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daflangstlairde-art · 15 days ago

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"A Noble Occupation" Chapter 2, 7936 words

Summary:

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame. — Dream acquires a new coping mechanism. It's not a very good one.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It… became a habit, as shameful as that was.

On lighter days, when his emotions weren't exhausted enough and therefore reached him, Dream would… well, first he would busy himself. When there was nothing obvious that needed him (uncommon occurrence), he sought out how to be helpful, how to be of use. When there was little of that (very rare occurrence), he trained with his teammates, or made preparations.

When that ended and he was home, Dream still looked for ways to make his time worthwhile. Even cleaning was better.

But when he was at a loss on how to do that, and he was thinking and feeling things the Guardian of Positivity shouldn't be… he drank.

The experience didn't get more pleasant, but he grew accustomed to it. The same way he'd learned to bear wounds. The same way he'd learned to bear his own bad emotions.

Go to the store. Internally writhe in shame as he got a bottle of alcohol (wine, since he was most familiar with it). Sometimes he lied that it was for a friend or a gift. Go back home.

Drink it all as fast as possible.

Get hit with the effects all too suddenly.

Feel miserable. Throw up. Go to bed. Sleep like a log.

He learned to keep a glass of water at his night stand. He learned to set an alarm so he wouldn't sleep until noon. He learned to take headache meds in the morning so his functionality wasn't impaired.

It wasn't a big deal, really. It rarely happened, once every several weeks at most.

It helped him sleep, when he did it. It helped him, well, drown his sorrow — make it dull and fuzzy, allowing him to wake up the next day and pretend like none of it existed in the first place, because it shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He was a Protector of the entire Multiverse. If this made him better at his job, at giving the people what they needed in a way that didn't affect them negatively at all, what's the harm in it?

—

Dream should get a mat or something. For his bathroom. The floor tiles were cold.

At some point, he figured it was easier to just drink in his bathroom, since he was inevitably going to end up throwing it up.

The floor… wasn't particularly comfortable, but that's fine. Dream just had to sit here for a bit. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing steadily. Waiting for the alcohol to kick in properly, for the nausea to really rear up. Everything was already fuzzy and tilting, so it was on its way.

And then his phone rang.

Dream winced. He felt his metaphorical heartrate pick up, because it was late, and today had been easier, so this had to be an emergency, and he was a useless mess–

"Hey Dream!" Blue's voice came through.

"Blue?" Dream swallowed. Oh, he hadn't yet… experienced talking to anyone in this state. And he knew alcohol changed the way people spoke. Stars, he really hoped Blue wouldn't pick up on it. He really, really hoped that.

Blue was one of his best friends. One of his teammates. He was… so nice. He genuinely… cared about Dream, not just– about what Dream could do for him, not just about Dream's role. Blue was a good person.

What would he think of Dream? Would he be disappointed?

Dream would not be able to handle that.

He couldn't let Blue know.

"–always for some emergency or another, soo I thought I'd just… you know… call to chat! Just as friends," Blue spoke. His voice was… calm and cheerful. No emergency.

His words caught up to Dream. He wanted to… chat. As friends. That was important. Dream… didn't want Blue to feel like they're just co-workers. They were friends. Blue mattered a lot to Dream.

He was right. Dream had to make more time to spend with his friends. As friends. The last thing he wanted was for them to feel like… like he didn't care about them because he spent all his time helping other people instead.

(He had to have learned from his mistakes. He had to.)

Dream exhaled through his nose, trying to string together a coherent reply. Come on, he wasn't that drunk. Liven up!

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding even if Blue couldn't see. "I– I also… I'd enjoy spending time with you too. As friends,"

"Yay mweheheh!" Blue exclaimed, and Dream huffed in mirth at his endearing laughter. "Unless you're tired, that is– oh no, did I wake you up? I should've asked if you were available to talk first, gah, please prioritize your rest–!" he rushed out.

Dream shook his head. "No, no, I'm available," he spoke slower than the other. It's like the words were fuzzy in his mouth. It was weird. But it didn't sound weird, at least not to him.

"Oh! Okay then, great! Anyway. I'm making dinner!"

Dream hummed. "What're you making?"

"Vegetable cream soup!!!" Blue exclaimed.

That simultaneously sounded really tasty and made Dream remember the upcoming nausea.

"Sounds lovely," he focused on.

"Uh-huh! I hope so. You can try it tomorrow! It's a bit pot. I'm making it with the usual ingredients — you know, carrots and onions and potatoes, but I also decided to add cauliflower because I quite enjoy cauliflower–"Blue started rambling. He enjoyed cooking, as was characteristic of many versions of Papyrus. Funnily enough, Dream had caught him and Horror discussing food prep in the middle of a fight once or twice. It was bizarre. Dream wasn't against it though.

He didn't… think hating Nightmare's gang would solve anyone's issues. He wished he could help them instead. They… hngh. People hated them for ruining and destroying, which was understandable. Dream also, well, highly disapproved of their actions. But they were people, too. And, occasionally, he could feel their hurt. And there's no way being with Nightmare helped.

He exhaled. Maybe someday, he'd figure out a way to help them too. If he tried harder. If he was better.

…Ah, he wasn't listening to Blue. What a friend he was. How could he help Nightmare's gang if he couldn't even be enough for one of his best friends?

"–with an egg, and then it's going to be all done. What about you, what are you up to??" Blue asked curiously, because he was a good friend.

Agh. Dream would have to lie again. He felt… ashamed and guilty. What should he answer?

"I was… cleaning earlier," he answered. He did clean just a little.

"Cleaning? Tsk tsk tsk Dream, I told you to go home and rest," Blue said, light-hearted, more teasing than anything. Though there was soft, disguised concern in his words.

Dream winced. He swallowed. He almost reached for the bottle again before he remembered it was already empty. It was really getting to him. As always, it left him feeling odd. Fuzzy at the face. Nauseated.

"Sorry," he said, sort of by reflex.

"N– it's alright," Blue was quick to assure, and then he paused for a moment. "Are… you alright, Dream?"

Oh no.

Good going, Dream, you couldn't even compose yourself enough for one phone call. Blue just wanted to spend time with you, and now you're making it all about yourself and your problems which you shouldn't be having in the first place. Selfish.

Ugh, and the wine wasn't helping him at all. Dream felt… messy, when he should be the pinnacle of put-togetherness. He couldn't cry now. He couldn't.

"I'm okayy," Dream tried to put a sincere inflection to it. He'd mastered that long ago, except now, it fell oddly, drawing out the end of the word just a bit. Dammit.

Blue was quiet for another moment. Dream had to fix this.

"…Dream, you can ta–"

"I'm just a bit distracted, sorry," Dream lied, "Planning. You know how it is. …Sorry for interrupting you," he winced.

"…Right," that didn't sound like Blue believed him. Dream hunched in on himself. He felt sick. "Just–" Blue took a breath, "–don't stay up all night planning, okay? …Take care of yourself. Please. You don't have to– …You… you'll need the strength, so we can, uh, help people the best we can!"

Right. He was right. Dream was so selfish to be doing this.

"…You're right," he agreed softly. "Thanks for the chat, Blue. I really enjoyed it. Can we… I… I really appreciate you as a friend, you know?" he swallowed. "We should… hang out more. I'm sorry we don't hang out more. I'm s– I… I think I'm gonna go to bed now," he finished on a bit of a lame note.

"I'd love to hang out another time," Blue said all warm, and Dream knew he meant it. "But right now, you going to bed will make me even happier! Good night, Dream! See you tomorrow!"

"Good night," Dream returned quietly. After a beat, the call ended.

Dream let his hand down, blinking bleary at the wall. The silence lingered. He was alone.

He shuffled over to the toilet to throw up so he could go to bed.

—

He was growing too accustomed to the alcohol. One bottle wasn't making him as sick. He had to get two.

…He was finding more varied places to get the alcohol from.

—

Several days later,

"Dream!" Ink grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Ink?" Dream was immediately aware, "What is it, why did you call me, are you alright?" did Error go too far again, did Dream need to heal him? Was an AU being destroyed?

"Oh I'm great," Ink waved a hand, and then once again grabbed Dream, "But I really really really need your help!"

"Yes? Of course!" Dream would always help his friends.

"I need you," Ink said gravely, "to have a beach day with me."

Dream stared back at Ink's intense stare.

He resisted the urge to sigh. That'd be rude. And he wasn't really irritated with Ink anyway. Both because he didn't feel irritation, and also because it was Ink, Ink was like this.

"Come on pleeasee! It's really important!" Ink shook him a little. "It's for one of my stories! It has to be realistic. I stayed up all night thinking of plot points to put to the test,"

It still often baffled Dream how Ink could use up his time and energy for fictional stories like this. Then again, he'd… learned Ink perceived real people as fictional too. And besides, he wasn't Dream. Other people needed breaks and hobbies to function and to feel alright, so it was justifiably important. Even if Dream, personally, wouldn't dare.

"…Right," he replied carefully. "How long is this going to take…?"

"Uhhhmmm about a day, less even, so it's basically nothing," Ink shrugged. "We'll leave if there's an emergency, too, I promise,"

Okay, that eased some of Dream's worry. And it's not like this was the first time Ink hauled them away to do stuff relating to his stories. Last time was a few months ago, a camping trip in the mountains. Blue enjoyed that one. Dream did too. He held the memory fondly.

"Okay," he relented with a sigh and a smile. He'd rather be used by his friends.

"YES!" Ink threw his hands up.

And so here they were. Having a beach day.

It wasn't some private beach — there were a bunch of monsters around, but it was very far from crowded. It made Dream feel less like everyone would be looking at him and disapproving of this unearned leisure.

They'd already gone into the water, which wasn't awfully cold. And either way, the sun was high up and hot, seeping warmth into Dream's bones. The air held a gentle breeze that smelled of salt and sand and seaweed.

"Ink, pass it!" Dream hollered, grinning.

"Incomiiing!" Ink laughed, turning so he could pass the ball to Dream. With a running start, Dream jumped to dunk it past the net.

Blue laughed loudly at that, whistling. Error couldn't be assed to rush to catch the ball, even if he was literally a few paces away from it.

Blue had the idea that they play beach volleyball, but they'd needed a fourth person. Ink ended up nagging the Destroyer until he finally agreed, though he wasn't exactly passionate about it. Still, it was really fun. Error made up for his lack of involvement by cheating. This was the third ball Ink had drawn, haha.

And honestly?

Dream was having fun. Even with just the four of them, he was having a great time. All those fighting skills turned out to be useful — agility and precision and team coordination. Both teams were about evenly matched, making the game just engaging enough. Though weirdly, Dream didn't feel drained by all the movement and emotions.

The other monsters around the beach were relaxing, wafting off pleasant contentedness. Blue and Ink were as cheerful as ever. Even Error, as much as he complained about the sand, didn't seem to loathe it too much (likely because he was sort of friends with Blue and was familiar Ink).

It all left Dream collapsing onto his towel with a grin that was so big it ached against his face and a pleasant buzzing in his bones. This was yet another memory he'd hold near and dear.

("Thank you," Dream said to Ink quietly, but from the heart, as they all were sat to eat lunch during a brief break.

Ink chuckled, sharing a brief glance with Blue. "Anytime," he nudged Dream with an elbow.)

…Unfortunately, Dream remained a mess.

He was trying to sleep, he really was. He'd gone to bed over half an hour ago and he'd stayed there. Feeling lighter after a fantastic day. Calmer. More put together. Hopeful, the positivity inside him fresh and sincere, braced to live.

But he just… couldn't sleep. Which, to be fair, was far from new. Actually, he struggled to sleep most of the time. Which wasn't ideal since he got to bed, hm, maybe once every three days, but he was still fully functional so it must be all he needed.

Dream sighed, rolling on his side. Purple teddy bear held to his chest as always.

He wanted to sleep. Bad dreams or not, selfish or not, he was tired and he needed energy to bring his best for the Multiverse. Simply laying around certainly wasn't better.

He didn't understand why he couldn't sleep. He felt so cozy and comforted after the day at the beach. Filled with an unmarred warmth.

…Maybe…

…Hm. Did he need to drink an entire bottle every time? Maybe… drinking only a little would be fine. Just enough to dull his hyperawareness. What's so different to using melatonin pills?

Carefully, still a little ashamed, Dream got out of bed.

His head didn't even hurt in the morning, so it must've been fine.

—

It's really not that bad. Dream remained Dream, the Guardian of Positivity, member of the Star Squad, Protectors of the Multiverse. He was just as reliable, endlessly and gladly inspiring hope in everyone around him. Everyone knew how Dream was. Dream helped and asked for nothing in return. Dream always saw the best in people. Dream determinedly kept his stance in the face of terror and destruction. Dream embodied goodness, in everything he did, everything he was. Always smiling sincerely, reaching out his hands. Dream and all that he was belonged to the people. He served his role dutifully, humble and dedicated, glad and proud.

After years, he'd eventually settled into this balance. Always outputting as much productivity as he could, and always looking to do it more. A worn routine.

This was just… another… tiny part of said routine. He never dared to overdo it — he never drank around people, the same way he never cried around people. He never did it two days in a row, never even did it twice in the same week. He was always very careful that he wasn't needed when he was… uhm, in that state. He didn't… always drink himself to sickness, some nights it was just to help him sleep.

No one was noticing. So it was fine. Dream was ensuring he was highly functional and stable. He could get out all these unwanted emotions and thoughts, flush them down the toilet, and then continue as if it wasn't needed in the first place.

Until he was taken off-guard.

His phone was ringing.

Dream picked up immediately, desperately hoping this was just Blue or Ink wanting to chat. Because here he was once again. Dressed in pajamas, on his bathroom floor. Staring at the swirling and swimming tiles with over one bottle of alcohol in his system. Waiting for the sickness to come and pass, as usual.

"Yeah–?"

"Dream, emergency," Blue's alarm was audible over the line. Dream's rolling stomach sank. "Nightmare and his gang attacked–"

"On m' way, give me– minute," Dream hauled himself to his feet, and promptly regretted it as sharp reflux burned his throat. He pushed it down.

To his credit, his awareness sharpened a bit, as he listened to Blue give him the details of where to go and what state they were in. Ink was already there, and he heard Blue go through one of his portals. At that point Blue had to hang up to engage in combat as well.

In the meanwhile, Dream tried to gather himself into something semi-functional. He knew he looked terrible when drinking, and he was far from dressed for fighting, he had to hurriedly put on more combat-appropriate clothes so he wouldn't earn himself unnecessary wounds or impede his movements. He also took barely a few short seconds to splash his face with cold water.

As always, his mind kicked into habit as soon as he heard 'emergency'. Settling into familiarity. Forcefully jammed into strategy and pragmatism, away from sorrow and pain and all those distractions.

In about a dozen minutes, he arrived at the described location, more specifically in a version of Waterfall. The teleportation made his stomach do uncoordinated flips but Dream barely even noticed it, because he spotted Killer and Dust both engaging Blue in combat and jumped in to deal with at least one of them.

"Dream!" Blue exclaimed in relief.

"Here," Dream called back, parrying the swing of Killer's knife with his staff. Sometimes Killer preferred regular ranged attack bullets, but it seems today (or, tonight, according to the Omega Timeline's cycle) he was more for close-ranged combat. Which was fine because Dream was experienced in both.

"Well look who deigned to join!" Killer spat laughter in Dream's face, gladly engaging him in a fight. He was as vicious as ever, relentless and dirty with his attacks. Dream was used to him and knew to keep his guard up at all times, responding with fast, precise blocks and attacks of his own so as to not allow him openings to abuse.

Or… he was used to Killer.

But as they fought, and Killer kept taunting him as he usually did, Dream was… having a harder time than he should be.

It felt like he was reacting on time, except again and again, Killer managed to steal hits from him that Dream should've been perfectly capable of handling. His reflexes were… fuzzier than he'd like. In a normal fight, they would still hold up, but again, this was Killer. Nightmare had picked out the members of his gang for clear reasons.

Everything was just a little uncoordinated. Just a little unstable, like they were fighting in shallow water even though they were still on dry land, like Dream couldn't manage his footwork. Each hit that landed jarred Dream, even though the pain was muffled as well. Dream was lacking.

…And Killer was catching onto it.

"Heheheee did we catch you off-guard, dreamboy?" he jeered as he slammed his blade against Dream's staff once more, undistracted by his own words. "Are you losing your spark?"

Dream didn't reply, focused on matching him beat for beat as much as he could. Though that wasn't uncommon. He wasn't much for mid-fight banter. That was more Ink's thing. It's why Killer liked fighting Dream specifically. He wanted to crack his composure.

"You're sloppy," Killer hissed, grinning, dodging and slashing in the same movement, "Not usually your style, Mr. Perfect!" he mocked.

And he was right. Dream excused the rushing of his metaphorical heart on the adrenaline.

"This is who our enemies are? Pathetic," Killer successfully managed to slam the hilt of his blade against Dream's wrist, which weakened the grip on his staff, allowing Killer a wide swipe that landed despite Dream's attempt at dodging. Dream registered absentmindedly that, thankfully, it wasn't a lethal wound.

"What is up with you?" Killer crooned. "Am I scaring you, sunshine? Was this a bad time? Or…" he paused, in a dangerously considering way.

Dream's gut wrenched. His eyes widened, just the tiniest bit that people usually would not notice.

But this was Killer. Killer, when he wasn't drunk on violence and pain, could be terrifyingly observant. He was like a shark sensing a single droplet of blood in the water.

Killer barked out a hysterical laugh.

"Are you drunk?!" he loudly marveled.

Dream was too late to catch the wince he made at that. It was just the confirmation Killer needed.

"Oooohohoho oh this is incredible!" Killer laughed, fiercely back to attacking. "Your Guardian, everybody! A drunkard! I knew I could smell something familiar!" he declared it all loudly, even if there was nobody here to hear except the two opposing groups. And the echo flowers.

But even though there were no civilians here to hear, Dream was violently cringing inside. Please, no, he begged, please just let me handle this and go back home.

"What, got sick of living the life anyone else would kill for?!" Killer mocked, abusing his new knowledge to gain the upper hand in their fight. Dream was even sloppier, struggling to keep up with him, backing up as Killer pushed onwards. "I'm embarrassed to even fight you, Dream! Tsk tsk tsk!"

Usually, Dream mentally shielded himself from Killer's and Nightmare's and everyone's negative remarks as much as he could. Usually he knew the point of their words was to get to him, him specifically. To weaken his resolve, to hurt.

So why was it getting to him now?

Horrifyingly, Dream realized he wanted to cry.

All Killer needed was for him to stumble for a moment, and then Dream cried out as a knife was plunged directly into his chest. Killer seized the opportunity, shoving him towards the wall with it so he could push the blade in up to the hilt.

As soon as he accomplished it, he twisted the knife, Dream letting out another highly pained sound, and then ripped his knife out to let him bleed.

Dream, uncoordinated, sloppy, hurting, overwhelmed, slid down to the ground, trying to at least breathe. Everything was spinning, and the back of his throat stung sharply and discontentedly.

Dream didn't even process Killer lifting his knife and summoning four blasters with the same gesture, laughing hysterically above him. He flinched and cowered pathetically as a second shape jumped between them, and it was the final push as he leaned forwards and retched on the ground. Or… he aimed for the ground but didn't quite make it. The humiliation burned as he saw he caught the bottom of his pants and his shoes and it was gross and he wanted to cry. He was shaking.

"–eam are you okay?!" Blue's worried voice floated in from beside him, and Dream squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees closer in, hiding his face in them.

He was collapsing in the middle of a fight. His friends needed him. He was letting them down. He was letting everyone see his composure break. He was broadcasting his weaknesses, his wrongness to their enemies. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just work?

Adrenaline and shame and sheer overstimulation wracked him inwardly and he felt sick, he felt so sick, he was going to throw up again.

"Dream, hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay, focus on my voice," Blue spoke. He was– he was kneeling next to Dream, blocking his view of the rest of the fight. If both of them were dealing with Dream's mess, then Ink had to be handling the rest on his own. And Ink was strong and incredibly capable, he was creative and didn't let things get to him, but Dream was letting him down.

They were both going to be disappointed in him. The thought felt like getting stabbed in the chest again.

Dream– Dream couldn't do this. He was a disappointment. He was a useless. A mess. He was a failure.

In barely a flash, he was back in his bathroom, bending forward to throw up into the toilet. Everything was spinning, and he clutched the bowl to stop the shaking of his hands. His face felt hot with shame and the blubbery tears breaking out of their prison.

Dream was struggling to breathe. It felt like his rib cage was made of stone, and he couldn't breathe in right. He was– he was trying to gasp in air but every inhale got cut off sharply, he couldn't breathe, everything was vibrating like pins and needles.

Dream let his forehead thunk down on the toilet seat, the cutting breaths starting to sound more like hiccups, like sobs. He couldn't get himself under control, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. It was all just a barrage of emotions he shouldn't be capable of even having, uselessness and panic and sorrow and self-hatred and guilt and disappointment and shame shame shame. He was a ruin. He felt so damn sorry the Multiverse depended on this thing.

Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Handle this. Be better. Be better!

But he couldn't. He couldn't. Every desperate attempt to pull himself together only made him more overwhelmed, only made him feel more incapable. He wanted to claw out the emotions. He wanted it out.

It hurt as he retched into the toilet again, acidic magic trailing down his chin. It was gross, it was so gross, he hated it. He hated the way his uncontrolled sobs echoed in the bathroom. He hated the way he couldn't even get up, trembling and weak and aching all over. He hated hating, he shouldn't even be capable of it.

How was he going to sleep like this? How was he going to look his friends in the eyes like this tomorrow? How was he going to look at anyone? Maybe they wouldn't know how much of a useless disappointment he was, if Nightmare didn't broadcast it to the whole Multiverse, but Dream would know. It would be in the background of all his actions, following him, never allowing him to forget because he had to remember his mistakes, he had to learn from them, he had to be better.

Who would need– who would want a Guardian of Positivity who wasn't even positive?

He tried to reign in the sobbing, he tried, he swore he tried. He always tried so, so hard but it was never enough. He was never enough. People always needed more, there was always more to do, he always had to be more. He couldn't even stop crying, when he shouldn't be crying in the first place.

Dream raised his hands, slamming them into the sides of his head. Just stop it. Just stop it. You're the one that messed up, you're the one who always messes up! It's your fault! It's always been your fault! Why are you crying? How dare you feel sorry for yourself you useless thing? People suffer constantly, and here you are, sniveling!

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Dream blubbered incoherently, not even sure to who. It was just– instinct, deep inside him. Sorry that he was wrong, sorry that he wasn't enough, sorry sorry sorry.

The tears didn't stop coming. It's like every tear he'd ever repressed was coming back for him with vengeance. He just kept crying and crying and crying, like he was trying to hold back the tears with his own hands but they just kept slipping through. How was he supposed to calm anyone else's tears when he couldn't even deal with his own?

He was made to help people, it was the definition of his existence to exist through others and for others. If he couldn't be theirs then he was nothing, he was as good as de–

"–shh, shh, it's okay,"

Dream jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, no, no, what? There wasn't supposed to be anyone here, he was alone, he–

"Dream, it's okay, it's alright," Blue was kneeling next to him, keeping up a stream of reassurances, and the sudden shame Dream felt, like someone had grabbed his nonexistent intestines and squeezed.

"Blue– you– n– m– I–" he stammered, words slurred in a way he hated.

"It's okay," Blue insisted, "Look, look at me, hey," his hands came to cup Dream's face, and Dream felt borderline scared as he looked at Blue's gaze. It was gentle, but sure. "You're okay. Everything is okay. Stop thinking, just– breathe with me, please?" he said.

More tears bubbled into Dream's eye sockets because he couldn't, he couldn't–

"I need you to remind me how we did it, please? Please? How did we do it? How do we breathe deep?" Blue tried desperately.

He needed Dream. He needed Dream's help, and that's all Dream's shattered thoughts could focus on. His friend needed him.

Dream forced himself to gasp in air even as it burned, his chest and his throat.

"There we go, that's right," Blue encouraged, still holding his face, keeping Dream's eyes on him. "I think I'm remembering, keep showing me, okay?"

Dream gasped for air again, and Blue followed, inhaling deeply. Much more steadily than him. Dream tried to hold the breath but it burned and escaped him, and Blue held and exhaled with him, although slower.

Dream was still shaking with sobs but he pushed through, hands clutching tightly onto nothing, forcing himself to breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. Blue following him beat for beat.

They barely spent a few minutes that way before another presence joined them and Dream flinched, his already unsteady rhythm knocked off again.

"It's just Ink, it's okay," Blue reassured quickly. "He's got some medical supplies–"

Dream's eye lights snapped back to Blue in alarm, "Who's hurt?" he asked immediately, still struggling with cohesion.

Blue's face saddened, and that only panicked Dream more. There was someone injured who needed his help and he was sitting here freaking out–

"You are," Ink said next to them and flicked Dream's head with two fingers. Dream startled at it. He saw Blue send Ink a look at that, but he sensed no regret from Ink.

His mind grappled to process the words.

He was? He was what? Hurt?

…Oh wait. Yes. He was hurt. Killer stabbed him in the chest, he was still bleeding from it.

And then– then he'd–

More tears and shame pricked at his face. He shook his head insistently, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey.

"Dream, please let Ink help," Blue pleaded, worry lacing every word.

Dream hated to make him worry, especially over him, so in guilt, he relented.

With shaking hands, he removed his capelet and his shirt so it would be easier for Ink. Looking at it now, the wound was bad. It wouldn't kill him, it would take a lot to kill him, but it was bad. His blood dripping down from his severed ribs. It'd soaked into his clothes. It explained the burning of his breathing only partially.

"It's going to be okay," Blue lifted his face up again. "Just let Ink heal it, it's going to be okay Dream,"

He shouldn't be the one reassuring Dream. Ink shouldn't be the one cleaning his wound carefully to heal him. Dream should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through hiccups, not even flinching as Ink gently cleaned his wound out with rubbing alcohol.

However the smell reached up to Dream's nose and nausea rolled in his stomach.

He shoved himself away from Blue to gag, pressing a hand to his mouth because he'd hate himself even more if he threw up on his friend.

"Whoops, sorry about that," Ink said casually, assuming he'd done something wrong.

"Not– not your fault," Dream reassured him, struggling to breathe through the nausea.

"Oh, I thought that's what we're doing? Apologizing for things that aren't our fault?" Ink said with a mischievously innocent smile.

Blue whacked his shoulder. Ink showed no regret, chuckling.

Dream was trying not to throw up again. He didn't usually vomit this much, but he usually stayed in his bathroom with little physical strain too.

