looking at her with a nervous expression.

“Something wrong?” She hoped her face conveyed her thought of ‘whatever you need from me, you’ll have’. 

“C’mere.”

They moved the tray to the desk and she sat down beside him again. He ran his fingers along the bottom of her sweater. 

“I love you, Nina.”

A warm feeling spread through her body. She dreamed about those words so why did she feel so ashamed hearing them?

“I want to go back to us. I love you and I miss you and I don’t just want you sometimes. I want you all the time.” Her hands balled up into fists on her lap. It felt like a gift she didn’t deserve. Oh but she wanted it too. God, she wanted him. “Don’t cry. I…I didn’t mean to make you upset, Nina. I’m sorr-”

She kissed him. It was awkward with her arching weirdly to avoid hurting him.

“I love you. I love you and I miss you.” She cried. “I thought I lost you forever. You’re my best friend and I love you and I…I thought you-”

Kyle held the back of her neck and pulled her forehead against his. 

“It’s us. Just us. Always us. Yeah?” She nodded with him. He kissed her. Much more tenderly than she kissed him. She climbed onto the bed, careful of his injuries, and curled up to his side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“Never stopped loving you,” He said as he kissed the top of her head. 

“Me either.”

It felt like a lie even if it wasn’t. Her first and only year at university. A boy that reminded her so much of Kyle until he didn’t. A boy that hurt her, violated her. She gritted her teeth. Her secret trapped behind porcelain. 

She waited till he fell asleep again before packing everything up and leaving. She left a note on the desk telling him to call her when he woke up and she’d come back with breakfast. She ended it “Love Nina.”

Can you tell this was originally supposed to be smut?

Another post hopefully going up soon after this.

Tag List: @queen-ilmaree @macravishedbymactavish @water-bearz @pvssytrux @vampire-matcha

[sailtomarina]

I bet I can do it better

cw: references to sex

He stood behind her where she hovered in front of the cooling rack, hands at the ready with her piping bag. She’d already done the eyes and smiles of two dozen gingerbread men, and was now planning her design of their outfits.

“Why are they all blokes?” he breathed into her ear, hands settling onto her waist and giving a slight squeeze.

“That’s the only shape I had. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat any,” she sniped back, but there wasn’t any real heat behind her words.

That was because Hermione had made these specifically for Draco after he’d dared make the declaration that florentines of all things were the best Christmas biscuit. Hermione pointed out the wonderful simplicity of a simple gingerbread biscuit paired with a decadent beverage like eggnog or hot cocoa. He’d hit back in defense of the florentine by explaining how the fruits and nuts made it so nothing else was needed–it was perfect as is.

He was wrong, obviously. 

Hermione knew that while orange, almond, and pistachio florentines were indeed delightful, there were only so many bites one could take before the flavors were just too much. Her favorite, however, could be enjoyed by the handful until the plate was empty with nary a crumb left behind as evidence.

One dozen of her gingerbread men were the more traditional snappy type, the sort of biscuit every proper British citizen would nod approvingly over as they sipped their tea. The other dozen followed her preferred style of biscuit, one those same good citizens might have found appalling.

They were soft and chewy with only the edges just crispy enough to provide the necessary contrast in textures. They were perfection. 

Draco didn’t stand a chance.

“Why do half of them look like they’re winking?”

“So I can tell at a glance which ones are hard and which ones are soft.”

He nuzzled into her neck, lips trailing along the skin. He was pressed so close to her back that not even a hand could have wiggled its way between them.

“Guess which one I am right now.”

“Draco.” His huff of amusement jostled her arm, sending a crooked line of frosting down one biscuit’s center. “Now look what you made me do!”

He paused to look over her shoulder once more. “Oh, dear.”

“‘Oh, dear,’ he says,” Hermione mocked in her best imitation of his haughty voice.

“I fail to see how your inability to focus is my fault, love.” Keeping one hand on her waist, he slid the other around to her front, down, down.

She dropped the piping bag and bucked against him to try and dislodge the offending appendage, only to realize that was probably what he expected, no, wanted, her to do. The instant she pushed away from the counter, his hand slid into place, cupping her sex, and she felt an unmistakable hardness pressed against her back. Hermione struggled to keep her mind on task. She had biscuits to decorate, a wizard to disprove, and the beginnings of a demanding throb between her legs.

“As if you could in my place.”

“I bet I can do it better.” He flexed his fingers as if to prove his point, and she nearly whined at the torture.

“Go on, then. Show me what you can do.”

Hermione nearly stumbled as he let go and stepped to the side. Before she could say another word, he’d picked up her piping bag and hovered over his side of the cooling rack.

“Any particular requests?”

She’d meant for him to tear open her pants and slide those long fingers of his inside of her; he’d certainly done it often enough in nearly every room of their home. Hermione hadn’t literally expected him to show her up in biscuit decoration. 

“No. Just make them look smart.”

“So, Slytherins, not Gryffindors? Ouch.” He rubbed his side after her swift jab, his lip jutting out in a pretend display of injury.

“Their clothes, Draco.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he replied in a sing-song, and she nearly murdered him right where he stood.

Instead, she waited until he started piping, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration the way it always did when he brewed potions. Watching his progress, she had to admit that his attention to detail translated well here, with each gingerbread man turning into more stylish versions of themselves. He muttered under his breath as he worked, transforming the color of the icing to accentuate details like little chains leading into the waist pockets of each gingerbread man.

“That’s a lot of green,” Hermione mused, trying to keep her tone inconspicuous.

He grunted in reply, too focused to even come up with a verbal response.

Draco only had himself to blame, really.

Hermione silently stepped behind him and hooked her thumbs into his belt. He froze for a brief moment, then continued what he’d been doing without comment. She palmed his arse, still tight from playing pick-up games of Quidditch, then moved up against him so her breasts flattened against his back.

“Granger…” he warned, his arms still moving from one biscuit to the other.

“Hm?”

“That isn’t going to work.”

“Shhhh, just concentrate on what you’re doing.” She held back a giggle at the look she imagined on his face. Chances were it was twisted in indecision on whether to finish what he’d started, or finish what he’d started.

This time it was Hermione who boldly slid her hand down around his front with unwavering accuracy. He groaned as she stopped over the heated length of him and stroked suggestively from tip to root.

“You’re going to get yours here in a minute,” he said, dark promises heavy in each word.

And she did, but not until after he’d dotted the last waistcoat button, swallowed a mouthful of biscuit, then proclaimed her a baking genius, for which she rewarded him by licking every speck of leftover icing off of his quivering body.

WC 1002

Twitter prompt from @DramionePrompts

Cross posted on Tumblr and [eventually] AO3

I may or may not be writing a one-shot featuring gingerbread cookies, which is why this particular treat was on my mind while I wrote this prompted work. I, too, prefer my cookies soft and chewy, not snappy or brittle.

[lostlimerence]

It’s 2am…

Cw: abuse discussion/injuries

It’s 2am.

Eddie stares at the ceiling, tendrils of smoke drift lazily in the air, watches as they weave, twirl, dance then dissipate. He grimaces a little, even he’s unimpressed by his own need for nicotine at such an ungodly hour, “fuckin addict,” he mumbles softly to himself as he takes another drag.

He does need it tonight though, he reminds himself, needs to steady the constant jitter, the constant itch that lives just below his skin, he wants to feel grounded, calm, steady, for this.

Another inhale, then more smoke streams out on a sigh. He looks to his left, to the golden boy bathed in silver light, stretched out, eyes closed, lips lightly parted.

He looks like a god, Eddie thinks.

And Eddie could write, he could write anything in this moment, poetry, lyrics, love letters for his golden boy bathed in silver light. But he’s not going to, not tonight, tonight they need to talk.

Because that silver light catches not only his beauty but also his pain. Catches the inky bruises that spatter his chest, that seep into each other, that meld into an indeterminable array of purples, greens and blues. Catches the barely there threads of webbing scars that twine intricate patterns into his skin. And Eddie sees them, he sees them with a lump in his throat, a stone he can’t swallow no matter how hard he tries.

And Billy won’t speak, won’t speak of important, serious matters in the hours of the day, but in the night…in these hours sometimes he’ll sigh and say something so raw, so tender, so sweet, that Eddie finds he can’t quite breathe.

These hours, there’s something about them, something about the soft, secret hours of an early morning, when the air is still and the sky is black. Something that cracks them open, that lets the hard things out.

Eddie stares a little longer before he starts to speak, “who was it?” he says it gently. It’s a simple question, one that has no weight if your asking something mundane like, who ate the last biscuit? who dropped the milk? But it’s one that feels like lead when you ask it of a boy who lies next to you littered with wounds.

Billy keeps his eyes closed, “who was what?” he murmurs back, his voice husky with sleep.

Eddie sighs, takes another drag, looks down eyes brimming with sadness as he whispers back, “you know what, darling.”

They sit in the silence of the night for a beat, Billy takes his own deep breath, opens his eyes. Watery blues meet warm brown, they sit suspended for a moment. And Eddie can almost hear Billy say, god Eds please don’t ask.

Eddie licks his lip, stubs out his cigarette on the bedside table and oh so slowly reaches out a hand, gives Billy time to stop him, he doesn’t.

When a light finger touches, the tiny circle of a scar seared just above Billy’s heart a small whimper is followed by one word, “cigarette,” his own heart contracts painfully in his chest. He moves on traces the edge of a thicker line that curves from his back, a shaky inhale followed by “belt,” and god Eddie wants to kill someone, he breathes out slowly traces a thin short scar that runs across his bicep, Billy presses his eyes shut, a tear tracks down his cheek, melts into his pillow “glass,” he whispers, a little cracked.

They continue, on and on, Eddie’s touches silent questions, Billy's words, heart wrenching answers. They keep on until Eddie can’t bear it, until Billy can’t bear it, until Billy’s pillow is salt soaked with their combined tears.

The questions stop, and Eddie goes back, places a gentle kiss on Billy’s lips, then on the burn, then the on the belt, then on the glass, Eddie grits his teeth. He continues, he kisses, he kisses and he kisses and Billy threads a gentle hand into Eddie’s hair and smooths his thumb softly over sensitive hidden skin.

Eddie keeps kissing, presses his love over scars, into bruises, focuses on the love he feels for his broken boy bathed in silver light, pushes the anger away for now.

A little later, he feels Billy tense, sees him work the muscles of his throat, as he pushes out an answer “Neil,” he says it staring at the ceiling, he says it with a crack in his voice, with tears on his cheeks and his hand in Eddie’s hair.

Eddie can see him teetering on that edge, gets ready to catch him when he falls. It doesn’t take long, it’s Eddie’s response, a gentle cracked “oh sweetheart,” that sends him crumbling into sobbing, gasping breaths. But it’s ok because when Billy breaks, Eddie’s right there with him.

Mungrove - hard conversations at 2am inspired by @giurochedadomani’s post about them and sleep x

[teamdilf]

Hurt & Comfort Dialogue Prompts - 4: "You probably don't want to watch this" please?

CW: injuries, references to dodgy medical treatment on oneself, and a whole lot of cursing.

"You probably don't want to watch this," Avi mumbles as he holds a towel to his left thigh, right next to where, just a few months ago, he removed a piece of shrapnel right in this very kitchen. Avi is going through the first aid drawer, pulls out a suture kit, a role of gauze and tape, and brings them to the table.

"Shit. Forgot the alcohol." Instead of forcing Avi to stand back up on his leg, he grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol and brings it over to him.

"Meant the medicinal sort but this works too," Avi says and he stares at his boyfriend in horror as he realizes that he's wanting to suture his wound while intoxicated.

While waffling between enabling this and starting an argument about how Avi really needs to take better care of himself, his boyfriend opens the bottle of rubbing alcohol, rips away his torn undersuit and pours the liquid straight onto the wound.

"Motherfucking son of a bitch! Fucking fuck asshole, fuck!"

"Normally people use cotton pads drenched in rubbing alcohol instead of pouring it into an open wound like a waterfall," he says, apparently choosing enablement. He's involved now, which means helping Avi perform surgery on himself.

Or is it surgery if one is just closing a wound and not fishing around inside for shrapnel?

"Hurts like a motherfucker, but you know what's even more fucking annoying? When people are fucking gentle and make the sting linger. It's over now and I get to do this," Avi says as he begins stitching himself up, wincing as he does.

"Normally one uses a local anesthetic..."

"Fresh fuckin' out of it."

Now, he knows that isn't precisely true and wanders out of the kitchen, goes to the master bathroom, opens the drawer and pulls out a tube of ointment with a mild anesthetic in it. This will have the side benefit of lowering the chances of his boyfriend going septic on him. Apparently that has happened before while performing medical procedures on himself.

He walks back into the kitchen watching in mixed horror and admiration as Avi closes his wound as if sewing a pair of pants and not his own flesh, and hands him the ointment. "Please use this."

Avi takes it and makes a show of applying it, though his expression reveals that he's mostly humouring him. He finishes closing his wound, pours another waterfall of rubbing alcohol over it, curses three council species and his dead mother, and bandages it.

The moment Avi stands up, he throws his arms around him and holds him tightly. "What happened?"

All he knows is that Avi went on a mission yesterday and returned today covered in krogan blood and sporting this wound, as well as evidence of half-healed burns tended to by medi-gel.

"Best not to know, biscuit," Avi says softly. "I made it home, so can that be enough of a story?"

A good half the time Avi comes home with some sort of injury - whether it be bruises, burns, bullet wounds or stab wounds. His body is a map of scars revealing a life far harder than his own, and he's afraid that one day his work will take him away from him for good.

That night, as Avi sleeps in their bed next to him, he reads over the email he received from a woman named Jien Garson; one he had initially assumed was a phishing scam, that promises an opportunity in the private sector that would take him "further away than he can ever imagine".

Maybe this is just a scam and he'll wind up having to sort things out with his bank after his credit chit information is stolen. Or, maybe this is the ticket to saving Avi and his combat AI, Marius.

A place where his little family of three can be open about who and what they are.

[ngkiscool]

This week was suppose to be only about Wensleydale and Brian, but I couldn’t find enough stories about them so added a few more about the rest of The Them. All the stories are SFW, only the last one has warnings.

Next weeks will be about the holidays - please send recs for stories that focus on supporting characters (as in, Aziraphale and Crowley are not the main ones). Self recs are  encouraged!

Baby B by thewightknight - rated G, 512 words. Focusing on Wensleydale and Wensleydale’s parents. Summary: Whatever happened to that third baby, on the night of the Antichrist's birth?

Rescue Party and Chocolate Cake by Zeckarin - rated G, 614 words. Focusing on The Them, Newt and Dog. Summary: The Them are inventing a new game. Intense arguing ensues.

The Four Bikers of the Beginning Times by mistrali - rated G, 860 words. Focusing on The Them. Summary: “We’ll be juvenile d’linquents,” Adam said, with all the aplomb of eleven. He‘d seen some on American films and thought it very grand. “Outlaws, riding wild and runnin’ free. Like Robin Hood.”

Friends Will Be Friends by @anonymousdandelion - rated G, 600 words. Focusing on The Them and Dog. Summary: The other three Them find Adam in the woods, finishing a biscuit and moodily kicking pinecones while Dog barks futilely at squirrels. Plainly, Adam is sulking. Equally plainly, something has to be done.

Camp Out in Hogback Wood by @supergeek21​ - rated G, 588 words. Focusing on The Them and Dog. Summary: A little over a year after the Apocalypse, life has returned to normal for the antichrist and his band of friends.

Special by Nny - rated G, 582 words. Focusing on Wensleydale and Brian. Summary: A Them fic, set when they're in University.

Fish Out of Water by irisbleufic - rated T, 910 words. Focusing on Wensleydale and Brian. Summary: Wensleydale considers this, chewing his lip. Onscreen, there's suddenly a lot of blood. “I don't mind being in charge for once,” he admits. “Both of us, I mean.” Brian snorts. “Going by who orders me to do the washing up—”  “Oi,” Wensleydale sighs, turning up the volume. “Shut it.”  “Got some cheek in you now,” Brian says, punching Wensleydale's arm. “Feisty. I like it.”

Six Years After... by andrealyn - rated T, 468 words. Focusing on Wensleydale and Brian. Summary: Six Years After The Event-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Spoke-Of-Except-When-In-Dire-Need-Of-A-Really-Cool-Story, something new happens. 

Changes the Same by HSavinien - rated T, 1.1K words. Focusing on Wensleydale, Brian and Pepper. Summary: There's a difference between being friends and being roommates.

Chosen and Unchosen by Bookwormgal - rated T, 71K. Focusing on The Them, Crowley, Aziraphale, Warlock Dowling, Hastur, Anathema, Newt, Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphom. CW - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Fake Character Death, Blood, Serious Injuries, Nightmares. Summary: Adam Young was meant to be the Anti-Christ... Warlock Dowling was not chosen... The apocalypse may have been averted, but not everyone is relieved...

Bonus - master list with all past recommendations!    

Authors - if you wish that your Tumblr account will be tagged, instead of the AO3, please comment or DM me the handle. Thanks :)

Thanks for reading, and remember - sharing is caring!

[cherrylovelycherry]

506

pairing: childe x fem!reader cw/genre: ex-lovers, angst? masterlist! requests open!

A break-up is always painful for both parties. However, there is always one who feels it more.

The memory of his ex-girlfriend was present, even when it was time to get up, Childe looked hurriedly at the screen of his mobile phone.

No message, no call.

He sighed, lying back on his bed, closing his eyes.

Delicate, soft kisses full of love, being deposited on that freckled face of his. Being the weekend, he slept in later.

"So cute.", she thought. Running a hand through her hair, brushing away red locks that covered her face.

At the sudden touch, feeling tickled, he opened one eye first. Seeing his beloved girlfriend, there, beside him, he grinned like a fool. Stretching his arms out in her direction, grabbing her and pulling her against his chest.

The need to write to him tormented him, he rubbed his face in his pillow, trying to make those memories fade.

His bed empty, the curtains closed wide. No light in the room.

He reluctantly got up to go to breakfast, he wasn't hungry, but her insistent voice nagging him to eat had become a habit.

Hands intertwined, sidelong glances, two young people in love, each sitting firmly on the furniture, unable to cut the distance. Afternoons pretending to watch television.