He really, really wished they didn't see him like this.

"Oh, you still feel sick?" Ink spoke again, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be back in a mo, keep an eye on him," he told Blue and then disappeared through a swipe of inky magic.

"Okay–" Blue exhaled through his nose, picking up the cotton and the rubbing alcohol, "I'll treat your wounds for now then, is that okay?"

Dream stared at the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Just the thought of the smell made him feel sick and ashamed and guilty, like he wanted to hide under his blanket.

"Oh–" Blue looked down at the bottle and then put it down.

"No, no, it's fine–" Dream was quick to reassure. His words were slightly clearer even though everything still felt like pins and needles. He was still intermittently hiccuping and sobbing, breathing shakily. And bleeding.

"No, we'll think of something else," Blue insisted, and Dream cringed. He couldn't even give it to them to not be a difficult patient. Way to burden your friends with what shouldn't even be their job, Dream.

He reached for the plastic bottle. He could patch his wound up himself, it was far from the first time.

Blue grabbed his wrist.

"Dream." he said sternly, and Dream couldn't help but hunch in on himself at the tone.

"Sorry,"

Blue breathed in and out in a measured manner.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you," he said gently, and Dream could feel he wasn't. Mostly, he felt– frustration, worry and care, and sadness.

"Are– are you okay?" Dream asked. He didn't want Blue to feel frustrated and sad and all.

The frustration reared up at that, and then Dream felt it get intentionally shoved down.

"'S okay to be frustrated," he reassured, hand reaching up to Blue's shoulder in sloppy comfort.

"I'm–" Blue exhaled, "I'm not frustrated because you've done something wrong," he explained, "I just– I want to help you but I don't know how, and I'm... frustrated you're not letting us,"

Oh.

"Sorry," Dream mumbled, "I'm– I'm alright,"

"You're not," Ink reappeared, and Dream saw Blue wince at the bluntness. "Maybe this will help though?" Ink crouched down next to them, holding out a blister pack to Dream.

Dream let go of the rubbing alcohol, so Blue let go of his wrist. He accepted the blister pack, reading the name on the back.

'DETOX' and underneath, in smaller letters, 'active charcoal'.

"Charcoal?" he frowned.

"Yup!" Ink exclaimed. "It helps draw out, uh, bad things from your digestive system! Like food poisoning. Or alcohol,"

Dream stiffened, deeply uncomfortable and ashamed. Maybe they'd just heard Killer. Maybe they'd connected the dots. The two bottles still remained in the bathroom, after all, which is where they were sitting right now.

"I, I–" he scrambled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ink cut him off with a raised hand. "If you think that'll help, take it. You can even take two, it's not dangerous," he pointed at the active charcoal pack Dream held.

He hesitated.

"...Okay," Dream accepted, popping two out and swallowing them dry. It didn't taste like anything. He was thirsty. He felt completely drained, which didn't help the shaking and the wooziness.

"Wanna know what would help right now?" Blue spoke, and Dream looked at him hopefully.

"What?"

"Telling me how this upsets you so I can think of something else?" Blue pointed at the bottle of rubbing alcohol tentatively.

Dream cringed again. He should just tough it out. He was making things needlessly complicated, when he should be the person that makes things easier.

...But... Blue said it would help.

Dream took a wobbling breath in, then let it out. He was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Even though they weren't wracking through him anymore, he couldn't stop them.

"It's– the smell," he admitted quickly.

"Oh! Psh, well that's not a problem," Ink said easily, for some reason unraveling his (very long and thick) brown scarf that he loved. And then, bizzarely, he started wrapping it around Dream's neck, pulling it up so it rested over the lower half of his face too.

When Dream breathed in through his nose, all he could smell was Ink's natural scent, ink and paint and cloth.

"I– but what if I throw up again?" he looked up at Ink, voice small, eyes wet.

Ink stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

"You realize I throw up when I get overwhelmed, like, half the time, right?"

...Oh.

They were being… so nice. Showing him so much care, even though they shouldn't. But because they… wanted to?

It made him want to cry all over again, expression wobbling. They were so nice, and warm. He could feel their care.

"Thank you," he said softly to both of them.

"Anytime!" Ink beamed. "So is it gonna work?"

"I– yeah, I think so," Dream nodded, raising a hand to press the scarf to his face.

When Blue brought a cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol to try cleaning his stab wound again, the smell didn't hit Dream's nasal cavity, it didn't make him want to bend over and retch.

They spent some time in the quiet like that. Blue and Ink cleaning up his wound, healing it, and dressing it in a practiced manner. There were still tears half-heartedly streaming down from Dream's eyes, no matter how much he wiped them away with his hands and tried to hold them back.

He could feel the ache of the wound settling in, sharper now that it wasn't covered up by alcohol and adrenaline, but it wasn't more than what he could handle. His metaphysical stomach felt desolate, and he was so thirsty, but he worried he'd just throw it up again. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs and his eye lids, from the amount of energy he'd wasted in throwing up and freaking out.

And in the middle of a fight, too. And his teammates had rushed after him to help him, oh stars.

"What about Nightmare's gang?" Dream suddenly piped up in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," Ink waved a hand, "I ditched them at Error's," he cackled. Blue snorted.

Oh. Okay then.

"Good job," Dream praised them both. He really couldn't ask for better, more capable, more reliable teammates. Friends. "And… thank you. And– I'm–" his mouth wobbled more, and he tried to breathe the uprising tears away. "I'm sorry, I... I just– this–" how could he explain this? How could he justify himself?

He didn't want to lie to them. He hated lying. Especially to his friends.

"I thought it would help," his voice broke against his will. He stared at the floor, starting on the damned crying again. Get a hold of yourself, Dream. "I was trying to– I thought it would–"

Wordlessly, Blue reached over and dragged him into a hug. A second later Ink flopped into the embrace too, both of them sandwiching him like endearing annoyances.

Dream was… a bit stupefied. Here he was, drunk (post-drunk?), having botched a fight. Vomited magic dried on the bottom of his pants (he'd kicked his shoes off). Sitting with his best friends on his bathroom floor, an undignified mess in all ways.

And they just… hugged him.

Blue's arms around him were solid and strong, an unflinching aura of care. Ink had a steady calm presence, for all his hyperactivity, never overwhelming Dream with emotions due to their artificial nature.

They were… so warm.

Dream pressed his face to Blue's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. Blue rubbed his back, as much as he could with Ink there at least.

"It's okay," Blue comforted him gently. "You're okay. Everything is alright. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? You can let it out,"

Dream shook his head.

"Heeyy! There's room for only one emotionless Protector!" Ink whined, "Don't infringe on my copyright!"

Dream laughed wetly at that.

"I'm– but it's wrong," he argued, daring to voice his inner turmoil. Uncertain how exactly to describe the way he felt about it to someone else. "I– I wasn't made to cry," he tried.

"I mean, you can cry though, right?" Ink pointed out. "Sounds to me like you were made to do it, then,"

And… and Dream couldn't really argue with that. He was left speechless.

"Come on, what do you always tell other people?" Blue guided. "What do you say when someone's crying?"

Many things. But among those things,

"That it's... normal, and... healthy," Dream replied, quiet, uneasy. "But I'm not– it's not the same,"

"Why not?" Blue exclaimed. "Didn't it feel nice just now? Letting it out? Everything that was built up?"

…Miserably, Dream had to admit it did. Like there had been a dam accumulating inside of him, turbulent and heavy, metric tons of tears built up. And finally, he'd let some of it out. He was exhausted, and ashamed, but he did feel… eased, in a way.

"You're allowed to cry, Dream," Blue insisted softly. "Heck, you of all people should get to cry!"

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," Ink said in a jokey tone, "It's going to be a Star Secret,"

"Yeah, Ink will probably forget in a day," Blue teased.

"Heeyy!" Ink complained with no upset behind it, instead amused. "Maybe you should forget it too, did you consider that?"

"Nope! I'm a magnificent keeper of secrets, mweheheh!"

Dream giggled wetly. They were so nice. He sobbed again, muffling it into Ink's scarf. He loved his friends so, so much.

"There we go," Blue encouraged, amused but sincere. Patting his back gently. "Do you still feel sick? Do you think we can move to your room–?"

"Yeah, it's alright," Dream swallowed.

"Dream,"

"No– it is, it really is, I– I want to change my clothes," he insisted, it was the truth.

"Alright, Ink, move a little please,"

Ink complained and there was a bit of shuffling. Dream also got ready to disengage from the hug, but instead he was taken off guard as Blue lifted upwards, still holding him. Easily picking Dream up, making him yelp. Jeez, he sometimes forgot how much sheer physical strength Blue had.

Blue cackled, having definitely done that on purpose.

Dream sighed in feigned annoyance, but considering how tired he was, he honestly appreciated the lift to his bed where Blue deposited him. Ink happily trailed after, and flopped down right beside him.

"Do you need anything else? Where are your clothes?" Blue hovered, still on his feet.

"I can get it," Dream pushed himself up.

"Noooooo," Ink complained, wrapping around him like a squid.

"Guys,"

"Dream,"

"Just–" Dream sighed, "please? I swear I'm better," either from the DETOX or he'd thrown it all up, or both. And from the sheer comfort and positivity of his friends. He was just… tired. So tired.

But… not in a hopeless way. Rather in a really sleepy way.

Blue was visibly unsure, but relented, sitting at the bed. Dream smiled at him. Ink unlatched from him, letting him get up. He got into pajamas, brushed his teeth because yuck, and also went to get himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen. He drank it slowly and crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

He lingered in his kitchen for a moment, just… breathing. His body was tired. Heavy and dragging. It was so much more than simple lack of sleep. It felt like he'd bled out. Not just literally. A part of him dreaded how this would all crash down on him tomorrow.

And he was still highly in danger of crying.

…But…

…Maybe, he was made for it. Maybe, it was good and healthy for him. That's what Ink and Blue thought. And Dream both trusted them and trusted their view. They were some of the most truly kind, capable, honest, caring, dedicated– ah, he could go on. Point was: he appreciated them. Maybe... maybe he should take them as a guide instead.

It was a bit terrifying? Because what if he was wrong? What if Dream was daring to go against everything that'd kept the multiversal balance intact this far?

…But he hadn't been enough, this far. So... clearly something wasn't working. It was time he tried to change things up Just a little. For the sake of goodness.

(And maybe, just a little, for his own sake.)

Dream refilled the glass, taking it with him. Pattering back to his bedroom.

Ink and Blue were still laying there, their collective aura easy and light and warm, though with mix-ins. They were chatting about something. Ink was holding up the purple teddy bear, making it move as though it was acting out their conversation.

Dream passed by and primly snatched it out of his hands.

"Heeyy!" Ink protested, and then his mental track switched as he grinned, "Oh I'm so happy you kept him!"

"Of course I kept him," Dream rolled his eye lights. "He's a gift from you doofuses,"

"Mweheheh!"

"I like his ribbon," Ink pointed out. "Purple and yellow, complementary colors,"

…Yeah.

"Dream. Bed. Sleep. Don't make me make you," Blue threatened.

"I dare you to try," Dream grinned.

"Oh Dreamy Mr. Guardian," Ink clasped his hands together theatrically, making his eyes big and sparkling, "I need aid remembering how to get into bed, can you please show me–!"

Blue mercilessly whacked him over the head, making Ink kick his feet and laugh loudly.

Blue sent Dream a glance, but Dream was laughing too. He wasn't particularly offended. Partially because it was Ink, but mostly because Ink was... pretty accurate with it, haha. Oh stars.

Oh so benevolently, he flopped into bed, laughing quietly as he got dragged in for cuddles. Holding the plushie close.

Tomorrow, the shame and guilt would crawl up his spine. Tomorrow, he was probably in for… difficult conversations.

Tonight, instead of alone, Dream was held by his teammates, his friends, listening to them chat and breathe, and he felt... alright. Tonight, instead of lying, Dream had cried and it was alright. Tonight, Dream slept alright.

31 notes · View notes

oddinary4bts · 2 years ago

Text

The Forgotten Spaces | ch 4 (jjk)

☆summary: you've been dancing on the same dance crew since your teenage years, and you finally have an important role in it. It feels like life is taunting you when your rival comes back after disappearing for a year, ready to tease you every chance he gets. Will the teasing turn into more, or are you going to take him down with you?

☆pairing: photographer and dancer!Jungkook x dancer!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, there will be mature content in later chapters)

☆genre: slow (SLOW) burn enemies to lovers, college!au, slice of life!au, angst (oop), smut and fluff

☆warnings: nausea, hangover, the park jimin effect, drinking, cursing? a time skip of a month

☆word count: 9.6k

☆a/n: why is posting making me anxious? fun fact, I'm posting from New York City this week! Went to the two first Agust D concerts ayyy

☆a/n pt2: always and forever thankful for @moonleeai and her dedicated work as my beta reader <3

☆series masterpost here

☆Read What Was Hidden here, the fic that inspired this whole story, written by @daechwitatamic, one of my fav human beings on this app <3 It follows the story of Jo and Taehyung before The Forgotten Spaces

☆☆☆☆☆

For this meeting of our end of the world

It's with you that I want to sing

On the threshold of the memories the dead of today

Them that breathe for us

The forgotten spaces

Je t'écris - Gaston Miron (rough translation by me)

☆☆☆☆☆

Saturday, May 19th

Jungkook feels sick. Sick of everything, but mostly sick because his hungover has kept him in bed all day. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to pull up for dance practice later. All he knows is that his room has been spinning whenever he wakes up from naps, and that he fucked up majestically last night.

He doesn’t quite remember everything he said. He just remembers you, in his room, and then you being gone, replaced by Jimin and Taehyung.

The only thing he knows is that you know. The text that’s been sitting on his phone all day is reminder enough.

[11:12 am] You: hey, i hope ur okay this morning.. if u ever wanna talk about last night, we can grab a coffee or smth😌

He doesn’t know what to say, so he hasn’t replied. Because he’s not okay at all, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you.

Especially not when he hasn’t been able to eat anything since the first time he woke up today. It’s nearing 4 pm now, and he technically needs to be at the studio in two hours. Hobi already said he’d pick him up, but he’s still far from being presentable right now.

Jungkook groans, hiding his face in his pillow. You come up in his mind, the look of horror on your face last night making everything spin around him twice as much as before. Whenever he closes his eyes, you’re there, and he almost hopes to go blind.

Though he’s pretty sure you’d find a way to haunt him even if he was blind.

Another groan escapes him, and he turns his head to the side as someone knocks on his door. “Uh?” he lets out, loud enough for whoever it is to hear.

He’s surprised to see it’s Yoongi as the man opens the door. “I made you soup,” Yoongi says, and sure enough he is carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup on top of it.

Jungkook expects the thought of eating to make him feel worse, but surprisingly enough, no nausea rises inside of him. Instead, he realizes his stomach feels dreadfully empty, so he forces himself to sit, wincing at the throbbing pain at his temples.

It’s almost enough to make him forget the pain in his leg.

“Did you take any painkillers?” Yoongi asks as he puts down the tray at the foot of the bed. “And have you drank any water?”

“Yes and yes,” Jungkook replies, voice raucous from disuse. “Pretty sure I could use some more painkillers though.”

Yoongi nods, watching his younger friend carefully. “Do you need me to go get you some?”

Jungkook slowly shakes his head no. “I need to get out of bed if I want to make it to dance practice.”

At that Yoongi laughs. “Good luck with that.”

Jungkook frowns, glaring at Yoongi. “I’m very capable, I’ll have you know.”

“Your room smells like someone died in here.”

Though he’s usually sensitive to smell, Jungkook’s hungover state keeps him from being able to tell if the room really does stink. “Tae and Jimin cleaned up.”

“Then you must be the dead body,” Yoongi says, in that deadpan kind of way of his. He shrugs his shoulders, before adding, “Anyway, just eat and then take a shower. I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

Jungkook nods and watches as Yoongi makes to move out of his room. Yoongi’s at the door when Jungkook says, “Hyung?” Yoongi turns around, a quizzical look on his features. “Thank you for the soup.”

A smile breaks out across Yoongi’s face. “Anytime.”

And then Yoongi leaves, shutting the door softly behind him, and Jungkook is left alone once again. He looks down at the soup, and he realizes he really is hungry. He pulls the tray closer to him, making sure the soup doesn’t spill over the rim of the bowl, before grabbing the spoon.

The first spoonful of soup has his eyes fluttering shut with delight. Yoongi’s always been an amazing cook, and he hasn’t disappointed today. It awakens Jungkook more than anything else could have, and he’s finished the bowl of soup so quickly he almost considers eating the tray.

He’s still famished, but at least he’s got something in his stomach now. It’s enough to get him to stand from his bed, and though everything wobbles for a few seconds, he’s able to start gathering what he’ll need for his trip to the shower.

The shower really helps make him feel human again, and he’s relieved. As he steps out and looks at himself in the mirror, eyes dipping to his scars, he feels ready to confront the whole world if need be. He won’t have to bail on dance practice after all.

He’s down in the kitchen, eating some reheated pizza from last night, when Hobi arrives. His older friend pats him on the back, before putting down a Gatorade in front of him.

“Thought you’d need this,” he says, before climbing on the stool next to Jungkook.

Jungkook chuckles, immediately uncapping the Gatorade to take a long swig. It’s the last thing he needed to feel as good as new, and he offers Hobi a wide grin as soon as he puts the bottle down.

“I sure did,” he says, and the two friends laugh.

One thing that doesn’t change though, is the heaviness in Jungkook’s heart. Because if you know, then it’s just a matter of time before the rest of the crew knows. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to deal with everyone pitying him at the same time.

Maybe then he’ll just have to dip again.

Jin comes into the kitchen, and he stops as he sees Jungkook and Hobi at the counter. Valeria trails behind him, and Jungkook is struck dumb once more.

He never thought Jin would be able to pull the girl. He’s still surprised that she does exist, and whenever he’s alone with Jin he makes it a priority to remind his older friend.

“Sup’ losers,” Jin says as he starts moving again, heading towards the fridge to store the bottle of rosé wine he’s holding. “Surprised you were able to get out of bed.”

He says that over his shoulder looking right at Jungkook, who rolls his eyes. “I’m not a senior citizen like you, I’ve still got youth on my side.”

“Listen you little shit,” Jin bursts out, and Valeria starts laughing. It has the effect of a calming shower on Jin, who only glares at Jungkook. “You’re lucky the lady is here. Otherwise you’d be dead.”

“If you’d be able to catch me, that is.”

Jin looks towards Hobi.

“Don’t ask me for help,” Hobi says, raising his hands in defense. “You’re all alone on this.”

Jin’s head turns towards his girlfriend next. She’s shy, and Jungkook has never really talked to her before. So when he and Hobi look at her too, she blushes, before shrugging.

Jin lets out a childish whine, before saying, “Alright then, I’m old.”

“We like you like that.” Valeria is the one that speaks, and Jungkook chokes on a laugh as he turns back towards Jin.

“You heard her.”

Jin is fake-glaring at his girlfriend, but then his features soften. “Yeah, but at least she’s pretty.” And just like that he moves out of the kitchen, pulling Valeria behind him.

“I’ve been told I’m pretty too,” Jungkook yells behind Jin, and Hobi laughs next to him. “He’s so whipped,” Jungkook says after a few seconds, just to make sure Jin is out of earshot. His comment makes him think about another couple that’s starting to form, and he turns to look at Hobi. “And you? What’s up with Jiho?”

Hobi chokes, flushing fully red, up to the top of his ears. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook raises his eyebrows as he tries to hold in the shit-eating smirk that wants to form on his lips. “What do I mean? Why did you invite her yesterday?”

“I –” Hobi says. “I just thought it’d be fun to hang with the crew…”

“The crew?” The smirk has won now, and it breaks across Jungkook’s lips.

“Well, you know, just like…” Hobi falls silent, before letting out a strangled laugh. “I honestly didn’t see it coming.”

It’s cute, and Jungkook’s smirk turns into a softer smile. “To be honest, me neither.”

“She’s got balls though,” Hobi says, laughing lightly this time. “She’s the one who suggested we should go on a date, after dance practice last week.”

All that Jungkook remembers of that night is that he walked with you after. The rest is a blur of anxiety and his leg hurting. But he’s not surprised that Jiho’s got balls: she has to be your closest friend for a reason.

“You said yes, I hope,” Jungkook says.

Hobi slowly nods. “Yeah. But I invited her yesterday because of that too. And we’re going to a restaurant she suggested tomorrow.”

Jungkook doesn’t have to fake the happiness that takes over him right now. He’s happy for his friend, he really is. For his friends, plural. Because Taehyung, Jin, Yoongi and now Hobi… They’re all happy. They all have met someone, someone to care for them where no one else can. Strangely, it’s something Jungkook doesn’t really want for himself right now, maybe because he’s too stuck in the past.

Too stuck trying to heal from the crash, knowing some parts won’t ever heal and refusing to give up the fight for now.

It brings him back to you. To last night, and to whatever he said. He wishes he could remember the words, just to know how bad he fucked up, but he doesn’t. He won’t remember, and he won’t ask you.

He won’t take you up on your offer for coffee. He knows pity when he sees it, and he abhors it. Especially when it comes from you.

Instead, he focuses on Hobi, on the smile that lights up his friend’s face as he tells him about Jiho, about how they’ve been texting almost constantly. It’s all Hobi talks about on the ride to the studio, as he mentions stuff Jiho told him.

Stuff she told him about her when she was younger, but also about you. About how you’ve been friends since the first day of kindergarten, when someone pulled her braids and laughed at her and you punched them in the face.

He’s not surprised child you would punch someone that deserved it in the face. He’s pretty sure adult you would do it too.

Hobi parks his car next to the studio, and they are getting out of the vehicle when Jungkook notices you walking, hands buried in yet another oversized sweater. You’re wearing yoga pants underneath, and your hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. You catch his gaze a few seconds after he notices you, and he’s about to smile at you when you just look away, walking in the building without once glancing back.

What the fuck?

Jungkook frowns, especially as Hobi says, “What happened with Y/n last night?”

For some reason, Jungkook immediately grows defensive. He shrugs, a little vehemently before starting to walk towards the door. “Nothing happened. Just let it slip that I got into a car crash.”

“So she knows?” Hobi asks.

Another shrug of Jungkook’s shoulders. He buries his hands in the pockets of his black sweatpants, just to hide the way he’s clenching his fists even though he’s trying to stay calm. “Yeah. So everyone will know.”

“I don’t think so,” Hobi says, and Jungkook glances at him, brows knit together. “I mean, she’s good at keeping secrets.”

“She’s probably already told Jiho,” Jungkook points out as they reach the door. He doesn’t see you on the other side, and that’s the only reason why he opens it.

“Well, Jiho didn’t say anything about you, if that can reassure you.”

Hobi has felt the switch in his mood, hasn’t he? Because his voice is careful, as if he’s afraid to spook him.

“I don’t care,” Jungkook lies. Because he really does care. He doesn’t want everyone to know. Because it makes it too real, and for now he still can pretend it hasn’t happened.

He wishes for it to stay that way.

Hobi doesn’t push him more, and a tense silence moves between them. Jungkook wishes he could go back to his previous good mood about his friends’ happiness, but he’s back where he was last night. Somewhere in the dark of his own mind.

Not a good place to hang, if he’s honest.

He already knows he’s going to see you when he reaches the studio. Somehow, it still makes his heart constrict in his chest, that same way it did last night. As if someone is clenching their fist around it, and it makes it harder to breathe. He shrugs it off, taking a deep breath to calm down, before looking around.

Everyone but Heather is already here. And no one is looking at him, no one seems surprised or seems to be pitying him. You don’t even act like you noticed him entering – you take off your sweater, dropping it in a corner of the room with your phone and your keys. He hates it, but his eyes follow the curves of your body, and he wants to curse you for only wearing a sports bra.

Your body is lean, the results of dancing for most of your life with a mother that used to be a ballerina. Jungkook is pretty sure she’s controlled everything you ate growing up, and drilled it so hard into your head that you can’t stand bad food now. He remembers, when you were younger and someone brought cake to practice to celebrate a birthday, you always barely took a bite before saying you were full. You claimed you didn’t like cake, but he always noticed the way you eyed it while everyone else ate.

He used to make fun of you for it, and today he knows he was an asshole. All he can hope is that your relationship with food is better now. And it looks like it is – you’re not as thin as you were before. You look healthy, and your skin and hair are glowing.

It takes him a few good seconds to realize he’s staring, as if something about you has changed. And he doesn’t know what changed, just knows that he feels struck.

You notice him staring, and you furrow your brows. “What are you looking at?”

It’s said aggressively. As if you’re angry. He only then realizes that you might be, and maybe that’s why you ignored him outside. He can’t for the life of himself figure out why you’d be angry – did he say something yesterday?

“Nothing,” he replies, and he looks away as his heart beats out of his chest.

You act like that for the whole of practice. For all the pity looks Heather throws his way, you send twice as many glares. It feels like last night never happened, and maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just a nightmare, and he never told you everything.

He knows you know though, because whenever he puts too much weight on his leg as he demonstrates the movements he has in mind, you clench your jaw. A muscle feathers under your skin, and then you look away. Shame passes on your features, and then it’s gone to be replaced with a scowl.

He’s getting tired of it by the end of practice, so he pulls you aside to talk. Jiho stubbornly stays next to you, until Hobi walks up to her and asks if he can talk to her, probably sensing that Jungkook needs some time alone with you.

You both glare at each other while the others filter out, wishing you good night. Jungkook hears Scottie teasing Lance about meeting up with a girl, and the last thing he hears is Lance telling him to fuck off before everyone is finally out.

It takes almost twenty seconds before you blink and say, “What do you want?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, folding his arms on his chest as he cocks an eyebrow.

You scoff. “With me? Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”

Do you know or do you not? He’s a little confused as you just look at him, clearly expecting an answer. He’s dumbfounded – the last thing he expected from telling you everything was you being furious at him.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

It’s just a back and forth of questions at this point, with no visible answers in the distance. Indeed, you just say, “Do you think you did something wrong?”

It’s absurd, and it makes him laugh. Which, he reckons, might be taken as insulting. And of course you take it the bad way, because how else would you take it?

“You’re so fucking oblivious,” you grumble.

He’s still laughing. He wants to stop, but for some reason he cannot.

“What’s so funny?” you enquire, and your cheeks are turning red.

“Just,” he starts, “I don’t know. The last thing I expected from last night was you getting angry at me.”

You roll your eyes. “If you were looking for pity you won’t get any from me.”