He grabbed his mobile phone, inhaling and exhaling three times in a row, his hands trembling for a moment. Would it be okay if…?

He was masochistic and went through the photos he still kept in his phone's gallery. Pictures of the two of them in another country. "Will she still be travelling there like every holiday?" he wondered.

His smile lingered for a few moments longer.

Her hand felt like it was sweating, she looked at her boyfriend, being so calm and even eating a huge airport burger. She even felt nauseous from the nerves of flying. She tightened her grip on his arm now, as she checked in, the urge to go to a nice beach gone. But no, she convinced herself, he gave her lots of kisses and caresses as they sat in the plane seats, keeping her as relaxed as possible.

He did, he sent a message. He saved the number again, as a new contact. He mentally thanked himself for having stuck the paper with his number on it on the fridge.

A simple; "How are you?" was all he sent.

He felt nervous, tousling his hair with both hands.

Four hours passed, he sent another message again.

"I don't know why but I thought of you both," he sent, followed by a picture of two kittens.

Sent. The status of the messages was just sent.

The number of his flat he promised to remember forever. 506. The street where his heart lived. Where he spent more time than in his own home. With 16, where everything changed and started.

A new day, another "How are you?" message. Soon he started leaving calls, not expecting a reply, just letting her know he was there.

Little by little, becoming routine in three months.

Five missed calls, four letters, three injuries, two lucky ones.

Every once in a while, Childe would stop by the coffee shop where they would have a nice oatmeal biscuit and a hot chocolate in the middle of winter. As well as passing the bar, where they fought over drinking each other's glass, the fight ended in laughter and jokes.

He never expected a response.

Kissing in the rain after playing catch, feeling like little kids, not caring that people looked at them strangely for being in the pouring rain. A bit cliché, but theirs.

The memory of why he fell in love, remembering what made her fall in love.

A routine phone call.

Y/N was sitting on a bench, washing her boyfriend's hair, who had fallen ill. Caring for him with so much love, even though she would probably end up getting sick too.

Sneaking into his bed, on a summer night. Kisses on her forehead from him. His turn to watch her sleep so peacefully.

He was dying to hear her voice. As if it was his lucky day, he was about to hang up. However, the opposite phone was answered.

A "Hello?" from her was enough to trigger feelings that were supposed to be locked away. It felt the same, nothing changed.

The words he thought of for this moment, with no hope that it would come, were completely forgotten.

"How are you? Are you still living in 506?"

©cherrylovelycherry do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[ladyloveandjustice]

Finding the mini-golem the others were looking for hiding in his house, Akane starts instinctively beating the hell out of it, spurred on by his recent experiences and perhaps even more motivated knowing his baby sibling is in the house (WHERE THE HELL ARE HIS PARENTS I THOUGHT THEY NEGLECTED HIM IN FAVOR OF THE BABY ARE THEY ALREADY GETTING A HEADSTART ON NEGLECTING THE BABY TOO?) and Anima shows up...in a playboy bunny outfit for no other reason than the mangaka has decided to be annoying again... and grants Loki Helios the Owl the SICK ABILITY TO TURN INTO...

oh right, this translation gets it wrong, but Owl gets the power of Hresvelgr, named after a giant from Norse Mythology who takes the form of a great eagle, creating the wind itself by beating its powerful wings.

Anyway, Akane might not want to admit it thus yet, but there may be one member of his family worth protecting- his little sibling may be easy to blame his parents neglect on, but in truth the kid hasn’t done him any intentional wrong and could easily grow to into a loving child. And Akane still feels the big sibling instinct to help the little nugget.

[obscuraxrp]

The smoke settles to reveal CHALUAY JETATIKARN, also known as CJ, a 26 year old yeti-blooded of Sunseong. They are an ex-children’s television personality who appears to be adept with enhanced strength, muscle mass enhancement, size enhancement, and inaudible movement --- but like most things in Sunseong, there must be more to them than meets the eye.

FACECLAIM: (Tina) Suppanad Jittaleela, actress

APPEARANCE:

(HUMAN) CJ is mostly human in appearance with the exception being their canines are notably pointed and slightly longer than most humans, and can extend into full on fangs when they are angered or engaged in a fight. Due to the slow speed at which Yeti age, CJ tends to look quite young despite being in their late twenties. Furthermore, the muscles beneath their skin tend to harden (like ice) when in motion or even just flexed a bit. It’s a pronounced enough feature that they’ve learned to side step others when walking or move to catch clumsy folks at arms length in an effort to keep the unsuspecting (read: humans) from running into their body like it’s an ice wall, and getting knocked unconscious.

(YETI) CJ can shift at will or accidentally when distressed into a tall erect furry, clawed and fanged giant “abominable snowman” being. However their fur grows almost continuously so long as they are out of range of cold climates. If not vigilant with daily clipping, they’ll grow a full on flowing silky dark brown fur pelt within a couple of days time (as the “undercoat” fur is also a natural health defense response to the higher heat found of non-mountainous regions).

BIOGRAPHY:

With icy mountains and fury in their eyes, and the shadow of a fur pelt covering flesh, they tore their career to shreds.

Fiction and reality collided on the busy sound stage that day. Even they don’t know why they did it, or what was the final crack that had caused it. But everything came crashing down all at once. It could have even been the way they could barely keep their eyes open in the make-up chair after pulling three weeks worth of multiple back-to-back “Green Tea & Biscuits” merchandising fan meet appearances for Lotte stores. Could have been the painful crooked row of half healing razor nicks on their legs that a lifetime of intense shaving had only made more tender. Maybe it was the way Manager wouldn’t take any their calls, wouldn’t come home even though they had IMed 119 so many times that day and yesterday night, that their thumb was now sore. Could more than likely have been the fact their credit card had been declined twice that day. Perhaps it was even the mean way some strange woman pretending to be a coordi lady had showed up in their dressing room and shoved an evil sickly yellow envelope in their hands with a hissed “you’ve been served”.

Or maybe…

Maybe.

They were just too damn hot…

There was no air. There was always not enough air, but on that day it was so much worse. The “sticky riceball” dance bit was a distant incoherent haze in their memory as the bright camera lights cooked them over done in sweltering quilted cotton and itchy stiff felt. They hated the “sticky riceball” dance bit. At twenty-six years of age they should not have to still sing about being a lonely brown rice ball waning to be be “friends” with toasted seaweed, when neither was even that tasty to begin with. They would have rather been singing about some real food. Why did no one dance about juicy chops or steak? On ice.

It was still too hot. Thinking of food made the heat even more unbearable. Suddenly they didn’t care. Not about Manager’s demands that they sing happily always–because–business. Smile. Be cute. Make the live audience kids laugh.

Manager wasn’t there.

There was no reason care.

They didn’t want to be “cute” anymore. Didn’t feel like being a “good” little trooper. They weren’t a trooper. They were too damn hot! They missed mountain slopes frosted over with cold and snow, where humans were far apart. Anger edged out duty and with spite in the flurry of their movements they snapped. They’d make their own cold. Somewhere things were shattered and claws marks appeared on the len of Camera A. Why did it feel so good? Tiny people running to, fro and screaming. So much screaming! They ran too, because finally getting to chase all little meaty things felt so good. Felt right! The screams almost sounded like music, the jagged red sad kind, which somehow fit since their vision was red and inside they been jagged and sad for a long time.

When it was over, they were alone but for the team of suits that had gathered. Poor thing. The suits could only do but so much. Manager had done so many things wrong, so many bad things and they were so young. It was a lot of money to bribe so many mouths to stay shut after an episode like that–but there was pity too. After all look what that scum had done to them? Seventy-five percent of all their earnings? No taxes paid ever?

It was decided stress had to be the deciding factor. Of course. Yes. Stress, mismanagement and definitely not something else. After all it was a kids show. They had never been anything but the most professional host before that day. Except now no one would ever trust their kid on the same stage with them ever again. They had threw a person into the audience (among other things), annihilated the set and everyone had seen. They had made all the kids cry. The suit thought it lucky if no one sued.

It was over. A punishment to fit the crime: never return to Seoul, never show their face on children’s broadcast again. It was the suits who suggested Sunseong, and since they know of nowhere better at the moment–Sunseong it would have to be.

CHARACTERIZATION:

–“Manager” bought CJ from a Thai exotic animal smuggling outfit when they were a toddler and smuggled them into South Korea. Manager also trained them to be a child performer once they realized what they had was actual “halfway to human”.

–Before the “incident”, Chaluay, was very outgoing and friendly (playful even). As a children’s television host they had been trained right from childhood by Manager to be charming, engaging and “fun”. They’ve always followed the unwritten rule that all kids show hosts, must act excitable and zany, if not downright bonkers on air.

–Off-air CJ was never really “allowed” to be out of character either(which is why the “incident” has really damaged their self-confidence over all). They’re not even sure who they are anymore after a lifetime of being turned “on” for cameras and people mostly not over the age of seven.

–Children still remember CJ, and unless they wear a hat and shades in public they will usually attract a crowd of leg hugging preschool kids rather quickly (as “Green Tea & Biscuits” reruns are still currently in syndication and quite popular). Even elementary and middle schoolers (who don’t think they are “too cool”) still hit CJ up for selfies and autographs.