That’s the thing. He doesn’t want any pity from you. And you saying so makes something warm blossom in his chest, and it sobers him up. His face falls serious, and he holds your gaze long enough that you raise your eyebrows in question.

“Thank you,” he says.

You scoff. “You’re fucking weird, Jeon.”

He shrugs. “That’s why you like me, uh?”

Your eyes widen, and you look so appalled he just starts laughing again. “Quite the opposite actually,” you say even though he’s laughing. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I’m just relieved you haven’t changed.”

He really is. You have no idea how much.

“Okay?” you let out, and it sounds like a question. You scoff again, before adding, “Why didn’t you reply to my text?”

Oh, so this is what it’s about. You’re upset because he ignored your text. It feels absurd and stupid and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, so Jungkook just smiles and shrugs. “I genuinely don’t really want to talk about last night. I’m all okay today.”

And he does think he is, now that he’s talking to you.

You remain silent for a while, pulling at some dry skin on your bottom lip. You then brush a strand of hair that’s fallen from your ponytail behind your ear, nodding your head. “Understood. Won’t be nice to you again.”

“Oh please,” Jungkook teases. “You can’t resist it.”

He’s happy. The more he talks to you, the happier he is. He feels like he’s floating, and he wishes you’d both stay right then and there, in the studio, until the end of time.

He hasn’t felt so light in forever.

“Oh, I can, Jeon.” You fold your arms on your chest, imitating his posture. “Watch me.”

But there’s a teasing glint in your eyes, probably awakened by his own teasing demeanour.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your text,” he apologizes, because he feels like he needs to clear the air with you. He doesn’t want you to be upset with him anymore. “I genuinely didn’t know what to say, and I figured I was going to see you tonight anyway.”

You look away for the first time in the conversation. Your eyes move down, and he’s pretty sure you’re looking at the scar on his stomach. It makes it itch, and if he weren’t with you, he’d scratch it. But he resists, offering you a tight-lipped smile as you look up at his eyes again.

“Well, forget I suggested coffee then,” you say. You wink at him. “I’ll start being a bitch again now.”

“Please do.”

You look startled. “You want me to be a bitch?”

He laughs, scratching the nape of his neck. “No.” He scrunches up his nose, thinking really hard about what he wants to say. Only he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s never talked to you before in his whole life. He can barely remember breaking down in front of you not even twenty-four hours ago. “Yes? Just be your same usual self.”

“Noted,” you say, nodding your head forcefully.

It’s cute, and it makes your ponytail swing behind you. He has half a thought to reach and pull on it, just to annoy you, but he resists.

Instead, he looks around, before resuming his attention on you. “Just, one thing.”

You hold his gaze, cocking an eyebrow in question as you purse your lips. “Mmh?”

“Please don’t tell the others,” he says. It’s a little more serious than he was just a second ago, but he feels like it’s needed to get the point across. “I’d prefer if they didn’t know.”

The corners of your lips stretch into a small, soft smile. “I didn’t plan on telling anyone. I figured you’re the one that should tell them if you want to.” You glance towards the door, and you’re not watching him when you add, “I think Bridget told Heather though. And I don’t know if Heather will remain silent”.

He doesn’t care if Heather tells the others. He just doesn’t want you to do it. It makes no sense, but at the same time it makes all the sense in the world to him.

“Yeah, I think she knows too.” He pulls at his piercing, letting out a small sigh. “I’ll talk to her.”

You nod, and the room falls silent. He wishes he had more to tell you, but it seems you’ve run out of conversation topics, because you eventually wet your lips and say, “Well, I guess I’ll be going home now”. And then you laugh, shaking your head. “I was supposed to leave with Jiho, but I’m pretty sure she’s gone with Hobi.”

“Hobi talked about her for like an hour before we got here,” Jungkook admits, relieved that you provided a topic. “They’re going on a date tomorrow.”

You smile, widely, and he reckons you’re like him. Your friends’ happiness makes you happy, and happiness truly looks good on you. It makes your eyes sparkle, and you look like a kid who’s just received the perfect gift on Christmas morning.

“I know!” you yelp, taking him by surprise when you even clap your hands. “They’re going to the restaurant I suggested.”

There’s something warm in Jungkook’s chest. It just becomes stronger and stronger the more he looks at you, and it makes him feel wary. Enough so that he looks away and tries to tame it down.

“I hope everything will work out for them,” he says, and he scrapes his throat because the warmth is choking him up now.

“I’m sure it will”, you reply, confidently. “Jiho has been into him for like three years now.”

Jungkook feels bad for her, because three years ago Hobi was still with his ex. But it seems patience makes miracles, because she’s getting a date with Hobi now, isn’t she?

It makes Jungkook realize that sometimes, the right person for someone might have been around all along. They’ve just been blind to it. Now, that’s a thought that makes him want to get out of this room. To flee this cloud before it breaks, and he meets your gaze.

You’re watching him already, with a wistful look on your features. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He hates it. Hates everything that your little sentence makes him feel, so he just nods his head, before saying, “It’s getting late, I should hurry if I want to catch the bus”.

Your eyes widen. “I’ll order you a Lyft, come on.”

“No!” he refuses. “It’s all good.”

“But it’s late,” you insist, and you bend down to grab your phone on your sweater.

It offers Jungkook a straight view to your cleavage, and he freezes, right as pink dusts his cheeks. “I swear,” he reassures you, adding your name before continuing, “I’d rather take the bus. But thank you for the offer.”

You fake-glare at him. “Right, I’m supposed to be a bitch anyway.” You fold your arms on your chest, cocking an eyebrow arrogantly, and you look just like you’ve always looked when you say, “What the fuck are you still doing here? You’re wasting my oxygen.”

It makes the both of you laugh, and Jungkook just shakes his head. “Please, I know you love looking at me.”

You look offended, somehow, and you scoff. “I’d rather gouge my eyeballs out of my head instead of having to look at you for a second longer.”

“Ouch, that was rough.”

“You deserved it.” You shrug your shoulders, before motioning at the door in a swooshing motion. “Now, go lick your wounds somewhere else.”

“Aren’t you leaving too?”

You glare at him now, and you’re so good at it he almost thinks you’re angry. “Why, do you want to walk me home?”

His mouth falls open. Would you let him walk you home? For some reason, he’s pretty sure you’ll punch him if he even suggests it. So instead, he chooses to say, “And suffer the whole way? Nah, I’m good.”

It’s a low-key mention of his injury. You immediately catch on to it, and Jungkook hates the look that takes over your features. He thought that you didn’t have pity for him in you, but it seems you do. You do and it feels like the fist around his heart is back, and the air burns a little.

You seem like you want to say something, but he’s quicker than you.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Jungkook.”

“No, I’m serious, don’t you fucking look at me like that.”

And just like that the light atmosphere shifted back into darkness.

You scoff, shaking your head. “And here I was starting to think that you’re a decent guy. Never mind, Jeon.” You scoff once more, and the corners of your mouth are pulled down in a look of pure disgust. “I’m going home.”

He lets you go. He doesn’t even look at you as you pick up your stuff and leave, not once glancing back.

No matter how enjoyable this interlude in your usual relationship was, Jungkook prefers the usual hate. It’s safer, more comfortable, and a habit that protects him from the vulnerability.

Why then is he staring at your text two hours later in his bed at home, unable to fall asleep, wishing he didn’t say what he did?

In all truth, he knows why, he just doesn’t want to formulate the thought. Doesn’t want to give it the power to exist in the confines of his brain. So he ignores it, shoves the warmth in his chest so far down in the hole occupied by his lost dream that he can’t really feel it anymore.

Only then does he feel safe again, but he still can’t fall asleep.

He hopes you’re not struggling with insomnia as much as he is.

Thursday, June 28th

The auditions for nationals are in a week. Seven days, and you’re still not sure you’ve mastered the choreography well. You’re anxious – have been for weeks now – and all you want is to lie down on the floor until everything is over.

Which, coincidentally, is what Lance has been doing for the last fifteen minutes, claiming he needed a break from Jungkook. Because Jungkook is worse than Hobi, making you repeat the choreography for stupid unnecessary things like Jiho’s hair was in her face or Scottie’s shirt rode too high while he was doing a certain move.

In May, when you learned about what happened to Jungkook, you had a few days of feeling bad for him. Wishing you didn’t get in a fight with him during that dance practice, wishing your relationship with him wasn’t just hateful.

It feels like there’s been too much history between you for it to ever change. Because you saw a glimpse of something else, for a few minutes that night. Jungkook was more open, calmer, and his expressions were set in a softer look. It was easier to be around him, more enjoyable, and you wished for a fleeting moment that it could last.

Alas, it only lasted a few minutes before he moved back to the harsh look he reserved for you, only because he assumed you were pitying him. Which, maybe you were. You don’t know. It’s hard to tell when you haven’t been through what he has, and when you can tell he suffers.

But you’re not sure if it’s pity or concern. You don’t think he can tell the difference either.

“Lance,” you grumble as you finish the choreography, heart beating out of your chest. “Get the fuck up we need you.”

Lance mumbles something incoherent, before turning his head away from where you’re glaring at him. It makes you look up to catch Jungkook’s gaze, and he immediately looks away the moment your eyes meet. He’s been doing that a lot now too. Where he used to glare at you or smirk insufferably, Jungkook just ignores you.

You don’t think you like it. But you’ve gotten used to it over the course of the last few weeks, so you just roll along with it now.

You’ve kept his secret safe. You thought it would be hard, especially to hide it from Jiho, but after a few days it just became normal. Jiho has more to tell you about Hobi anyway.

Because they’ve found time to go on dates every week since then. Sweet dates, with him picking her up and bringing her flowers and doing things that he knows make her happy. Even at dance practice, everyone can see how they are sickly into each other. You’re happy for Jiho, you really are, but it’s starting to feel a little lonely.

At least you’ve got Jo and the other girls now too. You’ve met the mysterious Kiko now – a sweet girl with the voice of an angel – and your girl’s nights with Jiho have turned into Thirsty Thursdays. You haven’t understood the meaning of the Thirsty yet, considering all of them are dating now, but you just roll along with it.

It’s led to fun nights, and that really is the only thing that matters, right?

Tonight makes no exception. Jiho, Heather and you have dance practice until 10 pm, and then you’re supposed to meet with the girls at a bar on their side of town. Which means you’re already dressed up, though you put on a sports skirt to avoid showing off your ass to the rest of the boys. Not that it would matter – Scottie is not interested in women at all, Lance only has eyes for Chaeyeon now, Hobi is way too respectful for that and Jungkook doesn’t even look at you anymore.

You scoff, glancing away from Jungkook to settle your gaze back on Lance. “Get up,” you repeat, before walking over to him to kick him in the ribs. “Or I’ll tell Chaeyeon how much of a loser you are.”

He fakes offence. “Me, a loser? Nah, we’re going to win this shit.”

The sudden confidence is a boost to everyone’s mood, and soon enough you’re back to dancing, with a much-needed vigor. It’s enough that Jungkook lets you go after you’ve done the choreographies two times more, telling everyone they did a good job.

“Same time Saturday,” he says.

You think you notice him looking at you in the mirror, but as soon as you turn your head in that direction he’s already glanced away, focusing himself on typing something on his phone.

“We know,” Lance says jokingly, before punching Jungkook in the shoulder.

Jungkook snickers, and he deadpans, “You were two hours late last week because you were too busy with your girlfriend”.

“Can’t blame me,” Lance says, shrugging his shoulders. “Chae comes first, the rest of you can suck it up.” It’s cute and endearing, and your heart feels warm as Lance glances your way. You have no idea what brings him to think of that, but he scans the whole room before suggesting, “We should rent a cottage. After the auditions. We should all get shitfaced for three days straight.”

Hobi laughs from where he’s standing next to Jiho. “Scottie is too young for that.”

“Hey, I’m twenty-two!” Scottie exclaims. “I can get shitfaced.”

“You’re a baby,” Heather puts in. “Just accept it. I refuse to acknowledge the fact you are major now.”

Scottie rolls his eyes, placing a sassy fist on his hip. “Then sucks to be you because I am, and I’m going to get shitfaced with Lance. Right?”

Lance has a large grin on his lips. “Damn fucking right.”

“As long as we get a cottage with a hot tub I’m in,” Jiho says innocently. Hobi cocks an eyebrow as he looks at her, as if he didn’t just say Scottie can’t go. “What?” Jiho adds, shrugging her shoulders. “A cottage weekend does sound like fun.”

It does. It really does. You haven’t gone to the countryside in years now, and you can already picture a cute, picturesque cottage on the side of a lake, with a long quay you can lie on and stargaze. The cottage has a fireplace, a circle of rock in the middle of which flames burn at night until they turn to embers and you roast marshmallows on it. You can almost feel the warmth of the hot tub, and the laughter of friends seems to almost overtake your ears…

Yeah, you’re due for a trip out of the city.

“I want marshmallows,” you say, sighing dreamily. “I haven’t had marshmallows since like…”

“Since the camping trip when we were thirteen? When Jisung got shit on by that seagull?”

You burst out laughing at the same time as Jiho does, right as the memory comes back to you. It had been a fun camping trip, with Jiho’s parents renting a camper. They had invited you along on their trip, and you had gone to the beach with them.

Good memories indeed.

Your laughter recedes, and you notice everyone is looking at you. Even Jungkook. His eyes are a little widened, as if he’s surprised, and there’s a light flush on his cheeks when he looks away.

It’s the strangest sight to see, and you’re unable to shake the feeling away while you get ready with Jiho later to rush to the bar where Jo and the others are already waiting for you. Jiho notices your unease as she applies your eyeliner.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” you immediately say, way too fast for it to sound casual.

She just cocks an eyebrow and keeps applying the makeup. At least she has the decency to ignore the blush that creeps on your cheeks.

“It’s just…” you sigh, and turn your head when she starts to work on your second eye. “I don’t know.”

“Jungkook?”

You want to kill her for knowing you so well, so you remain silent, choosing peace over violence.

“I’m going to say something right now that might make you want to kill me,” Jiho says, lips pursed.

“I would advise not saying it,” you mumble and she playfully pats your cheek.

“Don’t move.” You pout, but obey nonetheless. She continues working in silence for a time, before saying, “I know about the accident”.

Your heart stops in your chest, and you’re pretty sure all colours have drained out of your features. You still try to play it cool, saying, “What accident?”

“February last year? Jungkook got injured, then ghosted us. Ring a bell?”

You can’t really pretend you don’t know what she’s talking about, can you? “How do you know?”

“Hobi told me,” she admits. “He made me promise to never talk about it, but he mentioned you knew already.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t blame you for not telling me,” she reassures you, having sensed your discomfort. “Actually, it tells a lot about your relationship with JK that you respected his decision.”

You scoff as she pulls the eyeliner away from your face, putting it down on her vanity to grab her La Neige lip tint. “My relationship with Jungkook? We’re not even friends.”

“Why though?”

It’s a good question that just pisses you off further. “Because he’s a dick. He told me about the accident and got angry at me for looking concerned and then he started ignoring me.” You chuckle bitterly. “It’s not like I’m going to try and make him talk to me. I don’t give a shit about him.”

Jiho is silent for a long time. Far too long for it to be normal. Like she doesn’t believe you at all and is waiting for you to realize. You’re just as stubborn, so you don’t say anything as she puts the lip tint on her pretty lips.

It makes for an awkward two minutes, but she’s the one that breaks first. “You don’t believe that.”

You furrow your brows. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

She laughs. Not in a mean way, probably just because your cheeks are burning and she believes she can read you like the back of her hand. “Because you don’t believe that.”

You fold your arms on your chest, sitting back in the chair she’s forced you to sit in while she did your eyeliner. You remain silent once again, clenching your jaw as you choose not to get upset. You’re not sure it works, and Jiho just playfully punches you on the shoulder.

“Calm down, babe,” she says. “He’s changed.”

“He’s still an ass with me,” you point out. “He’s changed with the rest of you guys, but he’s even worse with me. He’s been completely ignoring me for weeks.”

“Because he’s scared of what you think about him.”

“He doesn’t give a shit about what I think of him? He’s made that clear enough.” Jiho goes back to her infuriating silence. And you don’t want the conversation to keep going in that direction, so you ask, “How has it been going with Hobi anyway?”

She flushes red as she always does whenever Hobi is mentioned. “Do not think this conversation is over,” she says, threatening you with the lip tint bottle. “But it’s been…” She chuckles. “It’s been great. I think we’re pretty much official now.”

It’s disgustingly cute. It makes you think of Lance and Chaeyeon, of Heather and Bridget, Jo and Taehyung and Kiko and Yoongi…

It makes you feel lonely, like Lance did earlier. It’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to growing up, so it’s easy to let it slide over you instead of letting it fester inside.

“Look at you,” you say teasingly. “Who knew you’d pull your lifelong crush?”

“Lifelong?” she snickers. “I’ve had a crush on him for like two years.”

You throw a no-bullshit look her way.

“Okay maybe three…”

It makes you both laugh, and it diffuses the situation that was escalating just a moment ago. You’re relieved, because you’re pretty sure if she mentioned Jungkook just once more you would have blown up in her face.

You take shots downstairs with Jisung and Felix before going, and you giggle in the Lyft on the way to the bar the other girls chose. As per usual, you’re the two last to get there – fashionably late is the way to go, right?

It takes you way too long to realize girl’s night will in fact not be girl’s night. Yoongi is the first you notice, maybe because he’s looking at the exit when you walk in, as if he’s just waiting for the right time to bail. He nods as he sees you, and Kiko turns. She smiles her shy smile, the one that doesn’t show her teeth, and she nods as well, almost a copycat of her boyfriend.

Then it’s like a domino effect, and everyone turns to look at you. Nine pairs of eyes, all on you: Jin, Valeria, Taehyung, Jo, Bridget, Heather, Kiko, Yoongi and Jimin. The latter offers you a secretive smile.

You might have been texting him a little. Nothing serious, but he does appear in your dms once in a while, replying to a story you posted. You always decided to ignore him, only liking his replies, but tonight there’s something in the way Park Jimin is looking at you, sitting there, that makes something warm trickle down your spine.

Maybe because of your conversation with Jiho. It’s hard to tell, and your best friend pulls you towards the rest of the group before you can figure it out. The feeling only increases tenfold when you stop next to the table, and Jimin gets up to greet you, quickly followed by the others.

You hug everyone, and Jo holds you a second longer. “Sorry for inviting the rest, Tae begged and I figured…” You pull away from the hug, and she does have a sheepish look on her features. “Thirsty Thursday doesn’t mean no men?”

You laugh at that comment, shrugging your shoulders. “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

And really, you don’t mind. You like hanging out with them all. You’re relieved they didn’t think to invite Jungkook though, because one thing you’ve figured is that, where Jimin goes Jungkook usually follows.

The night starts off with talking and a few drinks with the group, until you find yourself intoxicated more than you have initially planned to. It doesn’t really matter – you have a day off tomorrow at the internship. Indeed, it only goes from Monday to Thursday, since the lawyer you follow takes the day off on Fridays for the whole of summer.

So you drink, and when they clear a spot for the dancefloor, you let Jiho pull you to it. Let her dance with you, like you usually do when you’re trying to get a guy’s attention. You reckon she’s drunker than you – she’s a giggly mess and she keeps stepping on your feet, which she never usually does. It’s fun, and you feel some anxiety peel away from your skin as if you’re an onion and someone’s about to cut you up to pieces.

You do feel like somebody is about to cut you up to pieces when Jimin moves closer to you, and the smirk on his lips sets something on fire inside of you. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. It doesn’t matter because you pull away from Jiho to move closer to him, almost instinctively.

It’s like he fits like a glove. You face him, throwing your arms around his neck to pull him into the dance as his hands find your waist. One of them slips to your back, and he presses you against him as you move to the music, the rhythm a sensual dance between the two of you.

“Hello, you,” he purrs, and you look up at him.

“Hello,” you reply in the same tone, and he makes you spin until your back is facing him. He’s impossibly close and as his hands guide your hips, your eyes trail up.

You entirely stop moving when your gaze meets Jungkook. He’s standing near the door, clad in different clothes than earlier today, but in that same black shade he seems to adore. He also has a chain, with large links that give a rougher vibe to him.

The look on his features is rough too, especially as Jimin leans to speak into your ear. “I thought you might want to piss him off.”

You chuckle, turning your head to gaze at the man behind you over your shoulder. It brings your face way too close to his, and you have to resist the lava in your blood that makes you want to close the gap.

It’s the self-destructive kind of magma, and you don’t feel like indulging in it. Instead, you purr, “Why do you think I’d want to piss him off?”

Jimin chuckles, and you turn your head away from him because damn him, his lips really are inviting. “He’s been a little shit at home. I assume he’s been that way with you too.”

You laugh, and it’s bitter, angry. It surprises even you. “He’s been ignoring me.” You turn in Jimin’s arms, until you’re facing him. You keep your head hung low, enough so that he can’t lean down and press his lips against yours. Jimin is a gentleman though, you know he’d never kiss you without asking for consent first.

“Explains why he’s been a little shit then,” he says matter-of-factly. He straightens a little, putting a comfortable distance between your faces.

“And you think this little show is going to piss him off?”

He smirks, tilting his head to the side. All the while he’s been making you move to the music, and you know to outside gazes you look like you’re flirting. Can planning to piss Jeon Jungkook off count as flirting?

“Oh, I know it will,” Jimin says, shrugging his shoulders. “Jungkook wears his emotions on his face.”

Maybe he does. Around you, his emotion is usually mostly contempt, so you don’t really know.

“What do you gain from pissing him off?” you ask, and you genuinely wonder. What is Jimin trying to do?

“Nothing,” he admits. He purses his lips, before offering you yet another dashing smile. “Mostly I just want to see what he’ll do.”

Jimin pulls you a little closer, and his forehead presses against yours.

“What are you doing?” you murmur, as your heart beats like a hammer against your ribcage. Hell, even if you’re not really into Jimin like that, he’s Park Jimin. You don’t think anyone in their right mind could stay indifferent to him.

“He’s looking right now,” he replies. He chuckles, before saying, “Now, let me tell you what you’re going to do”. His lips move so close to you it feels as if your brain is short-circuiting in your head. “You’re going to act as if I’ve just offended you, and you go to the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“He’ll follow, and maybe he’ll finally…”

Jimin never finishes his sentence. Someone bumps into you, and it breaks the contact between you and him. Instead of pulling you back in, Jimin motions towards the bathroom, offering you an encouraging smile. You’re stunned for a moment, and you hope it does the trick. You hope you really do look offended, because in truth, you were enjoying Jimin’s proximity.

You don’t like that you were. It feels like you shouldn’t be enjoying his proximity at all. He’s not even really your friend anyway.

You don’t have a choice but to follow his advice though, and you turn around, beelining straight to the bathroom. You make your way through the crowd, scrunching up your nose in disgust at the sweaty guy your hand accidentally touched, and a few seconds later you finally find the line to the bathroom.

It’s a unisex bathroom, with three stalls that are currently all occupied. There’s a guy in front of you, and you glare at him as he smiles at you. He frowns, but it works and he turns back around. A stall frees up a little under a minute later, and you’re mindlessly watching a girl washing her hands when a large hand finds the small of your back.

You startle, and you turn around fully ready to knock some sense into whoever it is, until you see it’s Jungkook.

You freeze for a few seconds, and then let out a laugh as you realize whatever Jimin was doing worked.

“You and Jimin, uh,” Jungkook says bitterly, and his hand clenches into a fist where it falls at his side.

You cock your head to the side. “So you’re talking to me now?”

He plays with his piercing in silence, before scoffing. “I was never not talking to you.” You widen your eyes and let out a disbelieved laugh as you fold your arms on your chest. “I’m serious,” he adds. “I just…”

“Don’t even try to explain, Jeon, save your oxygen.”

He’s frowning now, and you reckon he probably has the same expression on his features that you have on yours. “I thought you said you weren’t going to flirt with Jimin.”

“That was over a month ago,” you point out. “People change, unless you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, chuckling bitterly. “But Jimin? There are dozens of guys in this bar, can’t you just choose someone else to fuck?”

You’re starting to see red. You feel it in the tremble that starts deep down in your core, before taking over the whole of your body. “I’m not going to fuck Jimin. He’s just a friend.”

“You dance with all of your friends like that?”

You turn away from him, hoping one of the stalls will be free now, but you’re in no luck. He grabs your arm, forcing you to turn back around. Your eyes drop to his hand on your arm. His fingers are gentle, way gentler than his features. “Fucking let go of me,” you snap. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t know what part of getting into an accident made you want to act like you’re just a fucking victim of everything around you but my life has nothing to do with yours. Why do you fucking care?”

He looks stunned. “I… What?”

His confusion douses your fury, and you furrow your brows. “What do you mean, what?”

“I don’t care.”

You don’t know who he is trying to convince right now. And you don’t feel like getting to the bottom of it with him. In fact, you really don’t like the look on his face, and you just want to put distance between you and him. So you roll your eyes, before saying, “Alright then, leave me alone, Jeon. I won’t dance with Jimin again.”

He doesn’t even look happy or relieved that you’re saying that. Instead, his features fall a little, moving from a frown to a sad expression that makes something stir in your chest. “I… If you want to get with Jimin, you can.”

Now, you really are confused. “You come here to be a little bitch about this all and now you’re saying it’s fine?”

He pulls at his piercing, and his eyes flicker to the man that walks past you, indicating that a stall must be free now. “Yeah. If that’s what you want, who am I to tell you not to do it?”

You don’t know. You have no idea how the conversation managed to take this turn, so you wet your lips, cocking an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I…” he trails off, shrugging his shoulders. “I was being a dick. You’re right, I should stop acting like I’m a fucking victim.”

Now, your heart really does ache in your chest. Because what you said was inconsiderate, and you don’t even really mean it. Not the way that he interpreted it though, that’s for sure.

“Jungkook…”

“No, it’s really okay,” he says. He still looks sad, but he offers you a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry.”

Just like that he’s walking away, and why are you following him? You stop him by grabbing his arm, just like he did to you a moment ago. You hold on to him longer than he did to you, because his skin is warm under your fingers. His tattoos didn’t take away the softness of his skin, and you don’t really want to let him go. Not just yet.

“I didn’t mean it.” You look him in the eyes as he turns just enough so that his gaze can meet yours. “I got angry.”

“No but you’re right,” he insists. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know why I don’t like you talking to Jimin. You can do whatever you want.”

You let his arm go, albeit reluctantly. “If it can reassure you, I am not interested in Jimin like that. Like yes, he’s attractive, but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.”