–The network censored delayed and then edited out CJ’s in-studio Yeti meltdown before it went live and promptly cut in old footage of cartoons and puppet skits to cover the parts full of studios destruction. The kids that were in the studio audience, Biscuit’s human suit actor and the child extras who played the “Tea Pals” on the sound stage that faithful day were paid off handsomely and slapped with gag orders to not talk about what happen with press.

–CJ feels really truly terrible about throwing and hurting the human actor in the “Biscuits” suit. “Biscuits” actor was the only human injured in the rampage, mostly cause they tried to talk CJ down from the shift and got in the way. The older actor and CJ had been long time partners right from the beginning of the show. He was the closest person CJ had to being a friend.

–CJ is still paying off an income tax evasion judgement, a breach of contract fines, property destruction fines, Biscuit’s suit actors medical bills, credit card debt–and all the other mess Manager left them with. Not to mention the slew of supernatural friendly lawyer fees and the ungodly large bribes it took to keep the meltdown from leaking into the press and keep CJ out of the radar of DSEM and The Aequitas Guild. The debt is significant enough that CJ will probably spend the rest of their life and future endorsement and/or licensing royalties to pay it all off.

SPECIALTIES:

Supernatural Strength RANK II. (40 points) CJ like a Yeti is glaringly, obviously super/unnaturally stronger than a human being. At the moment they are a “Type I” strength category and can hoist a maximum of about 18-20 tons (i.e 36000 lbs or 16329.3 kg), so roughly they can pretty easily flip a city metro or Type D yellow school bus over on its side. 

Muscle Mass Enhancement RANK I. (20 points) CJ can increase the muscle mass (across their chest, arms, and legs) by flexing of their muscles and joints. It in essence allows their muscles to solidify with an ice like strength, stamina and durability. 

Inaudible Movement RANK I. (20 points) Like their Yeti ancestors, CJ can strike or stalk with complete and absolute inhuman silence and speed, allowing them to move around, attack, hide or stand without disturbing most beings (humans in particular have a hard time following their movements). 

Size Enhancement RANK I. (20 points) Full blood Yeti are recorded to possibly be between sizes of eight and 15 feet. A fully furred out CJ can shapeshift at will from a small 170 cm to much more Yeti like 214 cm. 

Ice Generation RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) CJ can reduce the kinetic energy of liquid atoms by concentrating on it, thereby lowering total substance temperature, and effectively making it colder, ranging from slightly chilly levels to slight crystallizing into frost. Mainly useful for making their own slushie drinks and cocktails. 

Montane Adaptation RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) CJ is able to thrive and adapt to very cold elevated conditions where the air is thin and the climate consists of frost or even blizzard like conditions, as they possess adjusted breathing capacity, high air-pressure tolerance, sub-zero immunity and an immunity to the effects of vertigo or similar disorientation as well as the ability to move on the mountains without artificial help. CJ is far more tolerant to the direct and indirect effects of scaling inhospitable high peak locations like Mt Fuji or even Mount Everest than humans or animals. 

Temperate Fur Generation RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) CJ generates dark brown fur over their entire body, giving resistance to high temperatures, and even some physical damage. They have almost no control over their fur as it is a natural camouflage and defensive response to environmental, emotional or external temperate stimuli. 

 Fangs/Claw Retraction RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) Like CJ’s fur, fangs and claws are natural defensive usually triggered by adrenaline. Ancient Nyalmo Yeti are in most cases were carnivorous and predatory. 

 Enhanced Hearing RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) CJ hears with amazing clarity, distance, and even frequencies outside normal range. A high predator species, Yetis can decipher layer upon layer of differing sounds/conversations, locate the source of noise and detect slight prey movements. 

 Night Vision RANK 0. (Innate ability, 0 points) CJ has excellent night vision, and that is a left over adaption from their cave dwelling heritage. It’s not quite as powerful as a full blood Yeti might have, but it’s leaps a bounds better than a humans. With that said their eyes do reflect back pin points of eerie blue light in the dark much like a cats might.

[bluejayblueskies]

oh if you did a little something for jonmartin and "hiding their face in the other’s neck" i would be so 🥺💕

touches prompt list

a little post-circus kidnapping hurt/comfort! cw for wounds/injury, mild blood, mentions of non-consensual touching, and mentions of kidnapping

.

There is a stranger’s elbow digging into Jon’s side.

He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his side while surreptitiously giving the stranger a glare that he hopes adequately conveys his dislike of the current situation. The tube is packed, as it always is at this time of day, and there are… so many strange hands. An elbow, at least, is better than the hand that had pressed to his back as the individual it belonged to had instinctively tried to maintain their balance.

After all, Nikola didn’t touch him with her elbows.

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He wants to lie down in a soft bed and get his first good night’s sleep in a month and finally have the space to process. Alone.

Instead, Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

“I have a flat,” Jon had said uncomprehendingly when Martin had suggested (or rather, gently begged) that Jon come back to his flat with him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. Spacious. S-sturdy locks.”

“You… you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin had said, sounding and looking very much like he wished Jon would anyway.

“I’m fine.” Jon was not fine. But he could be fine until he got back to his flat. It was always good to have a short-term goal.

Martin gave him a look that clearly said that he thought Jon was full of shit. Jon was, but it was still unnecessary. He was just trying to keep it together. What did Martin want—him sobbing and crumpling to the floor right here in the Archives? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“You were kidnapped. Twice now. I really don’t want it to happen a third time. Besides, I…” Martin trailed off and fluttered his hands at his sides. “I—I should take a look at your hand. And your, um. Wrists.”

Jon looked down at his arms. They were, indeed, quite red and raw and scabbed over and likely to scar. Nikola had been irritated when she’d seen that he’d been tied up so tightly, but she’d decided there was nothing to be done about it. She would just ‘make do with what she had.’ And, well. She had never stopped Breekon and Hope when they’d cinched the ropes just a little bit tighter each time.

“I have first aid supplies in my flat,” Jon lied. He was fairly certain that he had a backpack of What the Ghost merchandise and a single mattress to his name at the moment. “I can take care of it.”

“So can I.” Martin took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.” His cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, and he looked over Jon’s shoulder at the wall behind him. “J-just for tonight, at least? I want…” Martin swallowed. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

And then Martin had turned those lovely blue eyes to his, and, well. Here they are.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have long-term goals as well. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying. He achieves this easily enough. He finally escapes the cloying presence of strangers as Martin’s door shuts behind them, and then it’s blissfully quiet. Martin flips on a light, illuminating the space in pale yellow. It’s a little bit messy but otherwise spartan. The walls are painted a dull eggshell white, the floor made of cheap lino. Martin sits Jon down on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Jon stares at the wall and focuses on breathing evenly and thinking about anything other than how smooth his skin feels when he slowly rubs his fingers together.

Step two: let Martin bandage his wounds without crying. This is… more challenging, if only because it hurts. Martin apologizes profusely as he wets a cotton ball with isopropyl alcohol and gently cleans the inflamed areas. Jon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, focusing on anything other than the stinging, burning sensation in his wrists and hands. Funny—he’d thought that at this point, he would be used to the pain, but he’s not. All he knows now is what to expect.

Martin carefully wraps his hand and wrists in bandages. For a moment after he’s done, he delicately holds Jon’s hands in his like they’re porcelain. His hands are warm and soft, and Jon imagines how lovely they would feel against his cheeks. He thinks briefly that Martin is going to raise his unbandaged hand to his lips and lay a kiss across the back of it, but Martin doesn’t. Instead, he sets Jon’s hands back in his lap and stands, mumbling that he’s going to go make some tea.

Jon scrubs his uninjured hand across his eyes, just once.

Step three: sit on the couch with Martin and drink tea without crying. Martin presses a mug of steaming chamomile into his good hand and lays a plate of biscuits between them. “Th-they’re your favorite,” Martin says with a small, nervous laugh, like Jon’s not already staring at the plate with something choked sitting in the back of his throat. “I—I figured you probably haven’t really eaten today, and… I don’t really know what you’ve eaten lately. So, um. Yeah.”

Jon thinks of the things that Nikola had called food, then chooses not to think of them at all. He tucks the memory into a box next to cold hands and exposed skin and burning ropes and slams the lid before it can all come spilling back out again. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. He gingerly takes a biscuit in his stiff, aching hand that hasn’t had the time to heal properly and probably won’t get the chance to do so in the future and pops it into his mouth whole so he doesn’t get crumbs on Martin’s couch.

Step four: eat a biscuit that tastes like the best biscuit you’ve ever had and is the first palatable food you’ve had in weeks without crying.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and comes back to himself. He’s staring blankly at Martin’s face, at eyebrows folded in concern and mouth curled into a small frown. Martin’s freckles are smudged into smears of tan, and the lines of his jaw waver like a mirage in front of Jon’s eyes. That’s odd, Jon thinks. Then, he feels something wet hit the top of his cheek.

Oh, no.

Quickly, Jon reaches up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. As soon as he lowers his hand, more spring up in their place. He curses and sets his mug of tea down heavily on the table, taking one more look at Martin—whose eyes are now wide with worry—before turning away and attempting to pull himself together.

Step five: stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

(Stop crying, his grandmother says as he stands in the living room, hands and knees dirty and hair a mess. He’s managing to say words between his sobs, words like book and stole and spider. She’s frowning at him, but her voice is still patient and calm when she says, You’re not making any sense, Jonathan. Stop crying, please, and speak clearly. You had a nightmare?)

“Jon, what’s—” Martin catches himself, which Jon is thankful for. He thinks that if Martin had finished that question—asked him what’s wrong—Jon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying, what isn’t? “What can I do to help?” he says instead, a hand hovering carefully in the air between them like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Jon or not.

“Don’t look,” Jon manages to say. He immediately feels ridiculous and follows with a quick: “S-sorry, it’s—I don’t k-know how to—I’m not—I’m n-not good at—”

“I’m not looking,” Martin says softly.

Jon cuts off, takes a breath, and turns his head back toward Martin. True to his word, Martin has his eyes closed, though his hand remains in the air between them. Jon presses his good hand to his mouth for a moment to hide how the sight rips a new, more ragged sob out of him. Then, tentatively, he reaches forward and takes Martin’s hand.

Martin inhales sharply. Jon almost lets go, but Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. He holds Jon’s hand tightly yet so achingly softly, and Jon could weep. (Or rather, is weeping.)

“Can I hug you?” Martin says abruptly, like he’d been fighting an internal battle about whether or not to say it and had just lost. His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t say anything else or take it back. His jaw shifts as he pinches his lips together and worries them back and forth.

Jon is… not the kind of person who initiates or seeks out hugs. He always makes them too stiff, or he holds on just a bit too long and makes them awkward, or he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and ends up just dangling them uselessly in the air. He’s also never really seen the point of them if he’s being honest. As a form of greeting, surely handshakes or waves or head nods get the point across just fine. Right now, though, there is truly nothing in the world that Jon thinks would make him feel safer than having Martin’s arms around him.

Jon nods, then remembers that Martin can’t see him and whispers, in as composed a voice as he can muster: “Please.”

Step six: hug Martin Blackwood without falling apart completely.

Martin’s arms are soft and warm around him. His chest is flush with Jon’s, and he’s holding him so close that Jon is practically on Martin’s lap. All Jon can think is that it’s been so long since he’s been held by something not made of sawdust or plastic. He grips the back of Martin’s jumper with lotion-soft hands and cries tears that have been collecting for a month into the fabric as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin’s hands rub large circles across Jon’s back, and he’s whispering gentle words into Jon’s ear. Things about safe and okay and time and here.

By the time Jon feels thoroughly wrung dry, his cheeks are sticky and his head is throbbing and he’s desperately in need of a glass of water. He takes a few deep breaths, then carefully extracts himself from Martin’s arms. Martin lets him go easily, though his hands remain resting lightly on Jon’s elbows as if he can’t bear to let him go completely.

Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

Martin’s eyes are still closed, and Jon is hit with such a swell of affection he can hardly breathe around it. “Y-you can open your eyes,” he says, a bit sheepishly. Martin does, and if he’s affected by the state of Jon’s face, he doesn’t show any indication of it. “Sorry,” Jon mumbles, twisting his ring—now on his left middle finger instead of his right—around and around mindlessly. “I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s elbows gently. “I understand. Any time you need me to look away, I will. Okay? I just…” He takes a breath. “I’ll always be here. F-for you when you need me.”

If Jon weren’t thoroughly out of tears, that would make his eyes water. Instead, he nods and offers a small, weak smile. “I know. Thank you, Martin. It… just. Thank you.”

Step seven: fall asleep safe against Martin’s side in the bed that he insists is big enough for two, face pressed into Martin’s neck once again and hands curled loosely in Martin’s sleep shirt.

He’s so drained by the time they’re there, so wrung-out and empty and relaxed, that he manages to do so almost immediately. He thinks he hears Martin murmur, “Sleep well, love,” as he drifts off. But it disappears into the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness, slipping from Jon’s mind entirely as he fades to black.

[heartofspells]

Just because Family on the Mend is almost finished doesn’t mean the Sirius and Harry content has to end, right? Right!

Cw: small injury and mentions of blood (but it’s fine, i promise!)

---

Sirius comes to a very sudden halt when he enters the bathroom, eyes raking around, taking in the various items scattered over the floor.

"Er…" he says intelligibly.

Harry sits on the floor, surrounded by the madness. His back is angled towards the door and Sirius, and his shoulders hunch forward a little when he hears Sirius speak (sort of).

"Haz," hedges Sirius, not entirely sure what to think, "is there a…a reason you've dismantled our first aid kit?" He's desperately trying to keep the panic from his voice, because from the looks of it, Harry is hurt, but he seems fine, from what Sirius can see. So. Not panicking. Externally.

Harry mumbles something that Sirius can't understand, and he sighs quietly.

"Repeat, please," he says, losing a small amount of patience as the confusion and panic mount a little higher. "What are you doing?"

Harry huffs from the floor, turning to look at Sirius over one shoulder, half his face hidden from sight. "The biscuit jar bit me," he finally admits.

Sirius frowns. Firstly, Harry knows better, but they've been having an issue lately with the boy spoiling his meals by sneaking an outrageous amount of sweets when Sirius isn't around to catch him. So, Sirius had done some research and found a harmless charm to ward against the thievery. It wouldn't hurt Harry – Sirius had been sure to test it on himself first – just startle him and hopefully deter him, the lid of the jar growling and snapping when reaching in without disarming it first. Secondly, Sirius had placed the jar in a higher cupboard to further thwart the six-year-old's attempts.

But none of that explains why Harry would be rifling through their bandages like he's on a mission.

"All right," murmurs Sirius, still trying to remain calm. "We'll talk about your sneaking later. Did it hurt you? It shouldn't have."

"No," mumbles Harry. "But it scared me, and I slipped on the counter. I broke a glass and cut my hand."

"What?" cries Sirius sharply, darting forward and dropping to the floor beside Harry, grabbing up his hand in still gentle fingers to inspect it. The cut is there, drying blood around its edges, but it isn't deep, and already seems to have clotted over. Sirius exhales a breath of relief. "Harry, mate. Don't scare me like that, sprog. Why didn't you come to me? I would have helped you."

Tears well in his godson's eyes and the panic returns, but for a different reason. Sirius soothes over the sides of his face, trying to calm him before he bursts, not understanding the small amount of fear visible in his glistening green eyes.

"You would have been mad at me," he moans out thickly, sniffling a little, and Sirius deflates. His arms wrap around Harry, pulling him close as the boy begins to cry into his chest a little, mostly silent tears dampening his shirt. "I was bad."

"Oh, Haz," murmurs Sirius, his hand smoothing down his godson's back. He rocks him, gently shushing him quietly, trying to soothe. "I'm not angry about the biscuits, but you can't hide away when you're hurt. That's not good, Harry. You have to come to me. I'll never be angry with you for that, all right? I only want to help."

Harry sniffles again but nods against him. Sirius gives him a while before carefully pulling him back enough to see his face. He brushes the tears away from his wet cheeks with soft touches of his thumbs, smiling down at him.

"Let's get your hand cleaned up, hm?" he says as brightly as he can manage. "Then why don't have some pizza and ice cream for dinner to make up for it? How does that sound?"

When a smile breaks through Harry's misery, Sirius' heart clenches a little in his chest, something warm settling over him. He makes fast work of bandaging Harry's injured hand, and then he presses a kiss to the exposed skin beside the cut.

"All better?" he asks, cocking his head to the side a bit.

Harry beams at him. "All better!" he chirps happily, and Sirius grins.

[spikybanana]

@wolfstarmicrofic - prompt: transform - cw mentioned injury of a child (which means plot. this has plot. author is astonished of herself.) masterpost

all of them said

that the gods were laughing

when the world fell apart

-

The next full moon just so happened to be the very next night. During the day, Sirius did little else besides arbitrarily transforming into a dog, clinging to Remus and grabbing his attention, only to pull them both down for a nap. When Remus was called away to his family, Sirius would stroll into the streets, charming every child he met. By the end of the day, besides having had enough practice to easily transform at will, Sirius was sure he could already have claimed the place of their village mascot. 

And at sundown, both Sirius and Remus buzzed with excitement as they crossed the bridge, marched into the woods, together. Upon approaching the clearing, he turned into Padfoot, and was met with ecstatic cries of the younger boys who recognised him from the day. From the corner of the clearing amongst the boys, then, Sirius watched as Remus fell stunningly into the role of the leader. All the others greeted him, and he checked in with every single one of his pack. He laughed softly, gently consoled a few older boys’ lament of aching joints or existential disgruntlement. He handed out sweets, which he pulled out of Padfoot’s reach with a smirk. And Sirius couldn’t even be mad at him, so wonderfully entranced as he was by this side of Remus.

He stuck to the younger boys, who adored him and snuck him biscuits behind their backs. The youngest of them all had especially taken to Padfoot, closer to the moon’s rise he didn’t leave Padfoot’s side for a moment. The way he stroked Padfoot’s fur was so tenderly careful, his little hands shaking from what must have been the throbbing that waited in his bones, that it made Sirius’ heart ache so keenly. The boys were just like Remus, he thought, every single one of them. 

When the moon finally came, Padfoot went almost mad, running in circles around them barking and howling and wishing he could ease their pain. But the transformation passed, and the pack had risen.