At that Jungkook laughs. It’s somehow melancholic, and you reckon you’ve brought his demons to the forefront of his mind tonight. “Jimin-hyung doesn’t do relationships, you’re in luck.”

“No,” you grumble, and you shut your eyes, as if you have to explain something to a thick-headed five years old. “I’m really not interested in Jimin. Like at all.” Your eyelids flutter open, and you catch the movement of Jungkook’s eyes as they snap away from you.

“Okay,” he lets out flatly. “I’m sorry I ruined it.”

He looks genuine. You’d be angry at him if he didn’t really look as genuine as he does right now.

“Nothing’s ruined, I promise,” you reassure him and you offer him a small smile. “I was tired of dancing anyway.”

The word ‘dancing’ has his gaze trail to the dancefloor, and he bites at his piercing before glancing back at you. “Oh.”

You realize this is awkward. Because what you said really seems to have upset Jungkook. And you can’t really blame him, it was low. The only thing is, you’re not close enough to him to make him understand. So all you can do when he says he’s going to head home is wish him goodnight.

You feel horrible as you watch him leave, and he’s only just crossed the doors leading to the world outside when you break into a small jog. You make it outside in a hurry, just to see he’s leaning against the wall next to the door.

He seems startled to see you, and you feel just as startled to see he hasn’t really left yet.

“I was wondering,” you let out, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself. “Are you going to come to the cottage? You didn’t say you would earlier.”

You have no idea why that’s come to your mind, but you’re just going to roll with it.

“Uh.” He glances down at his phone in his hand. “Am I even invited?”

You wet your lips, shrugging. “I mean, you’re part of the crew, of course you are.”

He holds your gaze for so long you think the Earth has time to revolve around the sun once before he speaks again. “Am I really part of the crew?”

You reckon he might need to hear it, so you don’t hesitate when you say, “Of course. We’d be nothing without you.”

At that the sad expression on his features melts away. It does so slowly, starting with his eyes. They crinkle at the corners, sparkling a little, and then it trickles down his face, until the corners of his lips tug upwards. It makes you smile too, and you just gaze at each other like that for a few heartbeats. It feels intimate, miles away from the usual bickering and hatred that you share.

It’s new, but it doesn’t feel scary. Jungkook doesn’t feel scary when he’s smiling softly.

“Yes, I’ll come,” he finally says.

It makes you blink, and it’s like the scene is coming back into focus. You realize there are a couple of people smoking a few meters away, and a soft breeze pushes the smoke towards you. You hate the smell, but somehow you can’t shake the smile from your lips.

“Good.” You nod once, and you glance towards the door. “I guess… I guess I’ll let you go home then.”

He nods too, and he tilts his head to the side. He’s surveying you with those big eyes of his. They shine with stars right now, as if his happiness brings the constellations to his gaze. Or maybe it’s just the reflection from the streetlights and car headlights, but it’s beautiful.

Jungkook has beautiful eyes.

“Just waiting for a Lyft,” he says, motioning up with his phone.

You worry at your lips, before flattening your skirt mindlessly. “Is it going to be here anytime soon?”

He looks at the rectangle of light, face falling serious. It takes him a few seconds, but then he nods. “Yep. Should pull up pretty much now.”

You glance at the two sides of the street, and sure enough a car slows down until it stops in front of you. “Alright then,” you say. “Good night, Jeon.”

You don’t usually say his last name like you said it just now. It feels different, in all the right ways that it can.

“Good night,” he echoes, tentatively adding your name at the end. “I’ll see you at practice Saturday?”

“Yes. See you then.”

You’re grinning like an idiot when you’re home later, thinking of the interaction. It felt refreshing to be with Jungkook like that. As if you can be friends.

You never imagined you would want to be friends with him, but somehow tonight you want it. It only doubles up when a series of texts appears on your screen, hiding the top part of the anime you’re watching in bed before going to sleep.

[3:02 am] unsaved number: lmaooi jmin saud i cockblocled him😂 [3:02 am] unsaved number: cockblocked* [3:02 am] unsaved number: sry im drunk

You laugh softly, turning on your back as you pause the anime. You go to the conversation, and you’re about to reply when he adds,

[3:03 am] unsaved number: plz ignorr this

You don’t hesitate when you save his number under his name.

Prev | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

What do we think of this chapter?? Enemies to lovers not too enemies anymore uh? Hope you liked it! Let me know what you thought!

Taglist: (strike-through means dumblr is not letting me tag you my bad)

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happinessinkpop · 2 years ago

Text

Car Ride - Ok Taecyeon Fiction

Character: Ok Taecyeon

Summary: Both you and Taecyeon attend an award ceremony together and your nerves get to you.

It was an Award night, and you were currently in the van on the way to the event with your manager and your main co star – Taecyeon - and his manager. The both of you were filming a series together and as part of the PR for this series, they decided to have the two main leads arrive to some Award shows together and play on the fan service a little bit. This was in the hopes that fans would fall even more in love with your pairing and the series itself...

So, here you were, in the car.

Things would be going great, if it wasn’t for your nerves acting up and making you queasy. You had stared out your window, hoping that it would help, but as the car whizzed past the buildings, it made your condition worse. With a sigh, you opted to take deep breaths and closed your eyes, until you were close to the event hall.

Taecyeon, who was sitting in the seat next to you, looked over when he heard you sigh. Usually, when you were both together on set, the conversation was endless, but now with the car so quiet, he felt like something was not right.

“Hey, are you okay?” he whispered when he noticed your hand on your stomach and your eyes closed.

“Do you need some water?” he asked you again, when you didn’t answer him. You took another deep breath and squinted your eyes open.

“I just feel a little nauseous, must be the nerves...” you answered him with a little chuckle, so you didn’t worry him too much. Taecyeon reached down to grab the nearest bottle of water and opened it before he extended it to you.

“Here, sip some water, it might help,” you took the bottle and sipped on it slowly.

“Do you think you need medication? Manager-nim, can we stop by a pharmacy and get some anti-nausea pills?” which manager he was talking to didn’t matter, as long as one of them was listening.

“Are you okay Taecyeon-ssi?” your manager had asked as he looked at both of you through the rearview mirror, and before Taecyeon could answer, you spoke up.

“I’m just a little queasy but don’t worry, I'll be fine when we get there,” you didn’t want to cause any unnecessary changes to the plan or be late and you weren’t exactly lying either; you’re sure that by the time you arrived, and were situated, everything will be fine.

“Are you sure?? Or we can stop somewhere, and get some fresh air?” This time, it was Taecyeon’s manager.

“I’m sure...thank you anyways,”

“Well, at least drink some more water please?” Taecyeon asked nicely, his voice laced with concern. You nodded your head slightly and went back to sipping the water.

When the van came to a stop in front of the red carpet, Taecyeon turned to you again.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t need any medication?” He was still concerned and was willing to go through this alone if he had to.

“I’m okay, really... let’s go,” you told him and gave him a small smile. He nodded minutely but still not convinced as he got out of the car. When both of you started walking down the red carpet, the cameras started flashing and blinding you, and the noise of the reporters and fans alike was deafening.

“Guys, here please! Pose for this camera!”

Both of you posed for the cameras before Taecyeon leaned down with a smile.

“Let me know if you feel any worse... I’ll find something to help,” you nodded with a small smile as the reporters and fans went wild again.

When you’ve stood long enough, posing, one of the staff members ushered you towards the entrance, as you made your way in.

“Taecyeon-ssi, thank you,” Taecyeon smiled and waved it off.

“It’s no problem. I’m sure the team would enjoy it if I had to bridal carry you out anyways...” he replied with a laugh.

“Hmm... let’s not do that... I’m not ready to face the wrath of some of your so-called fans...” both of you started laughing some more.

“Really though, thank you,”

“Aish, you say thank you one more time, I’ll get your manager to come back and get you...!” he shook his head in slight disbelief before he slowly walked away.

#ok taecyeon #taecyeon fiction #2pm

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sickfic-with-kiko · 3 years ago

Note

Oooh would you possibly consider writing a fic about that scenario you mentioned of Kenma getting sick during a livestream?

Heyy I was wondering if you could do one where Kenma and Kuroo are just playing games then kenma feels sick and pukes and Kuroo takes care of him🥺🥺

“Hey, everyone. It’s Kodzuken here.”

Kenma waves to his online audience, booting up his game and adjusting his headset. He’s getting ready to play the latest open-world RPG, recommended to him by his viewers and the most voted on his Twitter poll by a landslide.

The chat is immediately filled with supportive messages, most asking him who he plans to main, and some asking him where his roommate is. The roommate in question, Kuroo, is currently cooking up healthier versions of Kenma’s favourite snacks.

Kenma watches the opening cutscene of the game, blinking slowly to adjust himself to the bright light. There’s an ache building up behind his eye, reminding him of the time he’d deprived himself of sleep and tried to fill in the gaps with energy drinks. Kuroo had really gotten annoyed that one time.

“Right. I’m going to walk around and see what I can do.”

As soon as he’s placed into the fantasy world, he begins to walk around as the default character. He swings his weapon around and breaks a few crates, obtaining ore and food items. After dashing for some time, he finds himself at the edge of a cliff.

“Wait, do I take fall damage?”

Before anyone can answer his question, Kenma walks right off the edge of the cliff, watching his character flail around and the chat explode.

riri_ka: KODZUKEN NO---

pedrosenpai: you really just killed him like that…

“...Oh. He died.” Kenma chuckles, as his character respawns. He’s known to be merciless with in-game characters, sacrificing them without a second thought if it helps him win. The chat spams a bunch of crying emojis and comments, and Kenma climbs back up the cliff after some struggle with getting stuck.

He eventually gets around to reaching a village, talking to the NPCs and piecing together what the game’s objective is. As he takes in the storyline and comments on everything he does, he starts to feel a tug at his stomach.

It doesn’t bother Kenma all that much. He manages to forget about it as he’s practicing the combat mechanics, getting stuck into making combos and figuring out enemy weaknesses. “I think I’m going to main her for the time being.” He chooses a female character wielding a claymore sword, and the chat erupts once again. The general consensus is that he’s made a good choice.

He picks up his water bottle, taking a sip as he closes the character screen. His body seems to warn him that he’s done something wrong. His lunch seems to sit heavy in his stomach, all of a sudden. He takes a deep breath, believing that it’s just a wave of something mild. It doesn’t go away.

“I’m gonna try and fight one of the area bosses.” Kenma warps to an area full of enemies, dashing towards a ferocious-looking plant with teeth around the corolla. It’s good practice for reading attacks, even if it decimates his party.

amphibiansoul: uh you’re getting beat up pretty badly…

darknighthero: and there goes hot sword lady

As expected, his first attempt leaves his party resting at the nearest inn. He lets out a sigh, glad that he doesn’t need to pay any in-game currency to heal. He watches the health bars refill, and in that moment, he’s jealous of video game characters.

Kenma’s stomach grumbles, loud enough for only him to hear. He brushes it off as much as his body will allow him to, pushing the nagging ache to the back of his mind. He hasn’t even gotten two hours into the game yet. He still wants to explore a little.

He recognizes nausea sitting in his chest, enough to be annoying. “I guess I should do one of the lower rank quests.” He keeps talking, so as not to rouse needless concern. He’s going to be just fine.

Kenma is used to having stomach aches and feeling nauseous, especially after sleeping too little or eating junk to keep him going. And he’s used to riding it out, until he feels the feeling slowly ebb away. But at the back of his mind, something tells him that he’s starting to feel worse.

He momentarily looks away from the monitor, sipping some water to try and calm down his stomach. It doesn’t work, and he can feel exactly where the water is sitting. He considers quitting the stream, but he’s close to finishing his quest. He hopes his body will hang on for a little longer.

“You’re going down.”

Kenma swallows, using up his willpower to go against the end-of-quest boss. As he heals and buffs his party, he’s slowly becoming aware of the sloshing in his stomach. The bright screen doesn’t help the queasiness becoming more apparent.

walkingturtle: hey is it just me or does kodzuken look pale today?

wadacchi: kodzuken are you okay?

mustardnwasabi: you can rest if you need to, don’t feel pressured

With a groan, Kenma clutches his aching stomach. The chat is filled with worried listeners voicing out their concerns, and he realizes that faking it is only getting him so far. He attempts to address them before turning off the stream, but a sick feeling in his throat makes him freeze.

He’s going to throw up. Whether he’d suddenly gotten worse or he’d powered through it for too long, he doesn’t know. Nor does he really care. His only concern is cutting the stream and grabbing a receptacle closest to him.

Kenma feels something surge up his throat, and instinctively reaches for the trash can next to his chair. He rolls his chair out of view, hastily bending down onto the floor. No matter how sick he is, he’s not broadcasting it in full view. Warm spit pools in his mouth, dripping into the trash can. He places a hand on his stomach, feeling it grumble against his touch.

A silent gag forces up his stomach’s contents. He’s relieved he’s not a loud puker, but he’s sure that everyone has heard the splatter of vomit against the trash can. Tears prickle at his eyes from the force, and he feels his cheeks redden. He hopes he doesn’t have a fever in addition to everything.

Kenma hurriedly mutes the stream, the closest button he had managed to reach. The sense of relief is quickly painted over by another intense wave of nausea. His stomach squeezes painfully, and a buzz in his ears mutes his surroundings.

He doesn’t notice a presence beside him, until a hand begins to pat his back gently. His head snaps up, only to sink back down after another round of vomiting hits him. “Breathe, Kenma. It’s okay, I turned off the stream for you.”

Kenma wants to thank Kuroo, but he instead grimaces at the pain of his stomach having emptied itself. He nods instead, rinsing his mouth and leaning his head against Kuroo’s flank. He sees the look of surprise on Kuroo’s face, but says nothing.

He crawls over to his bed, picking up his phone and seeing countless mentions of his name on Twitter. “I didn’t cut the stream fast enough,” he sighs, letting out a breath through his nose. His mouth doesn’t taste disgusting when he breathes, at least.

“I’m sure they’re all just worried about you.” Kuroo says, attempting to be reassuring. It reminds Kenma that he’s in front of a wider audience now, that could potentially see him in less than ideal moments. He lets out another groan, squinting at Kuroo.

“What if I don’t want to be fussed about?” Kenma’s mouth forms a pout. “This is what I don’t like about being a Youtuber. I want to be sick in peace. Nobody wants to hear what their favourite YouTuber sounds like when they vomit.”

Kuroo lets out a hearty laugh, pulling the covers up for Kenma. He’s one of the few constants in his life. He cares for Kenma, and Kenma does the same. Having him is a comfort, and almost feels like a luxury.

“Well, don’t concern yourself too much.” Kuroo gives Kenma a gentle pat. He doesn’t say anything to worsen his dampened mood. He knows how Kenma neglects himself when he’s focused, and that lecturing him while he’s sick won’t help. He understands, without Kenma having to tell him.

Kenma tugs at his hoodie, before he can leave to bring him something. His eyes plead him to stay, and Kuroo responds with a loose smile. It’s the expression he uses to tell Kenma that he’s hopeless, and so is he for being utterly in love with him.

#haikyuu sickfic #emeto #vomiting #kuroken #Kozume Kenma #sick kozume kenma

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stanknotstark · 4 years ago

Text

A Little Pain (And A Lil Glory)

i have to thank @high-functioning-lokipath for helping me with all my questions about migraines. Thank you SO much, you’re amazing 💜 Anyways! I made the reader go through all four stages of migraines (prodrome, aura, attack, and post-drome!)

Summary: REQUEST. Loki helps with your migraine.

PRODROME

You open the fridge and lightly hum as you search through the contents. Loki walks in and sees you which in turn makes him change his decision to make coffee and to instead come up to your back and hug you from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“What is my beloved searching for?” He asks, his lips finding your neck and leaving pecks there. You sigh and tilt your head so he may continue kissing with easier access. He notices the movement is strained, as if your neck is a bit stiff.

“I’m kind of craving moon berries.”

Loki heeds no thought to the craving and pulls from you. “Moon berries? I don’t think Thor brought many back the last time he made a trip to Asgard.” Loki finishes the sentence with a small hum. He gently moves you aside and waves his hand in front of the refrigerator. You gasp when a secret shelf appears from nowhere.

Loki chuckles at your excitement as he opens the newly appeared drawer. “I do not share everything we bring back and if you dare tell a soul-”

You hop on your toes with excitement coursing through your body and smile at Loki. “You’ll kill me, I know!”

Loki sputters but laughs. “No, I was going to say I will punish you. I could never kill you, my love.”

You let out a small, embarrassed oh but gasp and hop up to kiss Loki when he pulls two moon berries from the drawer and gives them to you.

AURA

Next, Loki becomes suspicious when you’re talking to him but keep glancing away to a specific spot in the room just over his shoulder.

“Darling?” He questions when you glance away once more. Your eyes are quick to snap back to him at his question.

“Sorry, I keep seeing something flashing over there, Tony must have left a tablet where the sun could shine on it or something.” You wave off Loki’s concern.

When you’re both done talking and you have returned to your floor Loki still sits there. He gets up and makes his way to the area you had been looking at. Nothing is there but a bare ottoman. Loki realizes what is occurring because he had read up on migraines so he could better attend to yours that had grown from rare to often occurring.

Loki wants to wave this off with doubt just because he really hopes you don’t have an oncoming migraine. He hates when you’re in pain.

Loki can’t deny the evidence anymore because the next day you claim you must have slept on your arm wrong, it has pins and needles all day.

ATTACK

You groan and shift further under the blankets of your bed when the lights switch on.

“Darling, it’s two in the afternoon, you need to get up and at least eat something.” Loki chides softly as he walks through your room and comes to rest on the edge of your bed.

When Loki slowly lifts the covers to see you, you look at him with squinty eyes, your hand coming up to shield them and practically hiss.

“Migraine.” Is all you supply Loki. Loki nods with understanding and climbs under the covers with you. When he drops the covers you both look at each other in the dark lighting.

You wince at a particular throb on the right side of your head. It feels as though someone has hit you over the head with a rock. The pain starts from the base of your skull and climbs up towards your eye. Loki brings his hands up, between the both of you, and rests his fingers on each of your temples. You close your eyes and he begins kneading with moderate pressure. You sigh and melt into his calloused hands.

“Have you taken medicine yet?” Loki whispers into the enclosed space. You whisper out a no to which Loki responds with a disappointed sound.

You nearly whimper when Loki pulls his fingers from your temple. You can’t stop the way your body leans forward into his receding hands. Loki hushes at you then he’s waving his hands in the enclosed space, the blankets wavering with the movement, and a bottle of menstrual medicine appears.

You let out a strained smile. “Do you keep menstrual medicine on you at all times?”

“Perhaps,” Loki opens the bottle with ease and tilts the bottle. Two pills fall into his hand and he hands them to you. All these movements come off as awkward considering you’re under the covers. “You have been having more migraines recently, and I read these really help migraines...do you need water?” Loki asks you with a small frown on his face.

“No.” You grab the pills and swallow them with practiced movements.

“Well, I pride myself in being prepared for everything.” Loki continues as he watches you settle back down. He quickly magics the bottle away and looks at you again from his side.

“Always ten steps ahead…” You mutter as you close your eyes again.

“Precisely.” Loki replies satisfied as he brings his fingers to your temple and begins massaging again. This time his fingers stray from your temples and knead through your hair.

“Which side is it?” He asks softly.

“Right.”

Loki moves his hands, one supporting the left side of your head and the other kneading into the right side. It feels amazing, so much so that you let out a relieved groan. “Thanks.” You murmur.

Loki lets his hands work on you for a minute before he is pulling away again. “I apologize. I feel like I might actually suffocate in this heat.” Loki chuckles out. He waves his hand and you see your room’s lights flash off. Loki yanks the covers from over your heads and takes in a deep breath. “Norns.” He huffs out causing you to lightly laugh but it’s cut off when you wince and bring your hands up to hold your head.

Loki is quick to turn back to you and rests his hands over yours on your head. His face is etched with concern and bewilderment. “I will never understand why you will not just let me use magic to remedy your migraines.”

“That’s cheating.” You spout out petulantly. You open your eyes in time to see Loki rolling his. You giggle. “I need to learn to deal with them because what if I become dependent on your magic and then one day you’re not there?”

Loki gives a slight raise of his eyebrows, as if silently admitting you might be right. “Have you ever considered that I’ll always be there for you?”

You can feel a dopey smile split across your lips. “Don’t make promises like that Loki.”

Loki frowns. “Like what?”

“Promises you can’t possibly keep.” You explain.

Loki lets out a huff of breath that sounds close to a sigh then looks at you with endearment. “Darling, I promise to always be there for you.”

You look at Loki with wide, doe eyes. “For all time?”

Loki smiles. “Always.”

You lay there with Loki for some time, time you don’t keep track of. The medicine you took earlier is not helping a lot or at least isn’t working as well probably because you don’t have food in your stomach. The nausea you felt earlier is growing stronger. Your legs begin shaking and your mouth begins producing more spit than necessary. You sit up with a swallow. Loki is quick to sit up with you, his hand fanning across your lower back. Before he can ask what’s going on you’re hopping out of the bed and rushing to the bathroom.

Loki hears the retching begin and sighs. He had really hoped it wouldn’t get bad enough to make you physically ill. He untangles himself from the bedding and enters the bathroom. You’re quick to throw a hand up and shake your head. A bad decision because you gasp and grab your head.

“Don’t look at me.” You plead.

Loki considers leaving you be but it’s not even a choice. He comes behind you and kneels. He grabs your hair and holds it back so you don’t get sick in it.

“I feel as if we are past the point of being disgusted by each other considering we’ve ingested each other's bodily fluids before.”

Loki smiles a little when you let out a shocked laugh. “You make giving you head sound so clinical-” You gag as you speak and hurl into the toilet.

Loki brings his free hand up to rub across your back as you heave.

“You will have to take more medicine considering you most likely just vomited it all up.” Loki mutters as an afterthought.

When you tell Loki you’re fine and not going to get sick anymore he helps you stand, slowly, and hands you your toothbrush with toothpaste already on it.

As you brush your teeth he moves through the bathroom. He grabs a hand towel and wets it, wringing it out so it isn’t dripping, merely damp.

You both move back to the bed. He hands you two more pills that you swallow quickly, then you lay down. Before he lays down with you he uses a blue hand to make the damp towel cold. He lays it across your forehead and smiles when you let out a grateful moan.

Your eyes are closed so when your hand reaches out for him it reaches aimlessly. He is quick to grab your hand and kiss it then he lays down next to you.

“You need to eat something.” Loki speaks into the silent room as he stares up at the ceiling in thought about what you need and how to take care of you.

“I just threw up everything though.” You whisper with whining resistance.

“I know. Meaning you have nothing on your stomach. Taking medicine without food could cause things to get worse.” Loki explains in a gentle voice. He had done plenty of research for you.

“Can we just start with drinking something? My stomach is still queasy.”

Loki hums thoughtfully. “I’ll make some tea, perhaps the caffeine may help.”

You pat Loki’s arm. “You’re a lifesaver, babe.”

Loki flushes at your term of endearment. Loki is usually the one to use endearments, not you. He clears his throat and sits up. “I shall be but a moment.”

POST-DROME

Loki finally gets you to eat some soup and bread before you lay back down and go to sleep.

The next day you sit up and hold your breath. The pain is gone. You quickly turn to Loki who is blinking his eyes open groggily. You wince when there is slight pain at your fast movement. It’s minor compared to what was going on yesterday though.

Loki slowly sits up and you flush when the sheets fall down his bare chest and pool in his lap. “Feeling better?” He asks in a sleep roughened croak. His hand comes up to trail up your arm and land on your shoulder where he rubs it in a soothing circle. He rubs the sleep from his eyes with his other hand.

“Loads better. I just feel some pain if I turn my head too fast.”

Loki hums thoughtfully then yawns. He turns and checks the time from the clock on the nightstand. “It is seven A.M. sweetheart, do you have somewhere to be?” Loki looks back at you with a raised eyebrow.

You shake your head and throw yourself into Loki who lets out a grunt at the impact before he falls back into the bed with you now on top of him. He squeezes you in a hug then lets his hands rub over your back. You both lay there with your eyes closed, enjoying the embrace, breathing in each other’s scent.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” You murmur, already half asleep.

“Of course. Anything for my beloved.” Loki says, kissing your forehead.

“I know you really love me ‘cuz you watched me puke ‘n still look at me like I’m the prettiest woman in the world.” You slur out making Loki chuckle.

“Go to sleep, darling.” Loki mutters. The vibrations of his words emitting from his chest make you snuggle into him more and sigh.

“Love me, right?” You ask in a drowsy tone.

“I do.” Loki says. He snickers when you pinch his arm. “I love you.” He whispers.

You let out a happy noise then let sleep take you for a few more hours, wrapped in Loki’s warm embrace.

Tag list: @justfangirlthingies @biancablack2474 @creeping156tin @ajeff855 @high-functioning-lokipath

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #reader insert #loki #my writing #I THINK I LEFT SOME STUFF OUT BUT IM TIRED AND WANT TO LAY DOWN SO I RUSHED IT IM SORRY #i promised id release it tonight so....#it was just like small details about what happens before migraines and stuff tho #request filled #and i made the post migraine fine because i was tired im sorry D:#ok im gonna lay down can't wait to see yall's notes tomorrow haha

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keilemlucent · 5 years ago

Text

a weary head

(r18+)

hawks || takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~2.5k

Keigo fucks you senseless, literally. But, he cleans up his messes well.

warnings: dom/sub, aftercare, subspace, hawks literally concussing the reader by accident, sex accidents in general, vomiting, panic attacks

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Your legs are wrapped around Keigo’s waist that you can feel muscles beginning to pull. It almost hurts enough to ask him to stop— almost.

“Holy shit, you’re really this much of a slut, huh?” Keigo’s squeezing at your windpipe again, forcing your lungs to starve and your vision to haze up. “I can feel you clenching down on me, babe!”

You try to spit, wretch, turn away, anything to get away from his gaze.

It’s feral, the way Keigo is staring down at your slick body as he pounds into you. You’re already so bruised, thighs and hips colored purple and black with his biting grip. Your cunt is gushing slick, lube, and old cum. It’s dripping to the floor, slicking the hardwood beneath you, making finding purchase all that much harder.

Keigo’s eyes are still piercing yours as you turn your head away, trying to focus on anything but the obsidian stones set where his pupils should have been.

“Oh, so that’s your game now? Is that really smart?” Keigo chides, rearing back to slap you across the face, forcing your face back to him. He grabs your cheeks, nails biting into the soft skin of your jaw. “Open up, birdie.”