They were beautiful. All of them. One by one they stood onto their legs, shook out the silver fur, and gathered behind their leader— who padded slowly towards Padfoot, until he was mere inches away. His eyes were the same, pale amber-yellow-green, and looked piercingly, burningly at Sirius, despite all his regality and composure. 

A low growl came from the wolf’s throat, and accordingly, Padfoot crouched down, front legs pressed to the ground. When the wolf leaned down towards him, Padfoot tilted his head to lightly lick the other’s snout. 

Immediately, the wolf relaxed, and Sirius could swear, in the way he looked at Padfoot, there was something fiercely proud.

Afterwards, the night was a blur of flashing silver fur as Padfoot ran and played with the pack. They ran and ran and didn’t stop through the occasional rain, even the youngest wolf among the pack ran with so much thirst, so much life. Padfoot soard through the night, the magic seeped into his paws, resounding in the air with the force of all their steps, his own fur gleaming under the moon that came in and out of clouds.

At one point, the clouds cleared entirely, and in his excitement, Padfoot raced to the edge of the river where they could see the whole of the sky, and howled up at the moon. For a moment, the whole pack looked at him puzzledly, before Remus made the sound that must have been the wolf equivalent of a snort, and joined Padfoot at his side. He pointed his snout up at the sky, exposing his neck, and howled, long and fervorous. It prompted the rest of the pack to join, and Sirius thought it was the most glorious chorus he’d ever heard.

However, not long after they’d quietened and returned to the woods, from the distance, there came another howl. The pack froze.

There was only one at first, then another wolf joined, the same deep and threatening sound, before a third, a fourth and a whole pack could be heard. 

In terror, Sirius looked around to Remus, and the look in his eyes confirmed his fears. It was time. The other pack had come. 

Remus’ pack grew immediately restless, a few younger wolves let out small scared whimpers and gathered by Padfoot, who tried to stand tall, communicating with Remus while not letting his fears show.

There was no other way. Remus had to go. He gave Sirius one pleading look, stay with the kids, out of danger, before he summoned the older ones of the pack, and raced away towards the howls.

And for the rest of the night, Sirius could only stay put, anxious to keep the younger wolves safe, and to not agitate them further. While he still couldn’t help being frustrated being delegated to babysit, being unable to help the fight. Towards the morning, most of them regathered at the clearing and fell asleep in exhaustion. Then, Sirius felt safe enough to transform back, and continued to keep watch with his wand held out. He was just on the brink of falling asleep himself, when finally, finally he felt through their magic Remus’ approach. 

He ducked out of the clearing, and was immediately met with Remus. But the look on the other’s face sent ice down Sirius’ spine. 

His face was ashen, and his torso shook. He held in his arms a small boy, who cried weakly and clutched at his shoulder where his clothes were torn. Remus looked at Sirius, the both of them utterly helpless. 

With a whisper, Remus told him, “There has been an attack.”

[ariadne-mouse]

Episode 138 Coda, 596 words

(cw: Cognouza-typical mind fuckery, parallels to panic attacks)

In Tidepeak tower, Yussa Errenis took a ragged breath and opened his eyes. He blearily registered his surroundings: the familiar ceiling of his study, the humid air, the faint scent of incense and old books, the distant crash of waves and call of gulls. Quiet, peaceful. Almost deafening in its lack of sound.

He took another breath.

The tactility of everything was startling - heavy, in a way, pressing on him in a way he wasn't used to. Even breathing seemed novel.

Was he dreaming? Everything in his vision had the fuzzy quality of a dream. He rubbed at his eyes with clumsy, weak fingers, and the room came into sharper focus.

No, he wasn't dreaming. Was he? There had been... he had gone... there. To the city in the astral sea.

As though born of the thought, a new sound built in the back of his mind: first like a whisper, then an echo of breaking glass, compounding, crowding out the quiet of the tower, growing louder, screaming, screaming, screaming--

His throat convulsed, like he wanted to scream too. He swallowed it down with effort.

"You're back!"

Yussa's eyes flew open. He hadn't even realized that he'd closed them again. Wensforth stood in the doorway, gobsmacked, his spectacles slightly askew in the way they were when he'd put them on in a hurry. He was smiling. His sharp goblin teeth would have made the expression quite fearsome to some, but Yussa only felt a surge of relief and fondness.

"Yes," he croaked, tasting dust, and cleared his throat. "Yes, I've returned."

Wensforth approached with rapid steps, carefully picking his way through the untouched remnants of the astral projection ritual. He helped Yussa sit up, and steadied him when he swayed. "You were gone a long time, sir! Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

Did he need anything? His stiff muscles protested every movement - a kind of blissful anguish reminding him he was home, was free - but there was no physical injury, as expected with astral projection. As for his mind...

---welcome--

The whispers began again, and Yussa shook his head to try and clear it before it could become screaming.

--welcome welcome WELCOME--!

Yussa gripped the arms of the chair. His tower was quiet; it should be quiet here, save for the susurrus of the sea. The air was humid and warm, and he sucked in a lungful of it, tasting it. His robes, he distantly registered, were stale with sweat and desperately in need of a wash. There was a luxurious throw blanket from the parlor across his lap that had not been there when he laid down. The texture of it was cloud-soft and comforting.

The quiet started to feel like it belonged to him again.

"...Sir?" Wensforth ventured.

It took a moment to make his mouth work, to shape words. "A cup of very strong tea, please. And some biscuits."

"Right away," Wensforth fussed, then hesitated and wrung his hands. "Ah-- a bit has happened, while you've been away. Some... guests. And I have strict instructions to pass along to you several messages from... Allura Vysoren?" His smile became more of a sympathetic grimace.

Yussa sighed and slumped back against the lounge. "Of course you do. Well... tea first. The messages will keep. I'm certain I know what she has to say."

"Of course. Yes. Tea." Wensforth straightened his spectacles, and turned to leave. He paused at the door. "Welcome back, sir." And soon the sound of his pattering footsteps disappeared rapidly down the hall.

(welcome, welcome--!)

Welcome!

[starglitterz]

hello ! for the 300 followers event, could i get a vanilla jelly (kazuha) with cereal and biscuits ? for extras, they can either be at one of inazuma's piers after kazuha comes back from a bad storm, or at inazuma city, where sara just committed the kazuha friend thing... to kazuha :'b thank you, and congrats on 300 followers !!

thank u anon! i sort of twisted the the two options instead, i hope that's alright :)

request; kazuha angst, sacrifice, together in the rain

cw; angst, major character death, spoilers for kazuha's backstory

please reblog ! it helps a lot :)

kazuha.

lightning streaks through the stormy clouds, a jagged flash of blinding white threatening to rip the sky in half. rain pours down mercilessly from the heavens, almost seeming furious with the intensity with which they sting your sky, blurring your vision as you clutch your sword tightly. the wooden planks of the dock beneath you creak loudly, appearing ready to crack underfoot from how much they've rotted over time. kazuha's white hair with its familiar vein of red stands out against the darkness surrounding you both, giving you the impression of an angel as he looks out the monstrous waves crashing repeatedly onto the shore with an indescribable expression. "we're finally leaving," he says, unperturbed by the strength of the wind howling around the two of you. his hand still aches from the burn he received from his friend's dying vision, that much you can tell from how he keeps it sheathed in the soft material of his clothes. yet suddenly, he pushes you aside and tilts his head, just in time for an arrow to go whizzing past both of you, so close it nearly grazes your arm. kazuha sighs, eyes beginning to gleam as red as rubies in the inky night, "i should have known the shogun wouldn't let our passage be that easy."

the two of you whip your weapons out, though you don't miss how kazuha winces, his hand still hurting from the injury. "leave them to me, 'zuha. get on the boat," you instruct, gesturing to the small boat besides you that's rocking violently from the motion of the waves. your boyfriend's expression tenses, "no, i can't do that! i'm not going to leave you here!" you lean closer to him, cupping his face with one hand while the other grips the hilt of your sword tightly. searching his coppery eyes, you press a kiss against his lips, "i love you, 'zuha. and you know me, i'll find a way to you." kazuha's gaze meets yours as raindrops soak his face and trickle down his cheeks, mimicking the tears he never lets fall no matter how much he mourns, and he whispers so softly you can barely catch it over the sound of thunder cracking, "i don't want to lose anyone anymore." "you won't be losing me, 'zuha. c'mon, don't you believe in how you taught me to fight?" you chuckle, nuzzling against his cheek to try a coax a smile out of him, even as the sound of the kanjobugyo draws ever closer. "please, come back to me," he murmurs under his breath, cursing his wound a million times over and hoping against hope that you'll succeed and somehow make it back to him in one piece, "i love you." "i promise, and i love you too, kazuha. now go!" you kiss him once more, embracing the passion and urgency of the action before running off with a wave. kazuha can only watch helplessly as you run off into the fray, his little boat set to sail away into the intimidating ocean from the force with which you kicked it after untying the thread docking it to the pier.

"y/n, you have committed severe treachery against inazuma. surrender immediately, and your punishment will be lessened," the voice of kujou sara states coolly, one hand caressing her sword. "bla bla bla, whatever. i'm not planning on surrendering anytime soon," you retort, "plus, isn't surrendering going against inazuma's entire principle of eternity?" sara's eyes widen slightly at your impertinence, but she quickly schools her expression back into one of normalcy, "where is kaedehara kazuha? he has been declared a wanted criminal." "kazuha? oh, he's long gone," you curl your lips into a smirk as surprise washes over her face from your lie. you just need to stall long enough for kazuha to get away, that's it. "that means he has disobeyed the sakoku decree, and you too are guilty for assisting him. upon being taken into custody, you will be separated from your vision per the orders of the immortal shogun," sara quickly says, her gaze darting to the gleaming vision at your hip. your sword glitters as you infuse it with elemental energy and prepare yourself for a battle, "aw, that isn't very nice of her, is it? giving the gift of a vision only to take it away. rather rude, if you ask me." "y/n, you don't have to do this. if you submit to us and hand over your vision, we don't need to resort to violence," sara gives one final attempt at neutralising the situation, but you aren't changing your mind. from your peripheral vision, you realise that kazuha's boat isn't visible anymore, which means he should be in international waters by now, where the laws of inazuma are no longer applied. whispering a silent prayer up to celestia, you beam, "i'm not going down without a fight. if you want my vision, come and get it." and as a dozen kanjobugyo soldiers rush at you, you know there's no chance you're getting out of here alive, so you're left with nothing to do except offer an apology to kazuha for breaking your promise and toss your vision into the air with all your strength - even in your last moments you refuse to let the tyrannical ruler win.

-

kazuha's sitting down in his boat, enjoying the peace of the sunny day that has come after the horrific storm, although there's a knot in his stomach he can't quite quell, no matter how much he tries to stay positive. his mind keeps wandering to thoughts of you and your safety, even as he tries to think about how much fun he'll have when you meet him in liyue. at least until something drops out of the sky into his lap, and when he sees what it is his heart sinks into his chest. it's a vision which he instinctively knows is yours, but would have recognised anyway from the initials you carved onto the corner. it's truly a miracle it managed to reach him, like your dying wish had propelled its energy all the way across the sea. almost as if it knows it has reached its target, the vision fizzles softly, sparks flying off it as the colour begins to fade.

and that's when kazuha finally lets himself cry, because he knows you'll never come back to him now.

quill speaks !

hahaha,,,, haha,,,, pain.

pls for some reason i rlly like this??? like i could imagine it when i was writing it and i had a lot of fun doing this request KSJKDSK thats prolly why its so long T_T also i didn't know where to break up the paragraphs so apologies for the huge walls of text LOL

but yes anon i hope u liked how i wrote it !!! :D

and fyi this is a queued hiatus post :)

anyways i hope you enjoy your stay at quill’s dessert cafe, and do check out the menu if you'd like ! 🍭

© starglitterz 2021. do not repost or modify in any way.

[onetwothreefarkle]

CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE MY RANDOM NUMBER GENERATOR HAS SPOKEN AGAIN: 55. "Stay there. I'm on my way." pretty pretty please i love you 💙

This Part 2! I combined this with another prompt! I recommend reading Part 1 first for more context, but if you read the CW on Part 1 and decide it's not for you, you can probably still read this part and have it make sense. Content Warning for descriptions of injuries and mentions of previous violence. (Part 1)

Seb abruptly to the sound of his phone ringing. He fumbled around on his bedside table for it, still half asleep. He squinted at the screen before answering, and groaned. It was 1:37 AM.

“Hello?” He answered, rolling over onto his back, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, Seb,” EJ’s voice crackled through the phone. “I’m, uh, sorry to wake you.”

“What’s going on?” Seb asked. There was no way EJ would be calling him in the middle of the night without good reason.

There was a long pause, and Seb could hear the muffled sounds of EJ bickering with someone. Gina, if he had to guess.

“It’s Carlos,” EJ said quietly.

Seb sat up straight, terror thrumming through his veins. “What?!”

“Seb, he’s going to be fine,” EJ stressed.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He was kidnapped by the North Side,” EJ explained. “We got him back, and he’s safe now—”

“Where are you?” Seb jumped out of bed, beelining for his dresser and throwing open the top drawer.

“We’re at the Emergency Room, he’s getting checked out now,” EJ sighed. “But Seb—”

"Just, stay there,” Seb cut him off. “I'm on my way."

“Seb, listen to me,” EJ said firmly. “You need to stay at the farmhouse. We did a lot of damage getting Carlos out of there, North Side will hit back. It’s not safe for you in the city.”

“Like hell. I don't care about my safety right now, EJ. I need to see him, I need—"

"To stay put."

"But Carlos—”

“Will be fine,” EJ insisted reassuringly. “And as soon as we get the all-clear from the doctors, I’ll take him to you, I promise.”

“So, you just expect me to wait around for hours?” Seb crossed his arms. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Try to go back to sleep?” EJ offered.

“Fat chance.” Seb sighed. There was no way he would be able to sleep until he saw Carlos again with his own eyes. “Will you at least text me updates?”

“Of course,” EJ promised. “The doctor’s coming out now, I gotta go.”

Seb set his phone on top of his dresser and sighed. He considered getting dressed, but it didn’t seem worth it, given he was sure they would be going back to sleep pretty soon after Carlos arrived. Instead, he simply shuffled downstairs. He puttered about the house as quietly as possible so as not to wake his family.

He made some coffee, made up the pull out couch in case EJ wanted to crash at the farmhouse, and tried to ignore the fear and anxiety that burned under his skin. All he wanted was to be able to hold Carlos, to reassure himself that his boyfriend was actually okay, to be able to provide the comfort he knew Carlos would need from him after such an ordeal. But all he could do was wait.

After a few minutes of stewing and sipping coffee, he decided he needed to do something to keep busy, so he started cooking. He prepared a big enough breakfast for his entire family and their expected guests. Bacon, sausage, country potatoes, a huge scramble with cheese and onions, buttermilk pancakes, and biscuits from scratch. Everything his mom would’ve made on a Sunday morning. Stirring, whisking, and chopping gave his hands something to do, a place to channel all his nervous energy, and the repetitive nature of the movement was soothing.

Some hours later, he heard a car pull up to the front of the house. Looking out the window through the darkness he could just make out the shape of EJ helping Carlos to the door. Seb dashed out of the kitchen and let them in.

His stomach dropped when he saw Carlos. “Oh, God.”

Carlos’s jaw and cheek were swollen and purple and his glasses were missing, his right arm was in a sling, and his wrists were a screaming red, there were bandages over his neck, and that was just what Seb could see.

“I’m fine,” Carlos said quietly. "It's not as bad as it looks."

“Your boyfriend’s a badass,” EJ informed Seb. “He’s got two cracked ribs and a sprained shoulder. Not a tear.”

"This is all my fault." Seb's chest caved in with an ache he could barely withstand. “I’m so sorry."

Carlos reached out and took his hand. “I knew what I was getting into, Seb. None of this is your fault.”

Seb pursed his lips, believing that about as much as he believed that Carlos was fine. “I made up the couch for you, EJ, if you want to sleep here for a bit.”

“That would be great, thank you,” EJ nodded.

“I also made a huge breakfast,” Seb continued. “My family will be up soon, so if you want to eat before a half dozen Matthew-Smiths descend on the meal…”

“I’m starving.” EJ headed for the kitchen.

Seb turned to Carlos. “Are you hungry?”

Carlos shrugged. “Not really.”

“Come on,” Seb nudged him. “There’s bacon.”

“Okay.” He didn't seem convinced.

Seb lead Carlos to the kitchen and served him up a plate of eggs and bacon and the crispiest potatoes of the batch. For someone who supposedly wasn’t hungry, Carlos cleaned the plate impressively (though he didn’t put away as much as EJ did). Seb nibbled a bit himself, but most of his focus was on Carlos.

“Can we go to bed?” Carlos asked, pushing his empty plate away. “I’m exhausted.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Seb turned to EJ, who was still munching happily. “Will you let my parents know what happened?”

EJ gave a thumbs up, since his mouth was full of food.

That was good enough for Seb, and he refocused on Carlos. He led his boyfriend upstairs to his bedroom, where he had some spare sweats and an old shirt waiting for him. “Do you need help changing?”

“Uh,” Carlos bit his lip. “Maybe.”

Seb nodded. He removed the sling before carefully pulling off Carlos’s shirt, grimacing at the angry bruises that littered his torso. “Carlos…”

“One of them kicked me,” Carlos admitted. “A lot, I think.”

Seb swallowed down the protective rage that bubbled up inside him, that wasn't what Carlos needed. He slid his softest old Henley over Carlos’s head, helping him wiggle his right arm into the sling. His eyes lingered over the bandage on Carlos’s neck.

“A knife,” Carlos explained. “It’s not a deep cut. I didn't even need stitches."

Seb nodded. “What about your wrists?”

"Rope burn."

“I think I have some salve that might help,” Seb offered. “I can get it for you after this, if you want.”

“Okay.”

Carlos sat back on the bed and Seb pulled his jeans off, saving him from having to bend over or use his injured arm too much. Once Carlos was settled in his borrowed pajamas, Seb darted into the bathroom looking for the salve, grabbing some arnica gel for the bruises while he was at it.

He returned to his bedroom, where Carlos sat on the bed, staring straight ahead. Seb joined him on the bed, sitting across from him.