“You’re disgusting,” You spit back, but it hardly matters. Keigo has two fingers in your mouth, forcing you to keep your lips open for him. He leans forward to spit into your mouth, drool globbing into your mouth. You know better than to bite him, no matter how much you want to. The punishment that follows from biting the hand that literally feeds you was too great and too damaging.

Instead, you just choke as Keigo laughs at him, regripping your thighs with raking nails.

And he starts back up at an unforgiving pace, not a single ounce of him holding back on your ravaged cunt.

You’re screaming, fully, and with your entire chest. Your arms, tied expertly behind your back are bruised and sore beyond feeling. They were hardly holding sensation as they were beaten into the floor beneath you.

You sob as Keigo grabs one of your tits, purposefully sharpened nails driving into the squishy flesh. You screamed, trying to kick at Keigo, but you were so effectively pinned.

“Be a good little fucktoy and maybe I’ll let you come again,” Keigo sneers, squeezing to the point of breaking your skin. Your chest was already covered in scratches and thin lines from his talons. You’d be aching the next day, even if he tended sweetly to them.

Keigo’s getting close, pace downright frantic as you sob over and over. You can’t tell pleasure from pain as Keigo drills into your deepest parts. Drool leaks from the side of your mouth as Keigo somehow manages to speed up.

“You’re gonna come when I tell, right cocksleeve?” Keigo is just fucking cruel at this point.

You manage to nod, breathing getting a little too fast.

Keigo’s hand, slick with sweat moves to the front of your throat, squeezing at the sides.

The muscles of your shoulders and neck had been straining for so long, all through Keigo’s relentless fucking. How many rounds and orgasms had they had to hold your head up with your arms for leverage?

“Cum for me,” Keigo growls down at you, free hand taking to slap your across the face.

It didn’t matter, really. The muscles supporting your head and upper body pulled painfully and gave out. The strain on your neck had finally made you go limp.

With each thrust, Keigo is moaning and crying in ecstasy. He’s fully within rapture as he bruises your insides, making them match the outside,

You, on the other hand, are having a very odd orgasm that wasn’t all that pleasant. It is half-hearted, body so used up and spent that it was hardly holding together. It’s mainly interrupted by the rhythmic slamming of your head against the floor that Keigo was fucking you into.

Your vision is swimming by the third impact, breathing coming in painfully fast gasps.

By the fifth, your brain is mush and you were having trouble staying conscious.

By the sixth, your perception was being warped.

There’s stillness, but only for a moment. You can vaguely here Keigo’s breath change, but it feels like you’re underwater. Every part of your body is thrumming with a fucked up mix of adrenaline and endorphins. You felt like you were swirling and ungrounded.

Keigo gasps and curses above you.

“Oh, fuck,” It’s Keigo’s voice, disembodied. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N).”

There’s some activity, you guess.

Your head is starting to hurt.

The tension on your arms is released. You can’t feel them very well.

“Hey, hey, can you talk to me?” Keigo’s voice is firm, but there’s an edge of nervousness to it.

You make a small, weak noise from the back of your throat as your eyelids scrunch. Your body buzzes and twitches, making your head hurt even worse.

You could feel one of Keigo’s hands smooth over your cheek, “Can you use your words?”

Oh, it takes all of your effort to push anything from your lips. Your vision is still fucked though you can tell Keigo is doing something. Maybe.

“C-can’t.” Your voice is hoarse, rawed along with your body. The face-fucking earlier really shredded your throat.

There’s something cold on the back of your head, where it had been hitting the floor. Your body moves on its own, away from the sudden sensation, but something (someone, Keigo) catches you and forces you to stay put as he applies the lightest pressure.

“I didn’t realize I was hitting your head, I’m so, so sorry angel,” Keigo’s voice is so sad.

“S-s’okay,” You slur. Your breath is still coming too fast, but it’s slowing down. “Happens.”

Keigo doesn’t reply, but you can just feel that he doesn’t like that response.

“Angel, I’m gonna pick you up and take you to our room, okay? Get you somewhere nice and dark,” Keigo doesn’t make you reply, but rather scoops you up and carries you off.

You’re becoming more lucid, slowly. There are weird strikings of fear in your heart, like odd jolts over your mind in its beaten state.

Keigo pulls out your specific aftercare blanket, a soft, baby pink fluffy thing. He slides onto the bed, against the pretty headboard, sending a flurry of feathers to do his bidding. He situates you in his lap, the blanket pulled over the two of you.

Despite the fact that being next to Keigo felt incredibly good, but the position made your stomach swirl and head pound even more.

Being upright is awful, you decide. You want to be on the mattress better.

“Can I lie down?” You try to blink, your vision a little clearer as you turned to look at Keigo better.

He shook his head, smoothing over your sweaty hair, “I’m sorry angel, but you gotta eat or drink first. Then I wanna look you over.”

You feel crushed, your chest hurts. You hurt so bad and you just want to lie down.

You must’ve started crying because Keigo is cooing at you a moment later, rubbing his thumbs at your cheeks.

“It hurts,” You manage to say before pressing your aching head to Keigo’s neck.

“Oh, angel,” Keigo squeezes you, pressing the gentlest kiss to an unbruised part of your skull. “I know, but I need to help you first. Can you trust me to help you? Then, we’ll get you laid down.”

You sniffle. You don’t like the answer, but you do trust Keigo with your life, literally.

Your nod is weak against his sweaty collar.

Some of his feathers must’ve returned because Keigo is resituating the two of you. Your back is supported on the headboard and he’s sitting in front of you. He’s wearing boxers and helping you into a soft shirt. It’s one of his, smelling like his nice, spicy cologne and sweat. It helps dull the pain of wanting him close, but it certainly doesn’t quell it fully.

Your vision is nearly fully back, perception almost proper, but everything truly does hurt. Even your teeth feel like they’re rotting in your skull.

“Kei’, I-I don’t feel good,” You whimper at him, moving to your knees, rubbing at your face. “Help.”

It’s not a request you’d ever make outside of a scene or subspace, not so bluntly anyways. Keigo is immediately running kind hands up and down your arms, regarding you with the softest, most loving gaze. It’s laced with concern, moreover. There’s a pull at his brows and a bad quirk in his lips.

“You did so well, angel. I’m so, so proud of you,” Keigo is shaking as he pulls you into him, rubbing up and down your bruised back. “You took it all so well. You’re so good. So, so good. I love you so much.”

You press into him. With your eyes shut and pressed to his sticky chest, the world is duller and your head hurts worse, “Can I go to sleep?”

You ask again, hoping for a different answer.

“No, love, I’m sorry. You gotta trust me, okay? Let’s start with some water,” Keigo is pulling away and you hate it. You want him touching you. It feels like you’re burning alive if he’s not.

“NO!” You shriek, grabbing his arm as it goes for a condensation-covered bottle laying on the bed.

Keigo freezes.

You tug.

“Angel,” Keigo’s voice has dropped, far deeper than his usual, pretty, high baritone. It��s a tone that you know too well when he chooses to assert himself. He moves to grip your jaw, where he had earlier, but far softer. “You are going to listen to me, understand? I love you, and I’m helping.”

You’re crying again because everything hurts. Your head and body are aching and Keigo is being mean to you and you just want to lay the fuck down—

And then you’re scared.

And then you’re panicking.

And then you’re choking on air.

Your lungs won’t fill fast enough.

Keigo rushes to wrap you in his arms, wings, and legs helping to press down on you. You are both familiar with the helpful nature of weight during moments like this. His lips are at your ear, breathing slow to encourage you to do the same.

But it hurts so much.

Your stomach is churning to the point of intense nausea.

“Keigo,” You manage to push out, giving him a desperate look. A hand is wrenching into your hair.

You’re lucky Keigo knows you so well and has a near-supernatural intuition. There’s a trash can in front of your face. You stick your face fully into it and you wretch. You’re sobbing as you vomit up everything in your stomach, bile, acid, and all. Keigo holds your hair, rubbing at your back.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Keigo is so soft but almost grief-stricken as he rubs at your shoulders. “Get it all out, okay? I’ll take care of you. Just get it all out for me.”

The notion is comforting, but the feeling quickly lost as another wave of sick leaves you.

Finally, you’re just coughing and spitting. You're still crying and your whole face is burning in addition to the migraine you’ve fully developed.

Keigo gently pulls you upwards, feathers taking the waste away. There’s a soft, warm cloth running all over your face, it pays extra attention around your mouth and nose.

It covers your nostrils and you freeze up.

“Blow, (Y/N),” Keigo urges, nodding with a soft smile.

In most other situations, this would be fucking humiliating. But, now? You did exactly as you were told, feeling somewhat comforted as much as your body hurt.

Keigo disposes of the washcloth, grabbing the water bottle from before and giving you a clean cup, “Rinse and spit as much as you need. Then, drink as much as you can, okay, angel?”

You nod, weakly, doing just as he said. It hurts, drinking so much water. It hits your tummy harshly and you stop after only a fourth of the bottle, looking at Keigo helplessly.

Keigo pressed a kiss to your forehead, pulling out a bowl of somewhat warm rice, “Cold, huh? Let’s get something else in you.”

“The only other thing I want in me is your fat cock,” You manage to crack a joke quietly, weakly, very much kidding, but it manages to get a bark of laughter (a little too loudly) from Keigo.

“There’s my girl,” He’s still laughing a little as he presses some of the rice to your lips. “Eat as much as you can, okay? You don’t have to finish it all if you can’t. Tell me if you feel like you need to throw up again, okay?”

You nod weakly, opening your mouth for the bite of food.

You eat painfully slowly, stomach tolerating food to some level. Keigo is patient, offering words of encouragement as your brain slowly rises from the hellishly low section of subspace it was in.

You manage to finish it all, earning loads of praise and kisses from Keigo.

“Thank you,” You offer him as you finish the bowl. He beams you with the radiance of some divine being. His wings have been folded politely to his back, but you can see them fluff up with his joy. Keigo is kind, leaving tender, feather-light kisses wherever he can reach. Your body is still aching and your head fucking hurt, but it is soothed by Keigo’s comforting and distracting presence.

You’re so distracted, it takes you a moment to realize Keigo has pressed a handful of pills into your hand, another water bottle at the ready.

“They’ll help with the pain, we just needed something in your tummy before you took them,” Keigo soothed, running a soft hand over your shoulders.

You down them wordlessly and with a nod.

Keigo proceeds to lay you out on the bed, pulling off your shirt as he does. You don’t like being so exposed, but he calmly explains he needs to clean you up and deal with any other wounds he made.

Oh, right.

You’re leaking like four loads of cum right now.

Marathon sex with Keigo usually ended with you destroyed, but this instance was a lot.

There aren’t too many deep wounds, luckily. Just a few scratches that wept a bit too much blood to be left alone. Keigo cleans and bandages them, talking to you softly. You don’t say much in reply. You know that part of Keigo’s aftercare is letting out the remnants of his energy about the scene vocally.

He presses a kiss to the last bandage with a smile, looking up at you as you slowly put your shirt back on.

“You okay?” You ask him, eyes softening. “That was a lot.”

“It was, but it was very fun. I am very okay. I’m far more concerned about you.” Keigo’s eyes softened as he strokes at the bruised skin of your thighs. “I feel awful. I didn’t realize I was hitting your head like that. I’m very sorry and it will not happen a second time. New rule, pillows for your head for floor sex.”

You groan, “That takes away so much of the allure, though. You know I like getting roughed up like that Kei’.”

“Angel,” He gently pushes you down to the bed, guiding your now somewhat soothed skull with a tender palm. “What you’re not gonna like is when I have to take you to the doctor tomorrow to check if you have a concussion.”

You grumble and snuggle into him.

There’s sweet silence for a minute.

“Thank you, Keigo. You did well too,” You kiss his jaw a few times. “But, if you don’t take the day off tomorrow to take care of my ass, I will personally come to your agency, sit under your desk, and give you head until your balls fall off.”

“Oh, baby,” He nuzzles into you with a throaty laugh. “Say less.”

You’re not sure which option he means, but you suppose its the one where he’s tangled up in you.

#mha x reader #my hero academia x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #reader x hawks #reader insert #this is unbeta'ed so if there's silly grammar issues its definitely on me #also present tense??? who knew #salem writes

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wordsintimeandspace · 4 years ago

Text

Comfort, One Way or Another

Jon has never been one to ask for comfort when he needs it, but somehow, he still finds himself in Tim’s bed after a bad week. It would be nice, if it wasn’t for the hangover - and the fact that he has no clear idea how he got there.

Jon/Tim, rated T, ~3200 words. Read on AO3!

Jon wakes with a pounding headache in a bed he doesn’t recognize. It takes him a moment to push aside the fuzziness clouding his mind and take it all in: the lavender bed sheets, the muted light streaming through the curtains, the stack of books on the nightstand and - oh, God - the arm slung around his back.

Jon freezes, his heart in his throat. For a long moment he doesn’t dare to move, not even to turn his head to see who’s in bed with him. Just as he’s ready to leap out of bed and flee, the person behind him mumbles something in their sleep and… oh. Oh. He recognizes that voice.

It’s Tim.

Jon finally manages to roll over to see his face without dislodging the arm wrapped around him. Tim is still fast asleep, lips slightly parted and hair falling onto his forehead. He looks peaceful and calm, so different from the energy that usually courses through his veins.

Jon lets out a breath of relief. He’s still not quite sure how he got there, but waking up next to Tim instead of a stranger makes the whole thing a lot less alarming. It’s still startling though, because ending up in other people’s beds is not something he generally does. But generally he also doesn’t drink a lot with his basically nonexistent alcohol tolerance - and if the headache and the hazy memories are any indication, that’s exactly what he did last night.

~~~

There was a pub, and music, and alcohol. Definitely too much alcohol. And there was Tim, all bright smiles and easy banter, a warm shoulder pressed next to Jon’s. Jon remembers how they got there - it had been a bad week, and an even worse day. The kind of day where he used to bury himself in research until he was exhausted and refused to talk to anyone. Just a few months back, no one of the other researchers had cared. But now he’s friends with Tim, and Tim had taken only one look at him before he’d pulled Jon aside to ask what was wrong. Even after Jon had insisted that everything was fine, he’d brought him tea and sent him cat gifs and bullied him into lunch. And took him out for drinks, apparently.

That’s how Jon had ended up in a dimly lit pub, well on his way to being plastered, squeezed into a booth with Tim next to him and struggling to follow whatever story Tim was telling. Because Tim was right there, his shoulders and thighs pressed against Jon’s, a warm presence that was both comforting and overwhelming in its intensity. Something inside Jon’s chest ached, and for a long moment that was all he could focus on.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last been hugged, or kissed, or held. Touched in a way that was more than just a clap on the shoulder or an accidental brush of hands. Jon hadn’t been close to anyone since Georgie, and for some reason he couldn’t fathom society had decided that prolonged touching was reserved for romantic and sexual relationships. So, here he was. Drunk and sad and touch-starved, his entire mind occupied with imagining how it would feel to have Tim’s arms around him, holding him close to his chest. How it would feel to let himself be comforted by the quiet thrum of Tim’s heart beneath his cheek, and stay just like that until the grief that had consumed him this week had waned.

Tim nudged his shoulder against Jon’s, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you listening?” he asked, bemused.

Jon shook his head before he could stop himself, but Tim was never mad when Jon was being rude. Instead Tim just laughed, even as Jon winced. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed to say. “I’m just… I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“I- I want…” He trailed off, embarrassed, but Tim’s eyes were soft, and his hand was warm as it covered Jon’s.

“You can have anything you want, Jon. Just ask,” Tim said gently, with a smile that was kind and understanding and entirely too much for Jon to bear. Jon turned his hand until he could interlace his fingers with Tim’s. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure how. Instead, he took a breath and leaned in to kiss him. It took only a second before Tim kissed back.

~~~

Jon’s cheeks heat up as bits and pieces of the last evening finally come back into focus. He still isn’t quite sure how they went from kissing in a pub to ending up in bed together, but the reason is fairly obvious, he supposes. The thought makes his stomach churn with anxiety, but he tries his best to brush it aside. It’s only Tim. And it’s not like he hates sex. It’s- it’s fine, if something happened. At least they’re both wearing clothes right now, or this would be a lot more awkward.

Despite his anxiety, Jon can’t bring himself to move. Not just because his head protests every movement he makes, but also because he’s comfortable, aside from the throbbing behind his temples. He definitely got more sleep than he had in the previous nights, and Tim’s arm that is still draped over him is warm and grounding. It’s nice to wake up like this, and if he’s feeling like shit he can at least indulge a little.

For a while, he drifts off again. But it isn’t long until Tim wakes up as well, and his movements are enough to rouse Jon from his doze. He squints against the light that is still too bright for his aching head, and turns to Tim who is already looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Tim smiles as their eyes meet, and still doesn’t move his arm from Jon’s chest.

“Good morning,” Tim says casually, as if waking up next to a work friend after a drunken night out is just a normal thing in his life. Maybe it is. Jon is never quite sure what counts as normal among his allosexual peers.

“Morning,” he finally says, wincing at how hoarse his voice is.

Tim looks him up and down, frowning a little. “How are you feeling?”

Jon lets out a groan. Emboldened by just how casual Tim is about this whole thing he shifts closer and presses his forehead against Tim’s shoulder. “My head is killing me,” he grumbles.

Tim lets out a small laugh and gives him a sympathetic pat on the back. “That was to be expected, I suppose. I can get you some painkillers in a moment. Are you feeling okay otherwise? Any nausea?”

“No, not really. But I’m not, uh…”

“What?”

“I’m... not quite sure what happened last night,” Jon finally admits.

Tim sits up a little, propping his head up with one hand. “How much do you remember?” he asks, concern clear in his voice.

“I’m, uh.” Jon flushes, stumbling over his words. “I remember that we kissed. And then it gets a bit… hazy.”

“Yeah, you kissed me. Didn’t think you’d go for such a thing, especially with me, but I’m definitely not complaining,” Tim says with a grin.

Jon gulps, bracing himself for the answer to his next question. “Did we…?”

“What?” Tim frowns, but then his eyes widen. “Oh! No. I mean, you certainly tried to get into my pants, but no. We didn’t have sex.”

“Oh.” Jon blinks, perplexed. Somehow, that wasn’t what he expected. He looks down to where Tim’s arm is still resting on his chest, his fingers moving in small circles over Jon’s stomach. This still doesn’t add up. “Then… why am I in your bed?”

“Look, I tried to sleep on the couch, but you looked like you might cry when I suggested that. So here we are, in one bed.”

“Right.”

Tim suddenly stills his movements, his eyes widening in alarm. “Is that okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed that it would be-”

“It’s fine,” Jon rushes to say, covering Tim’s hand with his own before Tim can snatch it away. “This is… this is fine. I don’t mind.”

“Okay.” Tim smiles, a bit apprehensively, and gives Jon’s hand a squeeze before letting go. Jon immediately misses his warmth. “I’ll get you some painkillers and you can get a bit more rest while I go and make breakfast. How does that sound?”

“I- yes. Thank you, Tim.”

Tim flashes him another smile before jumping out of bed with way more energy than should be allowed after a night out. He comes back just a moment later with a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen, and Jon gratefully swallows down two pills before he collapses back into the cushions. Tim leaves him to it, so Jon closes his eyes, listens to the sounds of Tim rummaging around in the kitchen and begs his battered memory to please give him context for Jon trying to get into Tim’s pants. Christ. He can’t believe that happened.

~~~

Jon wasn’t quite sure how they made their way to Tim’s flat, but it wasn’t really important. The important thing was that they were finally alone, and he could press Tim against the wall all he wanted. Could press closer until they were finally touching from head to toe. Could slip a hand down Tim’s shirt to feel the heat of his skin against his fingertips, and swallow the gasp that escaped Tim’s lips with his own. Tim wrapped one arm around Jon’s waist and moved the other hand into his hair, and Jon melted against him with a mewl. He could feel Tim’s grin against his lips.

It was warmth and comfort and closeness all in one, and it was everything Jon needed from this night. It was only when Tim bucked his hips against Jon’s that he suddenly remembered that it was also something else for Tim.

“Alright?” Tim whispered against his lips, a hint of concern in his voice, and Jon belatedly realized that he had stilled after feeling Tim hard against him.

He nodded. “Yes,” he managed to get out, rolling his hips against Tim’s to make him gasp. Tim tightened his grip around Jon’s waist for just a second before pulling back.

“Bedroom?” he asked, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark.

Jon nodded again, almost automatically before his brain finally caught up with the situation. By then, Tim had already taken his hand and was leading him to the bedroom. The thought was enough to send a sudden spike of anxiety through him. Jon froze, but Tim was still tugging him along, and he stumbled over his own feet before he could bring his muscles to move again. Tim’s arms wrapped around him before he could hit the floor, and Jon let out a breath as he curled closer, burying his face in the crook of Tim’s neck as he waited for the world to stop spinning.

“Jon…”

“Mhh.”

Tim sighed, pulling away from Jon and gently cupping his face. Jon squirmed under his gaze as Tim looked at him, really looked at him for probably the first time since he’d first kissed him. His heart sank as Tim’s searching expression turned into a frown.

“Jon, you’re very drunk.”

“Mhh. Yes, I think so. It’s fine.”

Tim sighed again. “No, it isn’t. Jon, I’m not going to have sex with you.”

Jon blinked in surprise before his eyebrows drew together into a frown. “Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk, and I’m not exactly sober either, and I don’t want you to do anything you’re going to regret tomorrow.” Tim paused, letting out a short laugh. “Don’t look at me like I just kicked a puppy. I promise you, if you still want to have sex tomorrow I’m all in.”

A feeling rushed through Jon that he stubbornly refused to call relief. In any way, it was quickly replaced by the sting of rejection. Jon gulped against the tears burning in his eyes. Tim was still so close, touching him in all the right ways, comforting and reassuring. For the first time this week, it felt like he could breathe. As if Tim’s touch was the only thing holding him together. “I- I don’t-” he started, not quite sure how to put his feelings into words. His voice wavered. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Tim’s gaze softened. “I’m not kicking you out, Jon,” he said gently, leaning down to press a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “You can still stay, if you want to.”

Jon nodded, closing his eyes. Tim’s lips were warm against his skin. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Come on then.” Tim pulled back with a smile and took Jon’s hand again, and Jon let himself be led towards the bedroom, his earlier anxiety all but gone.

~~~

Jon eventually crawls out of bed and stumbles into the kitchen. Tim is standing at the stove, stirring bacon and eggs in the pan. There’s already a plate of toast on the table, and two steaming mugs of tea on the counter. Tim flashes him a grin, and for a moment Jon is overwhelmed by the desire to cross the room and wrap his arms around him. Instead, he slumps down onto a chair. He’s not quite sure how to navigate all of this just yet. Maybe he should apologize.

“Are the painkillers working?” Tim asks before Jon can figure out what to say. He gives Jon a concerned look over his shoulder.

“Yes,” Jon says truthfully, rubbing his temples where there’s only a slight pressure left. “I’m feeling better.”

“Okay, great.”

Still struggling for words, Jon watches Tim load the bacon and eggs onto two plates, and springs up to help with the tea despite Tim’s protests. Then it feels wrong to bring it up during breakfast, so he doesn’t. Instead, he waits until they’ve eaten and Tim has bundled him onto the couch with a large glass of water, ordering him to rest and hydrate. As soon as Tim is done with the dishes and falls down onto the couch next to Jon, the words blurt out of him.

“I remember some things. About last night,” Jon hastily says before he can back out. His cheeks are burning. “All the relevant parts, I think.”

Tim looks at him, eyebrows slightly raised, before giving him a wink. “I didn’t forget my promise, by the way. The offer still stands, but no pressure.”

“I’m, ah-” Jon stammers, not quite sure how to continue.

Gently, Tim reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. “I’m serious,” he says softly. “No pressure. I won’t take it personally if you changed your mind. We all do things we don’t mean while drunk.”

Jon lets out a breath and looks down to their hands. “It really isn’t personal. I promise it’s not you, it’s…” Jon hesitates. He thinks of the bi pride pins on Tim’s messenger bag, and the way Tim had chewed out Greg from Artifact Storage after he’d knowingly misgendered one of the statement givers. He decides it’s safe to utter the next words. “I’m asexual.”

Tim’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh. Um, okay.”

“... is it?”

“Yes, of course.” Tim smiles, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. Relieved, Jon lets out a breath he was holding. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Yes, well. It seemed… relevant, after last night.”

“Yeah. But I’ve got to be honest, I’m a bit confused. I mean, I know some ace people have sex, but I assume you telling me now means that you don’t, so I don’t quite understand why you would… you know. Last night.”

Jon lets out a frustrated sigh, trying to gather his thoughts. “I just- I meant what I said last night. I didn’t want to be alone,” he finally admits. “And I just wanted...” Oh, how can he still not say cuddle, for God’s sake? “... contact.”

“And you thought the best way to get that was to proposition me?”

“I was drunk,” Jon says defensively. “And, well. That’s how people usually do it, isn’t it?”

Tim looks at him with an expression that is somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “Jon,” he eventually starts, his voice gente. “Can I hug you?”

Jon blinks in surprise. “Um. Yes,” he finally manages to say. “Please.”

Tim pulls him into his arms, and Jon readily squirms closer until he can rest his head against Tim’s shoulder. Tim is still so warm, and his arms around Jon’s shoulders feel grounding and safe. This might be even better than last night, Jon decides, now that his senses aren’t dulled by alcohol. He lets out a content sigh, smiling into Tim’s shirt as Tim drops a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’m sorry if anything I did last night was making you uncomfortable,” Tim eventually starts. “I probably should have paid closer attention. I never wanted to make you feel like you had to do something.”

“Tim, no. You didn’t, and you don’t have to apologize. Especially since it was you who stopped me from going too far.”

“Still, I should have-”

“Nothing we did was making me uncomfortable,” Jon interrupts quite firmly. His cheeks flush as Tim raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. “I- I’m serious. I like kissing. I was having a good time.”

Tim lets out a small, relieved laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m glad.”

“I might have liked the sex as well. It’s not something I usually do, but it can be nice. I just… get anxious about it and overthink every move, but, well. It’s not terrible.”

Tim looks at him, a bit exasperated as if he’s about to say ‘not terrible is clearly not good enough Jon’, but in the end he only lets out a sigh and pulls Jon back into an embrace. “I’m still glad I stopped you before we got there,” Tim says as he rests his chin on top of Jon’s head. “I’m glad we’re okay.”

“Me too,” Jon says quietly, wrapping his arms around Tim and settling back into the embrace. Closing his eyes, he rests his head on Tim’s chest. He needs a moment to focus on it, but there it is: the steady beat of Tim’s heart, right beneath his ear. He listens to it for a while, lets the rhythm calm his thoughts while Tim’s arms hold him together. It doesn’t mend the wound that had plagued him all week, but it makes it easier to breathe for the moment. Easier to look ahead, to the days soon to come where the pain will be nothing but a quiet noise in the background.

“It was the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death yesterday,” he finally says after a long moment, his voice quiet. “We weren’t very close, but, well. She was the one who raised me after my parents died. The only family I had left.”

Tim tightens his arms around him. “Oh, Jon.”

“It’s- I’m fine, usually, but somehow it hit me harder than expected this week. I don’t know.”

Tim hums, rubbing his back. “Grief can be like that,” he finally says quietly, with a certainty that makes Jon think he’s speaking from experience. “Sneaks up on you when you don’t expect it.”

“Mh. It’s easier, like this. When you’re not alone.”

“I’m glad I can help. Just promise me one thing?”

“What is it?”

“Next time you want a hug, or a cuddle, or… anything, really - please just ask.”

Jon lets out a huff, lips curling into a smile. “I promise that I’ll try. As long as you do the same thing.”

Tim laughs quietly, and drops another kiss to the top of Jon’s head. “It’s a deal.”

#the magnus archives #tma #jontim #tma fic #my fic #I don't think anyone here is reading my tma fic #but I've decided I still want it all on tumblr #so here we go!

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angstyaches · 4 years ago

Text

Half of All Bus Rides

There was interest expressed in motion sick Payton, so here they are! It’s quite long and I’m not adding a cut because cut fics don’t seem to get as much interaction for some reason.

CW: motion sickness, anxious sickee, emetophobia (secondary character who does not actually see or experience the emeto), burping and a little hiccupping, heavy on the stomach noises.

___

Countryside and highway flashed by as though the bus had been doing two hundred kilometres per hour instead of the eighty-five it was actually doing. Payton’s head was spinning at almost the same speed, and they were drinking deeply of the dry air from the vehicle’s air conditioning system, drawing breaths deep into their lungs before slowly letting them go.

They certainly did not feel sick. Nope. There was no way that motion sickness could possibly be hitting on their first trip with Autumn as their girlfriend. Their stomach must have been clenching from nerves. Of course; a five-hour long bus ride was a big deal. Sharing close quarters. Needing to be funny and interesting, while also being careful not to annoy her. Yeah, it was just a lot of pressure and Payton was overthinking.

“I still think it’s weird,” Autumn mumbled, her head tucked against Payton’s shoulder.

They looked at her, grateful that her eyes were shut so she wouldn’t see how washed-out they inevitably looked. “What, baby?”

“You know. Lucy.” Autumn gave a dazed shrug. “It’s weird that we know nothing about the relationship, and yet here we are, going all-expenses-paid because of someone she’s sleeping with?”

Oh, right. The two of them had been talking about Lucy’s mysterious romantic life before Payton had spaced out. They made a low sound in their throat that they hoped would convey agreement as well as finality. They were too dizzy and uncomfortable to keep making conversation, but they knew that if Autumn tried to keep talking, they would force themself to keep up.

“Is it okay if I go for a little nap?” Autumn’s voice sounded tiny, and it made Payton’s heart flutter.

“Go ahead,” they said, trying to settle their own head comfortably against the headrest.

Every time she woke from dozing, her head was a little lower on Payton’s torso, until eventually her ear was pressed right against their stomach. It was much more comfortable than their chest, where the clasp of their dungarees had been digging into her head.

Next time she woke, it was to a symphony of gurgling, but it was so soft that it barely drew her out of her nap. She simply stirred, eyelashes fluttering open and closed again, nuzzling her cheek instinctively against Payton. The noise started up under her head again, which made her frown and shift again. Why was her pillow rumbling so angrily?

Payton seemed to sense the disruption in her sleep, because they touched her head gently. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, P. Are you?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Autumn didn’t exactly believe them, but didn’t want to make a big deal out of it either. Maybe breakfast had just left them feeling a little gassy, and talking about it would just embarrass them for no reason. Still, she tucked herself up even smaller and wriggled her head into Payton’s lap, in case the weight of her head was making things worse on their stomach. She tucked her knees up to her chest, checking that her feet weren’t obstructing the aisle.

She settled down, though she had no intention of falling asleep again. She made a little happy sound as Payton stroked some hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Then, Payton propped their elbow on the armrest to support their chin, and seemed to fall into a light sleep themself.

Autumn was wide awake though, staring at the offensive-to-the-eyes bus seat upholstery and listening to Payton’s belly churn and slosh non-stop for about five minutes. It really didn’t sound good, but Autumn didn’t want to disturb Payton in the middle of a nap. A particularly deep rumble seemed to stir a lot around in there, so much so that it stirred Payton too. They shifted in their seat, prompting Autumn to lift her head from their lap.

“Sorry,” they murmured.

Autumn frowned, resting a hand on Payton’s stomach. “For what?”

“Disturbing you while you were slee–” Payton’s eyes widened slightly as they turned their head. Their belly jumped under Autumn’s palm, sending a gurgle up into their throat so that they burped and then hiccupped deeply against the back of their hand.

“How..?” Their gaze fell downwards as they noticed the pressure being applied to their stomach. “How’d you know my stomach was upset?”

Autumn raised her eyebrows in helpless confusion. “Baby, I could hear it bubbling away next to my ear. You couldn’t hear any of that?”

“Oh. No. I could feel it, but I didn’t realise it was being loud... Mmm.”

Payton sighed as Autumn rubbed her hand back and forth across their stomach. They tried for a grateful smile too, though it was watered down by the nausea that was draining every other aspect of their appearance and personality. All they could do was prop their elbow on the armrest again and cradle their head, eyes squeezed shut.

“I suppose I should have mentioned that I get motion sick on, like, fifty percent of all bus rides.”

“It’s okay,” Autumn chuckled. “There was a fifty percent chance you’d have gotten away with not mentioning it, huh?”

“I guess.”

Autumn slipped a hand inside the front of their dungarees, so her palm was on the fabric of their t-shirt. She massaged a gentle circle into their belly, paying close attention to Payton’s reaction. They let out a wince and brought a hand up to still hers, and she brought it to a stop.

A couple of silent beats passed, where Autumn’s hand cupped the slight outward curve of Payton’s stomach, and Payton’s hand hovered on the outside of their dungarees like a supervisor to Autumn’s. Autumn was just starting to think that everything had settled down, when the peace was broken; deep in Payton’s gut, something shifted and caused a lengthy rumble that was audible even to ears that weren’t right beside it.

“You heard that, right?” she teased softly, hoping to get a response out of Payton more than anything.

Their chin was almost touching the clasp on their dungarees, their mouth in a tight line as they swallowed so hard that Autumn saw their throat move. Any hint of playfulness dropped away and she sat upright, taking her hand out of Payton’s dungarees.

“P?” she asked.

Payton pressed the back of their hand against their mouth without opening their eyes, sitting forward in the seat. When they spoke, their voice was dripping with notes of queasiness, like they were on the verge of letting out a constant stream of burps.

“Can you see if someone’s got a plastic bag or something?”

Autumn nodded, feeling her throat tighten with sympathetic anxiety. She started to slide out of her seat, but paused when Payton touched her arm.

“Don’t let Lucy know I feel sick.”

Autumn frowned. “What? Really?”

“Yeah, trust me.”

A few rows down, Lucy was asleep with her arms folded across her chest and her head resting against the window. Beside her, Donnacha had headphones on too, and his eyes were closed, but Autumn could tell he was awake by the way his thumb gently tapped against the edge of his phone, keeping time with whatever he was listening to. He squinted at her after feeling the tap on his arm.

“Yeah, what’s up?” His voice smacked of impatience as he tugged his headphones down around his neck.

“Do you have a plastic bag or anything that I could take?” Autumn crouched next to his seat and kept her voice low. “Payton’s not doing so good.”

Annoyance or sleepiness or whatever it was, it vanished from Donnacha’s face. “No. Sorry, I’ve got nothing.”

Autumn nodded across Donnacha’s lap. “Do you think Lucy’s got anything we could –?”

“No, no, no, don’t tell Lucy,” Donnacha hissed.

Autumn huffed lightly. “Payton said that too.”

“It’ll start a whole thing.” Donnacha waved his hand. “Um, I think there’s a rest stop coming up, if Payton can hold on until then.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, should be in the next…” Donnacha looked out the window. “Five or ten minutes or so.”

“Great. Thank you.” Autumn wrung her hands as she straightened up, holding onto the back of Donnacha’s seat to keep the bus’s motion from swaying her. When she returned to her seat, Payton had their head against the back of the seat in front of them.

“No bag,” she said softly, scooping the back of Payton’s neck into her palm as they rested their head on her shoulder. “But we’re making a stop in a minute. We can take a little walk, go to the bathroom, get you some Sprite, maybe.”

Payton groaned weakly.

“Think you can hang in there for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

____

Autumn checked the time as she lingered at the base of the stairs that led to the rest stop bathrooms. They still had a little time until the bus was scheduled to leave again, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous when she had no way of knowing how Payton was doing. Her heart lifted a little when she saw them emerge, slowly making their way down the steps.

“Hey, baby,” Autumn sighed as she pulled them into a hug that was only returned half-heartedly. She rubbed gently at their back. “Did you get sick?”

“No,” Payton muttered miserably. A tight belch gurgled high in their chest, and they pulled back a little, rubbing at their breastbone. “My stomach’s churning like I’m on a boat, but nothing’s coming up.”

Autumn put a hand on Payton’s tummy in sympathy. While she traced a little circle just below their ribcage, she felt a rumble develop under her fingers, and heard it too; it sounded like a tiny helicopter trying to take off, and it somehow must have succeeded, because suddenly Payton was letting out another belch against the back of their hand.

“Sorry,” Payton mumbled after, putting their own hand on the spot where Autumn had been massaging.

“Don’t be.” Autumn chuckled quietly as she watched Payton press on their stomach again, coaxing up another belch. “Is that helping?”

“It’s doing… something,” they admitted, though that ‘something’ might not necessarily have been good. Judging by the way the colour in their face was changing again, it might have been the exact opposite.

Autumn was about to ask for clarification, but that was when Lucy appeared, sauntering over from the direction of the convenience store.

“Alright, losers?” she asked, sunglasses flashing in the sun as she stirred the straw in her iced coffee. “Bladders empty and ready to go?”

Autumn smiled tightly. “We’ll catch you up, Lu.”

“I was going to ask if either of you wanted to swap seats for a bit?” Lucy asked, rolling her head to one side. “Donnacha’s so boring on long trips. I want to chat.”

Autumn felt Payton tighten their grip on her hand, nervous energy heightening as they silently pleaded with her not to leave them.

“Maybe a little later,” Autumn told Lucy. Sweat tickled the back of her neck as she scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t draw attention to Payton and their washed-out face and shaky hands. “We – we were going to nap a little for the next part of the ride. I really didn’t sleep well last night.”

Even though her sunglasses were practically opaque, Autumn could tell Lucy was rolling her eyes. “Fine. But one of you owes me. Can you at least recommend some music for me to listen to? I’ve already burned through my playlist.”

Autumn glanced quickly at Payton; this was the kind of thing they were usually more than happy to step forward for, an opportunity to talk about music while also helping out a friend. Her heart sank when she saw that their eyes were glazed over, like they hadn’t even heard what Lucy had asked.

“Sure,” Autumn piped up, untangling her hand from Payton’s and reaching for her phone.

Payton felt their body sway a little at the absence of even the tiniest bit of support from Autumn. The girls leaned in to look at Autumn’s phone screen, but the whole scene seemed burnt-out in Payton’s vision, melted and warped in the afternoon sunshine and the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes.

“No! None of your weird show music,” Lucy was saying to Autumn, and that was when Payton would usually have kissed Autumn on the head and told her that her show music wasn’t weird.

If only their belly hadn’t been hurting too much for them to focus.

They were shaking, feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter, as the three of them slowly made their way back to the bus.

“Here.” Autumn handed Payton a bottle of Sprite as soon as they had both settled back into their seats. “Take some little sips.”

The sips were good, at first; Payton hadn’t realised how parched their tongue was, or how much their throat had started to hurt in the process of trying to throw up in the bathroom. The bubbles gave the illusion of cleaning out their oesophagus on the way down, making them feel like tiny sponges were scrubbing them clean on the inside. It was a good feeling, and they were feeling a little more confident about this leg of the journey already.

“You good?” Autumn asked as the bus began to pull away from the stop.

Payton nodded, stifling a fizzy burp that was just a direct result of the Sprite bubbles. They held the closed bottle against their knee and closed their eyes, humming lightly in response to Autumn laying a hand on their leg.

They barely moved for the next twenty minutes. They weren’t sleeping, but Autumn seemed to believe that they were, because Payton heard her take her book out of her bag and attempt to quietly turn the pages every so often.

However, under the still surface, Payton felt worse than before. The bubbles they thought had helped relieve the nausea were still forcing burps up their throat, growing tighter and tighter every time, bringing Payton closer and closer to tasting the sludge left over from their breakfast.

“Baby?” Payton pried their eyes halfway open, finally letting a hand rest on top of their churning belly.

Autumn looked up from her book, eyes wide and concerned. “Are you going to be sick?”

Payton nodded, and Autumn whispered “shoot” under her breath, hurrying to dump snacks and bottles of water into her handbag, so that she could hand Payton the plastic bag from the convenience store.

Leaning forward with the bag open under their face, Payton tried to thank her, but only managed to make a noise – which sounded a little like “mmmrpphl” – before there was a stream of something hot and soupy rushing up their throat and dripping into the bag. Their diaphragm lurched violently, like it was getting revenge on their stomach for some unknown past transgression, and the vomit burned their chest and tasted horrible. On the bright side, by the time it was falling out of their mouth, Payton was able to stay relatively quiet, with just the occasional cough or shallow belch slipping out.

“Sorry,” Payton mumbled when they were given a chance to breathe, thinking of the passengers in front of and behind them.

“Don’t worry, baby, nobody’s paying any attention.”

Payton reached out to touch Autumn’s leg, ending up squeezing her knee quite hard as another wave of nausea dragged their stomach contents up and out of them. If they were squeezing too hard, Autumn didn’t let them know.

The retching finally turned into quiet, dry coughs. Payton scrunched the top of the bag shut because the smell was keeping their stomach from settling. They rested their forehead on the seat in front, feeling like they could black out for the rest of the bus ride.

“Hey. You feeling better?” Autumn brushed her fingers across the small of their back.

Payton gave a heavy sigh through pursed lips. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Autumn seemed enthused – or maybe just relieved – at this response. She gently pried the plastic bag out of Payton’s grip.

As soon as their hands were free, they rubbed at their eyes with their knuckles, brushing away pained tears that had sprung up with the nausea. They then folded their arms across their belly, feeling it settle into a dull knot. It hurt, and was far from comfortable, but Payton would have taken it over the churning and gurgling any day.

Autumn saw the difference on Payton’s face too, as they sank back in their seat with their eyes closed. The tension that had drawn their eyebrows together, that had made them clamp their lips tightly shut, it had all melted away. She finished tying up the bag and considered cuddling up to Payton’s side like she’d done earlier, but she really didn’t want to disturb them or tempt fate again.

Instead, she went back to her book, taking Payton’s hand when it rested casually on her knee again a few minutes later.

___

They were some of the last off the bus, thanks to Autumn making sure that Payton took their time in moving. Colour had returned to their face, but they were still exhausted and their hands trembled a bit as they got ready to go.

The sun was almost all the way down, and Autumn had to squint in the fiery-orange light to see where Lucy and Donnacha were standing, waiting for them.

Lucy shuffled over with her sunglasses in her fist before they could reach her. She was shuddering visibly and shaking out her arms, like she was covered in bugs that she was trying to get rid of.

“I think – no, no, I know someone threw up on the bus! I could smell it. Donnacha kept telling me I was crazy.”

“I never said you were crazy,” Donnacha yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “I said ‘Lucy, shut up and let me sleep’.”

She scoffed and tossed up her palms. “You guys didn’t notice it?”

Payton swallowed, guilt piling on top of their lingering stomach ache. Next to them, Autumn tilted her head and hummed.

“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” she said, quickly putting her hands behind her back to hide the trash bag that she planned on disposing of at the first bin she came across. “I’m sorry about that though, Lucy. Does – does vomit really bother you?”

“Do not get me started.” Lucy waved her hands, which indicated that they should all take the statement literally, and not get her started. “I want to go. When are they going to open the luggage compartment? I’m dying for a wee.”

As Lucy turned to direct a larger portion of her complaining in Donnacha’s direction, Autumn pulled Payton a little closer by the waist, and they leaned their face into her neck.

“Hey, in theory, if it’s only half of all bus rides, the trip home should be a picnic, right?” she whispered, grinning as Payton jabbed her lightly in the side.

#sickfic #OC sickfic #motion sickness #motion sickness fic #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #sick boys #long fic #my OCs #sick Payton #caretaker Autumn #Payton and Autumn #non binary OC

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seijorhi · 5 years ago

Text

Untouchable

TW: Kidnapping, implied/referenced abuse & non-con

“Would you like something to drink? Water maybe? We have tea or coffee, or I’m sure we have some hot cocoa somewhere, it might not be the world’s greatest stuff, but it’s war-”

You plaster a tight smile across your face. “I’m fine, really.”

It’s a lie, but he nods politely anyway, the faintest hint of a flush dusting across his cheeks. He’s young, older than you obviously, but he barely looks old enough to be wearing the uniform at all, and certainly not old enough to be a Sergeant, but he’s shown you his badge, and Sergeant he is.

Sergeant Shinji Tanaka of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

But of all the officers they could have passed you off to, they stuck you in here with him - that had to mean something right?

He smiles gently, easing back in his seat. “Alright. So why don’t you start at the beginning, hm?”

You swallow, dropping your gaze to focus instead on your hands, twisting uneasily in your lap. Maybe this was a mistake. You weren’t thinking straight when you’d run, this- this was the first place you’d thought of coming.

This was the only place you’d thought was safe from him, but what if this was a mistake? Would they even believe you? Hell, what proof did you have?

You’d seen news footage once of some poor woman being rescued from her abductor's basement. Her captor had kept her locked away for months, he’d hurt her - understandably she’d been a mess. The image of the poor woman had stuck in your head for a long, long time afterwards. Sallow skin stretched too tightly over bones, covered in bruises and cuts, hair wild and untamed, and there had been this look in her eyes - hollow and vacant and yet so, so terrified. Nobody looking at her would ever doubt that she’d been through something awful, something traumatic.

You on the other hand… he always took such good care of you. He kept you well fed and healthy, made sure you had plenty of pretty things to wear, that your hair was brushed until it shined. He showered you in gifts, treated you when you indulged him and played along.

There were bruises and bite marks that littered your body - your breasts, the insides of your thighs, the soft, sensitive skin of your neck, but those were easily explained away. Love marks, left in the heat of passion. Hardly a smoking gun.

“It’s okay, take your time. There’s no rush, you’re safe here,” he murmurs, and it’s oddly calming. Your heart’s still pounding in your chest, and you’re terrified that at any moment that doors gonna swing open and there he’ll be with his arms folded over and that cold, disapproving stare… but despite that fear, it’s a little easier to breathe. He gives you an encouraging nod, “You can start with your name, and we’ll go from there.”

Your voice is little more than a whisper as you talk. You give him your name, and you don’t miss the way that his eyes widen just a fraction and the blood drains from his face.

“That’s not possible,” he breathes. He’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost, and you have to fight the urge to curl up in a ball and shy away from him. It’s not like the stares that you’re used to, but it makes you feel vulnerable all the same - as if he’s laying you down bare and peeling away whatever was left of your defences. “You-” he takes a sharp breath, shaking his head. “I thought you looked familiar when they brought you in, but I never…” he trails off, clearing his throat loudly. Your heart is pounding against your ribs, and you can’t bring yourself to speak, and you don’t know what you’d say even if you could. You can only sit in that uncomfortable plastic chair and watch as the Sergeant tries to process… whatever it is that’s going on in his head.

He seems to realise that you’re waiting on him to explain and he takes a deep breath, swallowing audibly. “September 27th two years back, we received a call from a young woman, hysterical, crying that her best friend had been kidnapped. Two officers were dispatched, and sure enough, the girl’s apartment was a mess. There was blood on the floor, furniture broken - signs of a struggle. Clothes were missing, some jewellery, a few pictures, but nothing of value. It wasn’t a burglary.”

You can barely breathe, you can hardly hear him over the pounding of your own pulse in your ears. You don’t remember much from the night you were taken, but you know that there wasn’t much of a struggle at all - not with his Quirk. You never stood a chance against a Pro Hero like him. The blood, the destroyed furniture, he must have done that later.

Yet it’s not the reminder of that night that you were stolen that makes your throat tighten uncomfortably, but the mention of your friend, your best friend -Riko.

Does she still live in the same apartment, not two blocks away from here? You’d thought about going to her first, she was the one person you knew would believe you, but the thought of him finding you there with her-

She was Quirkless. Innocent and sweet and you loved her more than anyone. You couldn’t bear the thought of putting her life in danger for the sake of protecting you - he wouldn’t hesitate, you knew it. Not if he thought she was standing between the two of you.

Sergeant Tanaka kept talking, his wide eyes fixed uncomfortably on yours, “They assigned me your case in my first few weeks here. A test, I suppose, or maybe just luck. Pretty young girl abducted from the ‘good’ side of town. They even had some heroes trying to find you, Hawks and Midnight… Eraser Head, I think-” He misses the way you flinch, your hands tightening into fists in your lap at the mention of your captor, too caught up in his recollection. You didn’t know that Aizawa had been a part of the search for you, but somehow it doesn’t surprise you in the least. “But you were just… gone. There was no DNA evidence, no trails or leads, nobody saw anything, nobody came forward and well, eventually the case went cold…” he trails off, awkwardly rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, but you know plenty well what he isn’t saying.

You were nobody important. People went missing all the time - nobody expected him to keep searching forever, especially not Pro Heroes. Still, you can’t deny that it hurts, that your life, your disappearance was just shoved away into some file in a box in a room full of dusty old records.

A sudden memory flashes to your mind - long fingers brushing through your hair, his lips trailing a loving path from your neck up along your jaw. ‘Nobody will ever love you or care for you as much as I do,” he murmurs. ‘You know that, don’t you, kitten?’

Something flickers in the Sergeant’s eyes and he sits up straighter in his chair, “I can’t help but remember the cases that I don’t solve, all the people I’ve let down, but I never thought I’d ever see the day that you would just walk through those doors. I-I,” he exhales harshly. “I am so sorry.”

And suddenly you’re crying, tears spilling down your cheeks as your shoulders tremble. If anything, the Sergeant only looks more alarmed at the sudden burst of emotion and he reaches for you only to pause with his hand hovering awkwardly a few inches off your shoulder. “Please, I- I need your help,” you manage to gasp between sobs. “I can’t let him- I can’t-” you can barely finish your sentence, but the Sergeant just nods.

He ends up going to fetch you that cocoa that he mentioned.

When he comes back it’s with your file, and a notepad and pen. “I want you to tell me everything, or as much as you can,” he amends when he notices the way you stiffen.

But there’s that nagging feeling in the back of your head that tells you he’s not going to believe a word of it, and what’s worse is that you can’t even blame him for it. Pro Heroes were supposed to be good, pillars of the community, role models for children everywhere.

Aizawa’s record is spotless. He might not have the rankings of Endeavor or Hawks, but he’s respected all the same, especially as one of the teachers at UA!

Your fingers play with the hem of your skirt, and you can’t bear to meet his gaze, so you just stare at the metal table instead, willing yourself not to cry again.

This time, the Sergeant doesn’t miss your discomfort. “Hey, look at me,” he says, and reluctantly you tear your gaze from the shining metal surface to meet his stare. “Whoever it is that did this to you - they’re not gonna get away with it. They can’t hurt you here, I swear it.”

But they don’t know Aizawa like you do - the lengths he’ll go to for you.

You take a deep, shaking breath, “... Even if the person who did this is a Pro Hero?”

Tanaka’s eyes widen for just a split second before he schools his face into a blank mask. The seconds that tick by as you wait for him to speak feel like a lifetime, and the silence is deafening.

You know the level of Hero worship that’s so prevalent in Tokyo, hell, you’d been guilty of it yourself before everything happened. They were your heroes too, they protected you, protected the City and they could do no wrong - at least, until Aizawa ripped that fantasy away from you.

You can’t read his face, you don’t know what he’s thinking and it’s awful. You have no reason to lie; you don’t want some big public spectacle or fame, you don’t even care if he gets punished, you just want to disappear somewhere and know that he can’t ever find you again.

You just want to go to sleep in your own bed without having his arms wrap around you and pull you close.

It’s an eternity before finally, the Sergeant’s impassive facade breaks and he huffs out a sigh and shakes his head. “Un-fucking-believeable.”

It hurts. You’d braced yourself for it - the disbelief, a scoff or a roll of his eyes, but somehow it’s worse than you expected. You feel a wave of nausea rise up and suddenly, it’s all too much. The room is too bright, too quiet, and you can’t bear the thought of spending another second in there with the Sergeant. Tears prick at your eyelids, stinging, and you have to blink them furiously back. Part of you just wants to disappear entirely, but mostly you just want to run and hide and cry your fucking heart out. “I-I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter, forcing your shaking legs to stand. “I’m sorry-”

Sergeant Tanaka stands so abruptly that it startles you. “A name.”

You can only blink owlishly at him. “What?”

“Which Pro? I need his name. Or hers.”

The tension in the room is palpable. You can’t bring yourself to hope, but… “You believe me?”

The Sergeant’s eyebrow quirks, but his face is stony and impassive. “Are you lying to me?”

“No.” Your voice doesn’t waver this time.

He nods, slowly lowering himself back into his seat, “Good, then I need you to sit back down and tell me everything, starting with their name.” When you don’t move, he sighs, his expression softening, “Please. I failed you the first time, and it’s not often we get a second chance. I don’t give a flying fuck how powerful or popular the Hero who did this to you is, I promise you - for whatever they did, they will be punished and, more importantly, they will never, never lay another finger on you again.”

“S-shouta Aizawa,” you whisper, sinking back into the plastic seat. “Eraser Head.”

He leaves shortly afterwards promising to bring water and something to eat. You’re shaking and food is the last thing on your mind, but you nod anyway.