Seb applied the salve first, slowly and gently.

Carlos hissed at the contact.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Next, Seb applied the arnica, first lifting Carlos’s shirt to cover the bruises on his ribcage, and then applying some to the bruise on his face. Again, his movements were slow and gentle. Perhaps even more so now that he was looking Carlos in the eye.

“Seb,” Carlos said quietly, voice quivering. “I—“

Carlos began to tremble under Seb’s touch, and all at once, Seb stopped what he was doing.

“Carlos,” Seb took his boyfriend’s shaking hands in his. “You’re not really fine, are you?” Seb phrased it as a question, though he had known the minute Carlos had walked in that he wasn't okay, had seen through the brave face he was wearing for EJ’s sake.

Carlos shook his head. “No.” Finally, he broke, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Seb wrapped his arms around Carlos, careful not to hold too tight. “I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

The dam had broken, and Carlos only cried harder, wincing at the pain as each sob wracked his body.

“You’re safe,” Seb repeated, rocking him soothingly. “You’re safe.”

"It was really bad," Carlos choked out.

"It's over now." Seb pressed kisses to the top of Carlos' head. "It's all over."

Carlos clung tightly to Seb, and Seb wished he could hold Carlos back as tightly without hurting him. Instead, he settled for rubbing circles along Carlos' back, and whispering the same comforts over and over again, hoping Carlos would eventually believe them.

Seb let Carlos cry for a while, let him break apart, and held his pieces until he was ready to be put back together. They would have to face a new day in a few hours, would have to deal with what this attack from North Side meant, both for them, as in Seb and Carlos, and for them as in the organization. But right then, the world was dark and still, and all that mattered was that Carlos was here, safe, in Seb's arms.

[dietraumerei]

Whumptober 2020: Day 12, Broken Bones

Another one set in the Castle Terra universe! This is set a few years or so after the latest story in the series. (So maybe 6 or 7 years after the start of the series? ish?) Horses get their revenge on Crowley -- again, and Aziraphale worries about being able to care for her as well as Crowley looks after her.

Read the rest of my Whumptober fics on AO3 here

cw: potential serious, life-changing injury for a major character

Darling Asha,

I'm writing as promised, to tell you're welcome home, safe and mostly sound. You may notice I say mostly! For we were very nearly home, when poor Crowley broke her arm. Please don't worry too much, for she should heal just fine. She's fast asleep in my bed as I write this, poor darling love, resting as she ought to. Let me tell you what happened.

I say we were nearly home; really, we were home! Our journey on from Gaia was quiet and peaceful; I swear we three are wearing that path smoother and easier, and we made wonderful time. We'd got back and were taking the horses into their stalls. You know what a huge beast Bentley is, but he's gentle as can be. A horse you could love.

I don't know precisely what happened, as I was tending to Aster of course, but Crowley was helping the groom with Bentley, and I suppose he was startled by something,and knocked into her. She fell on the ground – well enough, the straw was fresh and soft – but he was still panicked, and must have stepped on her or kicked her, and broke her arm badly.

Poor love, she swears that horses are against her, and I have to admit I'm starting to come round to her side. It wasn't a minor break, and I think not a clean one, but we have such a good Maestro Physician here; he was able to set the bone, and expects that she'll heal up in the end, and keep at least some, if not all, use of her arm. Her hand is just fine, which was her great worry. For WEAVING, you dirty-minded girl!

You mustn't worry over her, love. She'll be fine, and of course I'll be the best nurse I can be. It's not the same arm she broke all those years ago, so she's go the full set now, and can be done with it. (Our joke. A weak one, but it makes her smile.) I'm scared, Asha. She's been so amazing every time I was hurt, or those days when my courses come on and I have to stay in bed, or the bad days with my scar. She's so good to me, and I hope I'm as good to her.

Other news – not much, of course, we only got home yesterday, and it was a bit busy. Stepan and Donald are coming in three weeks to do some research, and I am very looking forward to visiting with them both; I'm not sure I've seen Donald since we graduated. I shall, of course, shake them both down for gossip. Otherwise, Terra is as usual. The sheep are particularly fluffy this year I think; I'll make sure to send you some yarn after their shearing.

I'll ask Crowley if she wants to add anything after she wakes. Whether or no, please know that we both love you with all our hearts, and think of you often. I hope you're well, and blessed with good weather and better health.

We love you forever,

Aziraphale

Aziraphale set her pen down and looked over at her own narrow bed, face softening at the scene there. Crowley still fast asleep under warm quilts, her arm safe in a sling and wrapped tight to her body, no chance of jostling. The kettle was kept warm, ready to make medicinal tea – or regular tea, to lift her spirits. There were biscuits waiting too, if she wanted a little nibble, and Aziraphale had piled her softest, lightest shawls at the foot of the bed, ready to wrap her own dear one up. She'd fetched Crowley's brush and comb and some hair pretties, in case she wanted her long curls combed out and braided back. Again. Crowley's favourite book waited by her bedside too, ready to be read aloud, and of course kisses and cuddles were always on offer. She could do this. She could!

She set her writing desk aside, and pulled out her own knitting. Honestly, sitting in the vast window and working and watching the sky change – there weren't many better ways to spend the day. And although she worried horribly over Crowley, it was good to see her asleep, her face eased of pain. She'd heal with rest and good food and good care, her sweet, silly demoness.

It was a good two hours before Crowley began to stir, after clouds had swept in and the sky turned even more interesting. Aziraphale was so caught up in watching the rain come over the mountains that she didn't even hear Crowley moving around, waking up, until she heard her own name, called so softly.

Good God, she was the worst nurse of all time.

“Love!” She set her knitting aside and rose to kneel by the bed, grinning. “I missed you.”

Crowley gave her a grin back. “I missed you too. I love you. Was I asleep long?”

“Yes, actually. How do you feel, dear girl? Shall I fix you some tea?”

Crowley sighed and stretched a little, and gave a little wriggle. “Best do, I suppose. Let's go sit by the fire? I want to move around some.”

Aziraphale helped her up, and not incidentally into a hug, the two of them snuggling together for a moment before she gave Crowley a little tap on her narrow arse. “Onto the sofa with you, then. I'll be there in a moment.”

She put the kettle on and prepared them cups of tea; medicinal for Crowley, the sharp, lovely smell already refreshing. Comforting; it reminded her of good and growing things, and hope. And it made her think as well of that first winter when she was thrown and hurt, and how Crowley had made her tea and loved her.

“You're smiling,” Crowley said when she came back with their mugs. “You look so beautiful, Aziraphale. What's got you happy?”

“You,” Aziraphale said. “Remembering how you took care of me when I sprained my ankle.”

“Which time?” Crowley asked dryly, and got a little swat to her good arm. “You can't blame me for asking, angel.”

Aziraphale stuck her tongue out, very maturely. “Fine, all the times,” she muttered, and smiled when Crowley cackled. “Oh, drink your bloody tea.” She was still smiling, though.

“Really, what's got you looking like that?” Crowley asked again.

“Really, you,” Aziraphale told her. “The smell of the tea made me think of it. All the times you've had to nurse me. You're so good at it, Crowley. I always felt loved and cared for, even that first time when I was still half-sure I was about to be sacked. You made me feel better.” She ducked her head and smiled sideways up at her love. “I hope I can help you feel better too. I don't know if I'll be as good for you as you are for me. I know you're in so much pain, and we're both worried, but I just want you to be...happy.”

“Oh my God, angel. The things you find to worry about...” Crowley shook her head, drank deep of her tea, and put it aside to gather Aziraphale up with her good arm, snuggling her close. “You silly, wonderful woman. You make me so happy. Knowing you're there, keeping an eye on me. You made me tea, and I fell asleep in your bed, and you now understand that horses hate me.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was laughing. “All right, I might give you that last one.”

“'Course you will, since I'm right.” Crowley kissed her cheek. “I love you so much. Please don't worry?”

Aziraphale gave her an extremely eloquent look.

“Right, might as well ask you not to breathe,” Crowley muttered.

“And if it was me with the broken arm?” Aziraphale asked sweetly. “You wouldn't worry at all, would you?”

“You know, I coulda had a dumb wife,” Crowley grumbled. “'m a Princess, I'm a catch!”

More eloquent looks.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley gave in laughing. “All right, yes, I'd worry over you, Christ. But don't worry about taking care of me. You will. You are. I'm as comfortable as I can be right now. You can help with practical things, and don't think I didn't see which book you put out. You're a really loving woman, Aziraphale; I feel loved and wanted and comforted. I promise. Okay?”

“Okay.” Aziraphale rested her head on Crowley's shoulder, after dropping a kiss there. “Good. Because you're so loved, and wanted. I know you hurt, and you will for a little while. Maybe a long while. Just...anything I can do to ease you, I will.”

“I know,” Crowley said, nuzzling Aziraphale's curls for a moment. “I'm going to need you, angel. More than usual.”

“Good thing you'll have me, then,” Aziraphale said. “Through anything.” She touched Crowley's fingertips, slipping her hand into the sling and tracing down to where the bandages started over her knuckles. Soft touches, her poor arm. Well, they'd just have to wait and see how well it healed, and love each other like crazy in the meantime.

At least a little comforted by her plan, Aziraphale finally relaxed by the fire – for the moment.