It could have been five minutes or twenty by the time he returns, there’s no clock in the interrogation room, and you don’t have any way of telling the time. When he does come back, he’s got a sandwich for you, and there’s another officer with him - older than Tanaka and judging from the pristine uniform, more senior. The Sergeant introduces him as Chief Inspector Ishizaki.

The two of them listen as you begin again, talking through the night of your abduction - or what you can remember of it at any rate. You tell them about waking up in Aizawa’s apartment, and the first few weeks there. They don’t interrupt when you describe the punishments - the degrading acts he so loved subjecting you to, or the first night that he fucked you, ignoring your desperate cries and pleading as he got himself off. You don’t have the courage to tell them that he forced you to enjoy it too - you can’t forget the feeling on his calloused fingers rubbing circles in your clit as he rocked into you, or the way that he’d eat you out for what felt like hours at a time, making you cum again and again until you begged him to stop.

They listen without judgement as you describe the first time you’d tried to escape, only making it to the end of the street - and the broken arm you’d earned for your efforts.

Shouta had been particularly cruel after that little incident, but there was a sick kind of satisfaction in his smile as he’d held you afterwards. He’d showered you in his kisses, tucking your sobbing form under his chin, murmuring threats so sweetly that you could have sworn they were soft declarations of love.

You can’t bear the thought of what he’d do to you if he ever got his hands on you again.

The Chief Inspector’s phone rings as you finish explaining how you’d finally managed to escape, and with an apologetic bow to you, he leaves you alone with the Sergeant.

The silence that fills the room isn’t exactly comfortable, but you just don’t know what to say. Your head is pounding, and you’re suddenly grateful for the water that they’d fetched earlier. There’s more you can tell them - you’ve barely scratched the surface of the eighteen or so months that Shouta kept you, but you’re exhausted and emotionally drained and it’s taking all the energy you have left just to keep yourself sitting upright.

Tanaka’s face has remained a carefully sculpted blank mask since his superior stepped into the room, but it softens now that it’s just the two of you. He offers a small smile, “You’re doing really well. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

You don’t really know what to say to that, so you just nod.

“Is there somebody you’d like us to call, your family perhaps or-”

“Riko.” The words slip out of your mouth before you’re even aware of them, but Tanaka's smile widens just a fraction.

“Of course. I’ll see if we can’t-” but his sentence is cut off as the door opens again. You can’t help but jump as a burst of panic jolts through you, but you calm yourself when you realise it’s only the Chief Inspector.

Tanaka says something but his words are drowned out as Ishizaki looks at you. His face is grave and pale, and there’s this look in his eyes which makes your heart drop into your stomach. He ignores the Sergeant entirely, focusing instead on you. “I-I’m sorry, truly. It was above my head.”

With a bowed head, he steps aside and your heart seizes in your chest as another figure steps into the light.

Aizawa.

He’s not wearing his Hero costume, just a pair of dark grey sweats and an old black sweater of his. With his messy hair hanging loose and his eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red, he looks disarmingly non-threatening, but you know better.

The moment that your eyes meet his, your world implodes.

“Have you had fun, kitten?” he asks with a cold smile, his voice deadly soft.

He takes a single step inside and you jump to your feet, “No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “No, no, no-” Unbidden, tears spring to your eyes and you lurch back away from the table, away from him, until you hit the wall.

He can’t be here, he - you… no.

No.

You can’t comprehend the betrayal, the shame that burns on the Chief Inspector’s face, all you can focus on is the dark, possessive look in Aizawa’s eyes as he stares at you from across the room. It’s like a scene from your nightmares as he walks towards you, arms open as if he expects for you to just fall into him.

“What the fuck is this?!” Tanaka growls, all but throwing himself between the two of you. “Chief, you heard what she said, what this piece of shit did to her!” he spat, glaring up at the Hero as you cower away behind him. “Like fucking hell am I gonna let him lay another finger on her!”

Aizawa’s smile doesn’t waver, “Move.”

“Chief!” Tanaka snarls as you cling to his back and whimper, a detail that isn’t missed by the Erasure Hero.

The older man just sighs, “Stand down, Sergeant Tanaka. There is nothing we can do.”

His words drop like the executioner's blade, and what little was left of your resolve crumples. But Tanaka just shakes his head, “Like hell there isn’t. He kidnapped her, he raped her! Since when do we stand aside and let monsters like him walk free?!”

“Since we received orders to do so from the Commissioner to do just that. I won’t repeat myself, Tanaka. Stand. Down.”

The unspoken words ring loudly in the air. Aizawa’s a Pro Hero; he’s all but untouchable.

Aizawa watches Tanaka impassively, his dark eyes gleaming as the Sergeant spits on the ground in front of him and glares, but he complies - reluctantly tugging himself free of your grip to step aside.

With Tanaka out of the way, Shouta grins at you, though it’s a far cry from the soft, loving smiles you know he’s capable of. It’s a look that promises pain - punishment - and revels in it.

“Sweetheart?” he purrs, “It’s time to go home.”

You can barely force your legs to move as the tears spill silently down your face. You don’t want to go back to him, and every fibre of your being fights against it, but just like Tanaka, you know you don’t have a choice anymore. The longer you make him wait, the worse it’ll be.

Shouta lets out a barely perceptible sigh as you walk into his arms, and he wastes no time in tucking you against his shoulder and placing a surprisingly gentle kiss against the crown of your head. “There’s my girl, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his face into your hair.

You don’t reply. It’s only been a few hours since you’d escaped him, but you were never really out of his reach at all, were you?

#my writing #yandere aizawa #yandere bnha #aizawa x reader #yandere shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x reader #kidnapping #implied noncon #noncon tw #yandere #eraser head #bnha imagines #bnha x reader

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usaonetwothree · 3 years ago

Note

First of all thank you thank you thank you so much for the johnny whump!!!

Also wondering if there's any chance you will be writing any johnny whump featuring more johnny/Carmen? Maybe an extension of that part of The Agreement where she's examining his injuries? The thought just gives me total whumperflies!

Thank you so much for the message, Anon!! And you're most welcome! The show is just teeing it up so nicely. I'm really just continuing what they started :)

I hadn't thought about an interlude to The Agreement, but now my plot bunnies are going. Give me a few weeks to see what I come up with! I'll post it here for sure, and if it's long enough, I'll copy it over to ao3 as a second chapter.

In the interim, I have the start of a whumpy two-chapter fic that I don't know if I'm going to finish. Working summary is "Johnny doesn't have time to get sick. Besides, it's just food poisoning... right?" I'll post the completed first chapter below, and the plan for chapter two would be from Carmen's point-of-view from the ambulance ride through surgery and Johnny finally waking up. I wrote a lot of the ideas I had for her part into Conflict, which is why I think I'm stalled on it here in coming up with something different. I don't know how long it'll take me to figure that out (if ever) but at least you'll have the first chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you again for the kind message!

Pain exploded in his side, worse than he’d ever felt before. He had reference for this: he’d torn, strained, bruised, strained, dislocated and broken many things in the past. This pain blew them all away. It was he’d been stabbed with a hot knife up to the hilt, and someone was twisting it around in his guts.

His hand went to the area, came away warm, but he wasn’t bleeding. Felt like it. Felt oozing and wet and raw.

Somehow, above the nausea, above the stabbing ache in his head, he knew this was serious. And he needed help.

He couldn’t remember where his phone was. Didn’t have time to stop and think.

With every inch of his skin on fire, he leveraged himself off the couch and almost screamed as utter agony raced up his side. His knees buckled but he didn’t let himself fall. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get back up.

Partially hunched over, he stumbled forward, careful not to jar his torso. He caught the door before the handle, barely cracking it open before he almost fell through. He jabbed his right elbow into the stucco wall, used that as a guide.

Elbow on the wall, left hand on his abdomen, trying to hold whatever was wrong in. One foot in front of the other.

It was the only thing going through his head.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A chill tore up his spine. His brain went fuzzy for a second and his elbow came away from the wall.

He almost went down again, caught himself at the last second. Leaned so far right he almost bashed his head into the stucco.

But he was vertical again.

He kept going until he hit another door.

The door that could help him.

Everything hurt now. He was sweating, burning up. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his limbs were trembling.

He tried to knock, lost his balance. Went down in a heap of limbs.

His side crashed into the ground and fire tore through his abdomen, pain so sharp and intense he couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

He thought he smelled something familiar. Heard something close. Felt something against his forehead.

But it was lost in a wave of blackness.

A * A

Twelve hours earlier…

Daniel LaRusso walked into Miyagi-Fang to hear a sound he was uncomfortably familiar with. As his own stomach churned in sympathy, he stepped closer to the small wood door leading to the bathroom and rapped on it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, scrunching up his nose as the stench filtered out into the dojo.

“Fine,” a thin voice gasped.

“Johnny?” Daniel rapped harder on the door. “Let me in.”

“‘m fine.”

Daniel then heard the toilet flush and someone heave themself upright, before the faucet was turned on.

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” The worst-case scenarios were flashing through Daniel’s head: Johnny had gone after Kreese and gotten his ass kicked, he was drunk and trying to sober up before class…

But when the door slid open and a pale-faced and miserable Johnny stepped out, Daniel knew both were wrong.

“Are you sick?”

Johnny shook his head, then winced. “Don’t think so,” he said as he shuffled to the inlaid bench and sat down, propping his head against his hands with his elbows braced against his knees. “Bologna might have turned."

“I told you you should stop buying that stuff,” Daniel said as he fetched a water bottle from the small fridge and sat down beside Johnny, sliding it between his side and forearms.

“Then what am I going to have for breakfast?” he groaned, ignoring the bottle of water.

Daniel lightly wiggled it so it tapped Johnny’s arm and side. Groaning, the other man straightened up so his head was leaning against the paneling and took the water. “Cereal.”

Johnny took a small sip of the water and grimaced. “Milk goes bad,” he said faster but in a much steadier tone.

“Drink it faster. Or have eggs and bacon.”

Johnny groaned and clenched his jaw as his chest heaved painfully. “No more… food talk,” he ground out.

“Duly noted.” Daniel stood again and grabbed a towel, wetting it in the sink and laying it over Johnny’s forehead as he sat back down.

At first, Johnny pulled back in surprise, the towel slipping, but then he caught it and visibly relaxed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resituating the towel.

“How are you going to teach like this?”

“It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh.”

“Weren’t supposed to... be here this early,” Johnny mumbled as he shifted in his seat. He winced again then slowly lowered himself so he was lying on the bench, bringing his socked feet to rest on the wood as well. Daniel, who had originally been in the way, just shifted so Johnny could lie down unimpeded.

“That’s not making me feel a whole lot better.”

“’ll be fine by four,” Johnny replied. “Got like... an hour right?”

“Thirty minutes at best, and you know Miguel is always early.”

“’ll be fine by then,” Johnny repeated, somehow sounding so sure that Daniel found himself believing him.

He stood, then lowered the singular shade over the window. “I’ll come get you before class starts.”

Johnny just shook his head, though Daniel had yet to see his posture actually relax.

And yet, twenty minutes later, Johnny was standing in the backyard, dressed in his gi, looking… surprisingly normal. He was still a little paler than usual, but had clearly tried to push some color back into his face, judging by a few fading streaks on his cheeks.

“How?” was all Daniel could ask. The last time he’d had food poisoning, it had taken him four days and a trip to urgent care before he could leave his bedroom without puking.

“Mind over matter,” Johnny mumbled, straightening up as the kids began to stream in through the door.

That was… bullshit? Unbelievable? Incredible? But at the core of it, so very Johnny.

The kids were so caught up in the latest non-karate drama at the high school that none of them shot Johnny another glance. He did look at Daniel, grinning genuinely, and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Daniel just nodded, then set out doing the last bit of preparations for class.

A * A

If Johnny was being honest with himself, he should have known something else was wrong. His stomach had been hurting all day, even though he’d barely eaten anything since dinner yesterday: fried bologna, ketchup and some leftover rice Carmen had brought a few days ago.

But there was too much going on for him to be sick. There was getting the kids ready for the All-Valley, so they could once and for all remove Kreese from Cobra Kai—not that Johnny would be reinstating that name anytime soon anyway; his budding relationship with Carmen—which Miguel still did not know about; and the knowledge that Robby and a handful of his other students were doing who-knew-what under Kreese’s command.

There wasn’t any time for his problems.

So he’d taken a Tums last night, not really understanding how that had shown up in his medicine cabinet, and tried to sleep it off.

He’d shot awake somewhere around two, tangled in a thin sheet, sweating so badly it felt like he’d just come in from a run. But something else was wrong. His face felt too hot, the skin too tight, and his stomach continued to flip lazily, despite him begging it to stay where it was.

He’d cranked up the fan, and sipped some water, which was a mistake.

His stomach had rolled and he was puking up his meager dinner not long after. He sat there for a long time, head leaning against the cool seat, until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken again when his forehead slid off the toilet and thudded into the vanity.

He was cool this time, freezing, and shit, that was signs of a fever. That much he knew.

He did not have time for this.

Still on his knees, he managed to reach the shower dial and turn it on. Then he crawled into the tub, clothes still on, and sat there, letting the cool water beat on him while he shivered uncontrollably.

He could not get sick. This had to be a twenty-four hour thing. The kids all came in with their runny noses, who knew what they got into at school. Maybe it was time he caved to LaRusso wanting hand sanitizer stations on the way out for those germ-minded kids.

Eventually the freezing water had become unbearable and he barely managed to reach back high enough to turn it off. Then came the more difficult task of stripping off his wet clothes, which he ended up doing still sitting in the tub, because the act of fighting with his clothes while standing seemed rather exhausting.

But then, he did have to get up, and it took everything he had to stay that way. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

That was when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach around his navel.

No way this was some sort of flu.

He was reminded of Miguel pulling the package of bologna out of the fridge and frowning at the date. “This is over a week old, Sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Johnny had said.

Miguel had looked a split second away from pitching it, but had put it back in the fridge and chosen the bag of pretzels on the counter instead.

So this was food poisoning. It had to be.

He’d be in for a rough night, but it should be over by tomorrow, when he needed to be at the dojo, when he needed to be on.

The knowledge didn’t make his illness any easier, but it had made it manageable. He’d thrown up a few more times; felt his stomach cramp so severely, it doubled him over; and had eventually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, ankles bracing the toilet, head leaning back against the far wall.

He didn’t feel better, per say, when he woke, but good enough to haul himself out of the bathroom, change into a loose shirt and sweats, and into the kitchen where he sipped at some OJ, literally the only thing in his entire kitchen that didn’t send his stomach rolling again.

At some point, he’d passed out on the couch watching TV and had jarred awake two hours before class.

He had to be there.

So he’d dry swallowed some aspirin and chewed another Tums, begged whoever was up there to keep them down, and headed out with the OJ tucked under his arm.

He’d barely made it to the dojo when his stomach began to cramp again, induced by the shifting horizons while he was driving. LaRusso found him and his once-nemesis had been surprisingly gentle. When he was better, Johnny owed him more than just a quick thanks for being decent about it, instead of leaving him to suffer on his own.

He’d had to pull over on the way home to puke again. Though he didn’t know what he was bringing up at this point. It was all acid and gunk from what he could see.

He was less than a mile from his apartment complex and he sure as hell wasn’t walking, so he slid back into the car, focused with all his remaining energy and went approximately ten miles an hour in the righthand lane the remaining way.

His fever was kicking up again as he parked, and his stomach began to ache with new intensity. He barely made it to the couch before he was retching again into the bowl he’d so left there earlier for just that purpose.

His head was pounding, his ears ringing, and the pain in his stomach had shifted so it was on his lower right side. He’d bruised a kidney before and it’d hurt in its own way, but it had been nothing like this. He hadn’t even fought anyone since Kreese. Couldn’t risk injuring himself and getting benched. Not with everything that was at stake.

It felt like he was getting the massage from hell, but inside, down in his guts. They were churning, dancing, twisting, oblivious to the pain they were causing. His actual organs hurt, however that was possible.

He sipped at the water, and immediately retched it back up.

Somewhere deep down he knew that was bad. Knew he needed to stay hydrated. Knew he hadn’t drunk enough the past eighteen hours. Knew he could replenish some of it from the shower, but it was so far away.

He just leaned his head against the arm rest, shifting until he found an angle that didn’t make him violently nauseous, and must have passed out.

It was only when he woke up that he knew something was seriously wrong, and that he had to get some help, and ended up passing out again in front of Carmen’s door.

Only it hadn’t been Carmen who answered.

“Sensei!” Miguel shouted, trying and failing to catch the older man. “Mama! Yaya!” he shouted as he dropped to his knees beside his Sensei, whose face was red and flushed but otherwise seemed uninjured.

“Sensei, please.” Miguel begged, tapping Sensei’s face and feeling the heat radiating off it. “MAMA!” he yelled again as he jabbed his fingers into Sensei’s neck, finding a thin pulse.

Then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him away, as his mom replaced him.

“¡Llame una ambulancia!”

Yaya was telling him to back up, was shoving her phone into his hands.

He didn’t remember making the call, but he must have. His mom was trying to rouse Sensei, had unbuttoned his shirt, and was swearing.

“Qué pasa?” Miguel demanded, but she didn’t answer.

“Ice, Miguel,” his mom was ordering, still bent over Sensei. “Quick!”

His feet were moving, grabbing whatever frozen vegetables they had in the freezer and handing them to his mom, who was placing them around Sensei’s neck, under his arms, around his groin.

Sensei groaned, flinched, but didn’t rouse.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel heard himself ask, but his mom was telling Yaya to take him in the apartment instead of responding.

“No!” he shouted, planting his feet. “I'm not leaving.”

His mom turned to look at him, a bit of panic in her eyes before she could hide it. “Go inside, Miggy. Please,” she said very carefully.

As much as Miguel didn’t want to, he did. Until he heard the sirens. Then he was outside the door again, watching as the paramedics swarmed Sensei.

They were asking his mom a bunch of questions and she was rattling off the answers. Then Sensei was on a gurney and they were rolling away and his mother was climbing into the ambulance with him, and then they were gone.

Miguel felt Yaya’s arm wrap around his upper back, not tall enough to reach his shoulders, and he turned and buried her head into her shoulder, letting the tears fall.

#johnny lawrence #carmen diaz #daniel larusso #cobra kai #cobra kai fanfiction #asks #answered #THANK YOU

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anyoneseenadam · 4 years ago

Text

Home: Chapter three

azriel x reader (acotar)

summary: (y/n) is a daughter of Persephone, still recovering from the trauma of her fall into Tartarus and doesn’t have time for a stupid, handsome, annoying, stunning, injured man. But now they’re stuck together in the middle of nowhere and there only chance of getting home is if she can heal him, and fast.

warnings: big spoilers for mark of Athena and house of Hades, also some for the acotar series, eventual smut, blood, PTSD, graphic descriptions of violence, injuries and torture, enemies to lovers so az is a bit of a dick to start, swearing

word count: 4.2k

a/n: I’m not entirely happy with this chapter but I wanted to get it done so I apologise if its shit and pls comment and let me know :))))

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When Azriel woke up, the sun was just beginning to rise although it appeared you had been awake for hours, you had stitched together cups, bowls, plates and had even sewn his Illyrian leathers back together, his top folded carefully next to him. He looked for you, not seeing you straight away and instead seeing a blanket you had stitched crumpled on the ground and a trail of footprints leading to the water’s edge, blushing bright red when he saw your clothes on the side of the bank. He looked and saw you standing facing away from him, watching the sun rise, with the water pooling around your waist. You were shivering slightly, running your hands over your skin in an attempt to clean away the dirt and sweat that had built up. He watched as you kneeled and tilted your head back tentatively, wetting your hair and massaging your scalp gently for a few minutes, he watched entranced as you stood back up, lifting your hair, and gently squeezing the excess water from it, basking in the sun as it slowly dried and heated your skin, unknowingly revealing the whole expanse of your back to Azriel who was staring with a sick feeling building up in his stomach. Who did that to her? Unimaginable levels of anger built up at the sight and Azriel was overcome with a burning desire to destroy anything and everything that brought you pain, but soon you began to turn around to come back to shore, and he forced himself to lie back down and close his eyes, falling asleep once again as he thought of revenge and your scars.

When he woke up again, the sun was much higher in the sky, and from what he could tell it appeared to be around nine in the morning. (y/n) was dressed again and her hair had dried due to the heat from the sun. She had pulled it out of her face and was frowning at her cup.

“Are your cups leaking?” he asked, voice deeper from sleep, trying to not feel smug at her sharp intake of breath.

“No, I’m a genius don’t worry. This water just tastes like shit,”

“Well did you get it from upstream?” She raised her eyebrows at his question,

“I’m not stupid.”

“I was just asking,”

“Still.”

“It’s probably just still got dirt in it, you’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure,”

“Hmpf,” he laughed at her as she forced the water down with a shudder, before passing him a full cup. He took a tentative sip and frowned at her.

“This tastes normal.”

“Do you often drink river water?”

“Well…”

“Ew.” She laughed moving away from him as he stuck his middle finger up at her, making her laugh again, before chucking an apple at him, which he caught just before it hit him in the head.

“I thought you said I would feel horribly ill this morning.” He pointed out, he didn’t feel that bad, perhaps a little sick but he had been stabbed the day before.

“Oh you will, don’t worry,” She smiled at him, “I’d say you probably have about an hour, so I’m going to make us a treehouse.”

“A treehouse?” He furrowed his brows at the unknown phrase, she just laughed, pushing on her knees to stand up.

“You’ll see.”

He sat up fully and grabbed his top, pulling it over his head as she walked away, presumably looking for a good place to put her ‘treehouse’. The sight of her clothed back made the sick feeling in his stomach come back, he desperately wanted to ask her about it, but she was young, and they looked relatively new. It had been centuries since his hands had been scarred and he doubted it had been much more than a year for hers, and those weren’t wounds you moved past quickly, he still felt uncomfortable when people stared for too long. She stopped roughly a hundred feet away from where he sat and cracked her neck and knuckles.

“I’m going to need lots of water after this, cause I’m going to be drained, do you mind?” she asked, gesturing to the river. He started taking his shoes off as she held her hands up in front of her, he moved, wading ankle-deep into the river and filled the cups with relatively clean water, walking back and moving to stand near her, watching in awe as one of the thicker trees started to warp, lower branches forming a floor, and higher forming the roof, then more branches from other trees joined, creating walls and a small ladder leading up to an outside deck. Soon enough there was a small hut in the trees, and he smiled, turning to look at her. She was standing swaying slightly, all the colour drained from her face and he moved to hold her up, passing her one of the cups. She drank from it greedily, leaning heavily on his side, making him grimace at the pain and pass her the second cup, which she drank with as much vigour.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, tearing his eyes of the structure to look down at her, she was gazing up at him with an unreadable expression. He was struck by her beauty as he stared at her gentle eyes that held too much pain for such a young girl, his eyes flashing down to her soft lips which were beckoning him in. Without thinking he started to lean in slightly, before quickly tearing away from her, vomiting all over the ground behind him. He flushed bright red as she started laughing behind him, but soon let out a chuckle at her contagious laugh.

“Okay maybe an hour was pushing it, c’mon let’s get you sorted,” she said, moving to reach down into the river, filling one of the cups with water, slowly walking back over to him, kneeling next to him, and helping him drink as he was overcome with weakness. “told you so,” she smiled cheekily at him as he spat the water back out.

“Okay really, let’s get you inside, I’ll clean this up later.” She hooked a shoulder under his arm and helped him stand, walking him over to the ladder, moving to climb up but he just held tightly onto her and flew to the small porch she had made them, laughing silently when she squealed at the sudden flight.

“Asshole.” She muttered, practically forcing him through the hole in the wall and to sit down before she was turning around and leaving. As he waited for her to return he thought of his family who must be getting worried as he had sent word that he would be returning and now two days later he was in the middle of nowhere, in a completely different world with no way of contacting home. He wished Rhysand was here, then at least he could maybe winnow home. But the thought of leaving you felt wrong. You had already done so much for him and at least deserved to have him get you home.

He heard you struggling outside, but when he tried to stand to help you bring the small stash of appliances up, he was overcome by another bout of nausea and had to sit back down. Eventually their appliances, wrapped carefully in the blanket you had stitched the night before, were thrown over the balcony, Azriel’s’ heart warming at the cheer he heard from below, laughing as she appeared over the ledge with a pout.

“Stop laughing at me, I was going through something,” She scolded, picking up her bundle and bringing it over to him, arranging the cups and bowls on a ledge jutting out of the tree trunk then turning and throwing the blanket over the ground, motioning for him to move to it. He sat on it, groaning at the slightest of movements as she set about stitching something else.

“I thought you were going to nullify me, so I didn’t have to spew.”

“I said I would try. And even if it works it will take a while and you’ll definitely be spewing between now and then.”

“What happens if you can’t?”

“Worse case scenario I need you to get enough strength to take us back home, I have something that I’m 99% sure will work there.” He sat silently after she spoke, the word ‘home’ clanging through him. His shadows were crowding around him, growing thicker as he thought. He still wasn’t sure whether to trust her. She was nice, sure. And easy to talk to but there was something hidden in her eyes, he didn’t know what she had seen, or what she had done, to get a scarred back like that. He thought back over their previous conversations and realised he had practically told her his life story.

As he thought, he felt the walls that the pain in his side had begun to bring down slam back up. She was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his head, only lifting his eyes again, when she stood suddenly and left. He would observe her first, that’s what he should’ve done. This girl wasn’t his family, she wasn’t Mor, and she wasn’t Elain, no matter how many flowers she grew. He didn’t know her, and he certainly couldn’t trust her.

You didn’t know what you did wrong, but something had changed in Azriel. As you explained how the chemical you kept at home worked, his eyes had glazed over, his facing hardening into an unreadable expression. You stopped talking when you realised he wasn’t listening, shame coursing through your chest and settling in your gut, your hands aching as anxiety ran through you. You had stood quickly and left, practically running from the room to avoid him seeing your shaking hands.

You knew what he was doing of course. The expression that slid over his face wasn’t new, it was practiced the same way you had practiced lifting your chin and straightening your back when men didn’t take you seriously. Practiced the same way your scowl was when people made a few too many jokes about your fall. Practiced the same way your steps had been, moving silently around your house, around camp, around town, since you got out. Always afraid that someone would find you, wake you, force you back.

You had left and instead sat on the riverbank, slowing your breathing in an attempt to settle the embarrassment coursing through you. Of course he didn’t want to be friendly with you, he probably had all the friend he needed back home. You were just the stupid girl he got stuck with. You had let your desperate wish for a friend get the best of you. All you wanted was someone to scare the nightmares away, so you didn’t have to. You started stitching again, your thoughts moving to quickly for you to keep up, tears welling in your eyes as you over thought every interaction, every word. You needed something that would silence your thoughts, and you let out a choked laugh as you started quietly singing one of your favourite songs, horribly off-key, and choked due to your tears, but noise all the same. You wished for your home, your headphones, your stuffed toys, your bed, anything familiar. The weight of the situation that you were in finally catching up to you. You looked back down to the basin you were making, rushing to finish it, needing to move or do something, anything.

Once you had finished it you schooled your features, hiding all traces of your emotions, letting the mask slip back on and cover your pain. Climbing back up to Azriel, he was still sat of the blanket you had laid out when you laid the basin beside him.

“I’m going to go explore, yell if you need anything.” You said, hating how curt your voice sounded, adding a smile at the end, knowing he wouldn’t be manipulated that easily. He didn’t reply, just kept staring, the same way he had when you had first arrived. You opened your mouth to say something else, but your anxieties bubbled into your throat before you could, forcing you to instead simply turn and leave.

You made your way east, sticking to the riverbank, smiling when you met a white cockatoo, having a quiet conversation with it. You continued that way for at least an hour, before finally turning back and following the same route, singing stupid songs you had learned on quests to yourself when it got to quiet outside, and too loud inside. When you got back you checked on Azriel, cleaning out his basin without a word and helping him lay down. He thanked you quietly, but you just smiled, hating how quickly things had severed between you. You tried to convince yourself that he was probably just tired as you set to making a fire and growing vegetables that you could easily cook for lunch and dinner, then refilling the jug of water for Azriel.

You remained outside for the rest of the day.

Azriel felt like pure shit. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so sick he threw up, but he didn’t want to make it a tradition. He also felt horrible for severing the bond you two had sort of made. He had to give you credit, you were observant, and good at adapting. Just as quickly as his walls slid up, a mask came over your face, he couldn’t even read your eyes, your extremely expressive eyes.

You stayed outside practically all day. He heard you singing at one point and smiled through his wince. It was horribly off-key but made his chest tighten inexplicitly again.

He contemplated making conversation again when you came up, and handed him a plate of food, but you were unresponsive. He silently cursed himself for his untrusting nature. Cassian probably would have already wooed his way into your bed. Mor too for that matter. Feyre and Rhysand would’ve become fast friends with you, probably talking you through whatever trauma you had. But he didn’t have his family’s gifts when it came to new people and he was pretty sure whatever relationship you had was gone now, in such a short time. So instead he just let his tired limbs take charge and laid back again, wings and shadows wrapping around him, falling into a light sleep. You didn’t come up into the shelter that night, and he tried not to feel guilty about it.

The next morning you awoke early again, a long night of nightmares and freezing cold getting to you. You stood slowly, stretching out your limbs, and looking around your makeshift campsite. You didn’t have enough energy to grow the soft plants you needed to make another blanket last night, so you just pulled your jacket tighter around your frame and shivered your way through the night. You had hoped that the blistering heat during the day would help in some way, but all you had gained was tender, red tinted skin and dry, cracking hands.

You plucked four apples from the tree you had grown and moved to climb up to Azriel. He was also already awake, bent over the basin. You moved over to him instinctively, rubbing the space between his wings on his back. He was gasping for breath for a moment before hastily leaning back over and you cooed softly at him, pulling his hair away from his face the same way you had when your friends drank too much, or when they were brought to throw up due to nightmares. When he finally finished, you kept rubbing his back smiling slightly when he moved back into your gentle touch, still gasping for breath. After he calmed down, slumping back you passed him some water, holding his glass as he spat it back into the basin, before grabbing it and going to rinse it off in the river.

When you got back he was slowly eating one of the apples you brought up and taking tiny sips of water. You gave him a sympathetic look and went to sit in front of him. Downing a glass of water in preparation for the task you had at hand. Your hand tentatively moved to his side, where his wound remained unhealed, the tissue turning black from the poison, keenly aware of his eyes watching your movements. As you began to feel out the poison in his body you slowed your breathing and straightened your back.

“I’m not a healer, so this might not work at all.” You whispered, “So I’m sorry in advance.”

“Don’t apologise for trying.” He whispered back, voice hoarse. You closed your eyes, focusing on a small patch of the poison in his stomach. The poison was carbon-based, you could tell, and so you put your energy into turning it into food particles that could be broken down naturally. The two of you sat in silence like that for an hour as you focused all your energy into that small patch of poison, you could feel a sweat building up on your forehead, both from the heat and from the exertion. Eventually you withdrew, grabbing a cup and filling it with water, oblivious to Azriel’s keen gaze on your face, eyes filled with wonder and affection. He had felt your power coursing through him and became greedy for more, his shadows curling around both of you as you worked, oblivious to the world around you. He had to put serious effort into pulling them back to him when you had moved away, his shadows seeking to bring you back to him, to hold him like you did when he threw up, the caring affectionate touches so foreign yet welcome to him that he almost didn’t mind the horrible feeling of spewing.

After downing three cups of water and eating both your apples you looked back at Azriel. “Feel any better?” He did, but not the way you meant so he just shrugged.

“A bit, it was nice.” You smiled at him. A rare, soft, tired smile that made him want to hold you to his chest and protect you from this cruel world.

“I’ll let you rest then, shout if you need anything.”

“Actually, could you maybe help me down, I need to stretch my legs.” He requested.

“Of course, c’mon.” you slung an arm around his waist, careful to avoid his wings, and helped him stand, and walk to the ladder, moving through the doorway first in order to give him the space to tuck his wings in. You climbed down the ladder as he all but floated down, before standing back, turning away when you realised he was going to piss. You went back to where you had slept and started pottering, tending to the mini vegetable patch you had made. He came back soon after and sat across from you on a log. Unlike yesterday, the silence that followed wasn’t too uncomfortable.

That’s how the next three days went. You would sleep outside, while he stayed inside. Helping him through his sickness and taking a few hours each day to nullify the poison coursing through his system. You were making polite conversation, but the long talks like the ones you had when you first arrived were gone, and you almost mourned the hateful relationship you started with. You just wanted something to fill the silence, even if it was yelling and hateful words. But Azriel remained quiet and reserved and you remained oblivious to the shadows that moved towards you when you looked away.

One day however, when you were sat next to him and talking about his home, the world you had begged him to tell you about, a red bird had landed on the porch outside. Azriel had noticed instantly due to the way you had stilled, the colour draining from your face and he followed your gaze to the red bird.

“(y/n).” he uttered quietly, desperate to get that distant look off your face, he had never realised how much energy your soft smiles gave him, the way your sarcastic comments added to his stories, making him genuinely laugh. He repeated your name again, but when he got no response his shadows acted, surrounding you and pulling you to him. You turned and looked at him, eyes terrified and before he could think about it he was pulling you into his arms, holding you head to his chest as soft sobs filled the room.

You pulled away after a few minutes, breathing deeply and counting under your breath, he continued running his hand up and down your back and cooing in the way you did when he threw up.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “Gods this is so embarrassing.”

“No! Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to everyone,”

“I just- I thought I was past this stage, I thought I was improving,”

“Do you mind me asking why you can’t look at anything red?” He was speaking slowly, afraid he would say the wrong thing, tensing when you drew in a shaky breath, eyes still trained on the floor. You stayed silent for a couple minutes, focusing on your breathing before finally speaking.

“Have you heard of Tartarus?” you asked, and he shook his head slightly, “Well as you saw when you kill monsters they don’t leave bodies, and that’s because they reform. They go to Tartarus, which is basically the underworld for monsters.” You paused wiping the stray tears from your face and he tentatively reached out to grab your hand.

“One day, I had been injured in a fight- broke a rib or something- and I was leaning on my friend Annabeth, she had just completed a quest and we were about to get back on our ship. She had fought a big spider or something, the details are fuzzy sometimes.” You shook your head, “the spider had fallen into Tartarus but before it fell it had wrapped its silk around Annabeth, and when it fell, so did we. Percy- Annabeth’s boyfriend- fell too when he tried to grab us. Nearing the end of the fall, a fury had grabbed me, taking me away from them. And then, until they got back to me, Tartarus took on a human body and he… y’know. The one thing that always stuck out down there was the colour red. The ground was red, the rivers were red, the sky was dark, but red all the same. And Tartarus, his eyes were red. I haven’t been able to look at it since.”

You finished explaining, eyes focused on the random shapes you were tracing on the wood, not wanting to look up as Azriel remained silent.

“How long were you there?” he eventually asked, voice filled with rage.

“I’m not sure, I didn’t have much of a hold on time down there,” you whispered and Azriel had to work hard to reel in his magic, the siphons on his hands starting to glow as he got angrier. But he looked at her again and found his heart shattering at the pained look in her eyes, and he went against everything he was.

“When I was a boy I spent all my days locked in a room without windows. For eleven years I was kept in that room. My father was a Lord, but I was bastard born, so I was kept in a cell, only allowed to go outside for an hour each day and to meet my mother for about an hour each week. They didn’t let me fly either, even as all my instincts begged to. Eventually they dumped me at an Illyrian camp, where I discovered I was a shadow-singer and learned how to fly.” You were staring at him in horror, hand clutching his tighter.

“How did you recover from that kind of pain?” you asked voice wobbling,

“I met people I loved, people that wouldn’t give up on me. I met my true brothers, brothers that would treat me like real family should,” You smiled softly at the way he spoke of his brothers,

“I’m shit with people.” You admitted,

“Well I’m also very old, sometimes it just takes time.”

“How old?”

“537…”

“You fucking WHAT?” he laughed at your expression, smiling widely when you laughed too. You leant back against the wall again, resting your head on his shoulder, your panic attack and sharing of emotions catching up on you, but happy that Azriel was opening up again.

“You know if I ever meet your biological family, they may find that they’ll lose some precious parts.” You whispered, cutting through the silence. His shoulders shook as they laughed, and he rested his head on top of yours.

“Now that, I would like to see.”

#Azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #acomaf #acofs #acofas #rhysand #feyre #pjo #hoo

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vintagedolan · 4 years ago

Text

mixtape - track eleven

| masterlist | faceclaims | playlist |

I was hiding from myself too. I was hiding from the part of my brain that was like ‘what are you gonna do now?’. Like, there’s a part of your brain that does thrive off of feeling like shit.

The voice shifted, just for a moment.

Yea-

It was a tiny sound in the back, from behind the camera. It didn’t even form a full word before Ethan continued talking, but Indy flinched anyway. It was always worse when she was unprepared for it.

In her distraction, she’d streaked her concealer too far past her eye and sighed, using her finger to pat it in, ignoring the way it splotched. It probably wasn’t the right shade, and it was definitely expired, but it was enough for her to look like maybe she had slept in the last two weeks.

She hadn’t. Not really. Every time she closed her eyes, even to blink, he was there. Sometimes, she welcomed it. But in that moment, standing in her mirror in her scrubs, she didn’t want to see his face. She didn’t want to hear his voice. Because she had to keep it together for 16 hours. 12 hours at the hospital on the peds floor, and another 4 at her shift at Jet’s afterward. So she kept her eyes open, took a deep breath, and walked out of her bathroom.

On the other side of the country, Grayson’s eyes were closed.

He wasn’t sleeping. It was 4 in the afternoon, which was the earliest time he could consider himself done with work for the day and escape to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. It only got down to the high forties in LA, even in January, but he climbed under his comforter anyways, pulled his baby blanket up by his face.

Time seemed to crawl by while he lay there alone. He rolled to his side, pulling his pillow down to wrap his arms around it, and when he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn’t. On his nightstand, turned towards him, was the frame that Indy had gotten him for Christmas. He wished she hadn’t curled up so much when he’d taken it. He wished he could see her face more in the glossy material, wished she had given him a picture of just her instead. When he squeezed his eyes shut again he could see her face better, every feature committed to memory. So he looked. He focused on the different shades of blue in her eyes and pretended like she was in class, and that he was on her couch waiting for her to come home.

A knock sounded on his door, and his heart tightened.

Ethan stepped in the room with a bag of Monty’s and a hopeful smile.

Grayson didn’t move.

“I brought you dinner.”

Nothing.

Ethan sighed, dropping the act. He was giving up on it earlier and earlier these days.

“Bro, you’ve gotta eat. You didn’t eat lunch.”

“Not hungry.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, tough shit then, cause I’m not leaving you alone until you eat at least some of this.”

Grayson knew his brother, better than he knew himself sometimes, and he could tell by his tone that he was serious. He didn’t have the energy for a fight, and despite himself, his stomach growled at the smell of the fries in the bag, salty and warm. So he sat up begrudgingly and let Ethan pass him the bag, pretending not to see how his shoulders slumped in relief.

He didn’t have to ask why Ethan stayed. It was to make sure he didn’t sit the bag down as soon as he closed the door behind him. So he waited, and he watched his brother eat his burger slower than usual, fighting to chew it and force it down.

“Where’s yours?” He asked eventually - he knew better than to think that Ethan hadn’t gotten himself a burger.

“I uh… I ate with Eden.”

Grayson stopped chewing. His question was blatant in his eyes, and he waited for the answer.

“No, I didn’t fucking tell her,” Ethan grumbled, running his hand over his face. “But I don’t know how much longer I can do this, I feel like I’m fucking lying to her.”

“Did she ask about… her?” He caught himself. He hadn’t said her name since they left New York.

“Not yet. She knows something is up with you though, and if she starts asking questions I’m telling her.”

“No.” It wasn’t a plea. It was a demand.

“Grayson. She’s gonna find out eventually, I gotta tell her.”

“No. Twin code.”

“Don’t pull that shit man, c’mon, we aren’t six anymore. That’s my wife, and she’s gonna be pissed as fuck at me. If you don’t tell her, I’m gonna have to.”

Grayson stayed quiet and put the rest of his burger back in the bag, his small appetite fading to nausea at the thought of having to admit to anyone else what he had done. He hadn’t had to explain it yet - Ethan knew enough to put the pieces together, and he had enough heart to stay quiet on the plane, just passing over his napkin from his drink as an extra tissue while Grayson looked out the window and cried quietly. But he wasn’t going to tell Eden - he wasn’t ready for that.

Ethan sighed. “I’m just saying Gray, she’s gonna start asking me questions, and I’m not gonna lie to her, that’s not me. That’s not either of us.” He paused, hoping for a response he knew he wasn’t going to get. “Whatever. We have a meeting at 10 tomorrow.”

Ethan left the room in silence, and Grayson closed his eyes.

Indy’s struggled to keep hers open. It was almost 4 am the worst hours of her shift. She poured another cup of coffee from the nurses’ lounge, ignoring the fact that it was burnt as she sipped it down and willed herself to wake up. Part of her wished it was iced - warm drinks made her sleepy, and worse, reminded her of cold New Jersey mornings that she couldn’t afford to think of. Just the idea of reminiscing made her chest tighten enough for her to suck in a breath and start to search for a distraction. She read the schedule instead, checking to see what tech would replace her come 7 am. She still had two vital checks to do on each patient, opting to do them on the even hours. Her head tipped back as she drained the rest of her cup and tossed it in the trash, needing to keep her mind busy.

It wasn’t her job - only nurses could distribute meds, but she could prep the trays for the kids to make their lives easier. So she moved to the med cart and started to look through.

“Adams, Adrian, Bellon, Campbell, Cortez, Jenkins, Kimp, Lopez, Mullins, Norton.” Her fingers stopped for a moment as she traced down the last names on the cart, mumbling them out. No Newcomb. She double-checked. Nothing.

Bekah didn’t have a tray.

Indy’s heart sped up a bit, and she waited until she saw Ayria, one of the night shift nurses, coming out of a room.

“Hey, do you need me to get Newcomb a tray? Hers isn’t on here.” It felt weird to refer to Bekah by her last name, but she didn’t want to seem unprofessional.

Ayria frowned, coming to log into the computer on the med cart and check the charts.

“Oh yeah, everything she’s getting is IV right now, no pills.”

Indy took a breath and steadied herself, glad to see that the clock had turned and she was able to make her rounds. She’d become an expert at taking vitals without waking the kids up - even some of the more seasoned nurses were impressed.

But she could never get past Beks.

The first day, during Indy’s orientation, Bekah could tell something was wrong. It was only three days after Grayson had left after all. Indiana knew that the floor needed a tech, and she knew they’d take her as soon as she asked. She also knew that if she let herself stay at home that she’d never leave it again. So she went and bought the cheapest scrubs she could find and mustered up enough energy to show up.

She didn’t really need Ayria to show her around that day. She knew the unit inside and out from her time as a volunteer; she just needed the codes for the supply rooms and a list of her tasks for her 12-hour shift. But she was glad that they were together when they went into Bekah’s room because Bekah was kind enough not to say anything with someone else there. Now, she didn’t hold back.

“You look like shit,” she said as soon as Indy walked in.

“It’s 4 am, you should be asleep,” Indy countered with a smirk. The incident on Christmas was forgiven without a second thought, and she was relieved to be back to their normal banter as she put her blood pressure cuff on.

“You should be asleep. This is your last shift of the week though.”

“Says who?”

“You’ve been here three days already, that’s the max you can work without overtime.”

Indy kept quiet and wrote down her blood pressure in the chart.

“Are you okay?” Bekah asked quietly, and Indy sucked in a deep breath, trying to stop the tears flooding her eyes.

“I’m fine Beks. Promise.”

Bekah contemplated if she should say it.

“Is it Grayson?”

Indy’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands shook as she held up the thermometer, and she had to blink hard to be able to read the numbers and scribble them down.

Bekah took her silence as an answer.

“Sorry. I know it must be hard, having him so far away,” she murmured. Indy couldn’t find her voice to tell her that it was okay. She fiddled with her blankets, tucking her in nicely and dimming her lights down to give her time to clear the knot in her throat.

“Get some sleep Beks.”

She held it together until she got outside her room, and then the tears escaped. As quickly as she could, she ducked her head and beelined for the nurses’ desk, using her oldest trick of drinking water to keep herself from fully breaking down.

Valentina sat at her desk and watched with a frown, but she didn’t say anything.

Indy gave herself one minute, and then she took a deep breath and got back to work.

Time crawled, and she cursed herself for not leaving enough things to keep her busy for the rest of her shift. By 6 am, she’d resorted to cleaning the tables in the break room and reorganizing supplies in the supply closet to keep herself occupied. She knew the day shift nurses would appreciate the extra effort - they always sung her praises, thrilled to work a shift after her considering how well she set it up for them.

Valentina came into the supply closet at 6:30.

“You might just work our daytime tech out of a job,” she said, making Indy jump and drop the bandages she was restocking.

“You scared me,” she said, catching her breath. “Just restocking.”

“You work too hard,” Valentina shook her head, crossing her arms. “You’re gonna burn yourself out sweetheart, and we need you around here.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“You act like I don’t know you’re going to your other job right after this.”

“They give me good coffee there, what can I say,” Indy teased, but when she looked Valentina’s eyes were sad. “I like to keep busy.”

“Too busy,” she tsked. “You leave at 6:50 today.”

“Valentina-”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it 6:40,” she threatened. “And you get some sleep later, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” Indy conceded, knowing it wasn’t an argument she could win. Nurses weren’t the type to lose an argument, and she’d never met a more nurse-y nurse than Valentina. She finished stocking quickly, gathering her bags and double-checking she’d finished everything before she headed out, waving goodbye to the nurses she saw.

She was distracted on her way out, and she didn’t think when she hit the button to get into the next hallway.

For two weeks, she prepped. Mentally paused and thought of all the things that could hit her out of the blue, make her come unraveled. She was ready, for the couples in the street holding hands, for the husbands coming to walk their wives home from work, the high schoolers on hot chocolate dates in the big city. But it was always the small things that got her.

She hadn’t prepared herself, and her eyes automatically went to the walls when she cleared the doors. The ocean mural. The jellyfish, the sea turtle on the wall that Grayson had said looked like Ethan once. It hit her like a ton of bricks, her chest so tight that she reached up to press on it as she heard his voice in her head. It made her feel pathetic, the way she had to stop and grab onto the rail in the hall and steady herself for a moment. She counted her breaths, trying her hardest to shut her mind off, staring at the blue of the walls as she willed herself to be okay, just for another day.

Grayson was staring at the water. Or at least, he was trying to. The moon wasn’t very bright, but it reflected enough off the ocean for him to get a sense of which way the sun would come up. The whole surface was washed black by the night sky, and it was peaceful. He wanted to swim in it. He wanted to sink beneath it and find that blissful quiet you could only find underwater.

He’d fallen asleep soon after Ethan had left him alone, which meant he found himself wide awake at 4 am, body tired of being asleep. Sitting in bed would only make things worse, so he sent Ethan a quick text and headed off in the Porsche towards the secret beach. There was no one else there so early in the morning, and he was grateful. It gave him the peace of mind to curl in on himself, let the tears flow freely as the waves lapped at the shore, returning over and over.

Time ran away from him in the dark. His tears ceased eventually, dried themselves out as he sat in his misery. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he let it wash over him, sink into every pore and weigh him down, wishing he could somehow disappear into the sand as the sun started to rise and wash the world in light orange. His phone buzzed, no doubt a text from his brother. He elected to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the water, counting the waves as they came in. It was admirable, the dedication they showed; returning every time they got sucked back out.

At some point, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he sighed, pulling his hood up over his head in a feeble attempt to hide himself from whoever was watching him. He stood up and brushed the sand off himself, ducking his head down and jogging straight back to his car, hoping whoever it was wasn’t trying to come up to him.

As soon as he ducked into his car and pulled the door shut, he sunk down, resting his forehead against his steering wheel.

“Fuck!” He yelled, smacking his dashboard. His radio turned on with a jolt, connected to his phone and automatically starting his playlist. Cudi blared through the speakers and he groaned, hitting all the wrong buttons in an attempt to get it to turn off.

“Stop, fucking stop!” In a last attempt he chucked his phone across the car, watched it ricochet off the dash and down into the floorboard. He threw his car into reverse with blurry eyes, desperate to get away from anyone who might have a camera. He was paranoid the whole drive home that someone was watching, eyes darting to the windows of any car he ended up next to at a stoplight. It wasn’t until he got the gate closed behind him and he was in the house that he felt like he could breathe again. With Ethan still asleep down the hall, he choked back his sobs as he sat down at the counter, face in his hands.

Indy was taking deep breaths behind the counter as the line started to pile up at Jet’s. She looked to her right, frowning at the stress on her new coworker, Mariposa’s, face as the cups continued to line up next to her.

“Hey Posie,” she called over between customers. “Do you wanna switch?”

“God yes,” she exclaimed, rushing to take Indy’s place at the register so she could move over to the bar.

Indiana preferred it that way. She didn’t have to smile for a latte, she just had to pour it and try not to burn her fingers and move on to the next. It had come back like second nature to her, and she liked the fast pace. It gave less time for her to think, and she welcomed the numbing repetition. She kept an ear piqued towards the register, listening to the orders coming in so she could get ahead. The next one came from a taller man, his face hidden behind a coat.

“Just give me the biggest cup of the strongest stuff you’ve got.”

Indy dropped her cup, a half poured latte splattering all over her hands first, down her apron, then the bottom of her jeans and onto her shoes. It only took one look over at the man to realize it wasn’t Grayson, and she deflated.

“Shit,” she hissed, flicking her hands in an attempt to chill the burn that was already searing on her skin. She side-stepped to the sink, flipping the cold water on and letting it flow over her hands. It stung even more, and she sighed at the bright red of her skin. She’d had enough burns from her time as a barista to know that it would blister.

“Indiana, you okay?” Patrick called from the ovens, moving a line of pastries in and out.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”

He frowned, but kept quiet, letting her get back into the groove of making drinks. Indy could feel him watching her, the familiar weight of a protective eye over her shoulder. At least he was kind enough to wait until her shift was over before he tried to talk to her again.

“Hey, how’s your hand?”

Indy looked down and sighed at the sight of her red skin, resisting the urge to rub it. Instead, she moved to the first aid kit and grabbed a wrap bandage.

“It’s been better, but I’ll survive.”

“Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow,” Patrick suggested as casually as he could. “You know, to rest your hand.”

Indy scoffed.

“It’s not gonna fall off Patrick, I’m fine.”

He sighed. “Fine, if you’re gonna make me say it then I will. You’re a hard worker, one of the best we have, but you’re exhausted. We can all see it, and you don’t need to burn yourself out like this for a minimum wage job. So, you’re off tomorrow. No exceptions.”

“But-”

“No. Exceptions.”

Her anger bubbled up in her like the blister forming on her thumb, but she knew it wasn’t Patrick’s fault. He was right - she was just upset at the idea of having an entire day with nothing to distract her. An empty apartment had never seemed so daunting, and it was all she could think about as she clocked out, got her things together, and walked home.

It was quieter than she’d imagined when she got through the door, the click of the latch echoing through the still space. She thought of turning on music, but that only made her think of Grayson, singing off-key next to her in the truck. She could put on a movie, but it would make her think of cuddling with him on the couch. Her bed was where he had been so many nights. He’d cooked in her kitchen, he’d helped her move furniture in the guest room.

She couldn’t escape him, no matter where she went. And so, as pathetic as she felt doing it, she sunk down right there on the floor, and she let the misery have her. It came in broken sobs that caught on her throat on the way out, too loud even for her own ears as she tried to imagine a day where she didn’t feel like the world was crumbling around her.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there. But eventually, the things no one ever talked about started to happen. Her butt went numb, and her head started to hurt, and her lips got dry from the saltwater that ran over them. None of that mattered though. What finally got her up from the cold floor was the fact that she was sticky - remnants of the vanilla syrup in the latte that she’d dropped finally congealing and making her feel more disgusting than the tears. She peeled herself up off the floor and headed to her bathroom.

Grayson was in the shower, with his head down, water splashing over his back and bouncing off his shoulders - a statue in the rain. It was the best place to avoid getting on his phone, considering he couldn’t, and that was the only way he could trust himself to not get on twitter and see the aftermath of the morning.

He wondered for a moment what he looked like from outside the glass shower door, standing there with his razor up by his chest. The blades clogged with the long hairs he shaved from his chest, leaving him bare and smoother than he’d been in months. He sat the razor down and moved to pick up a clear bottle from the shelf. Polis was scribbled on it in sharpie in Ethan’s handwriting, remnants of a Wakeheart meeting. Grayson could remember how excited he was to pitch the idea, even if it was over zoom.

“I finally came up with the third body wash scent. Vanilla, with a hint of coffee and then a little bit of sandalwood to keep it professional and put together.”

He’d had to whisper it - Indy was asleep in her room, the product of a good post study-session back rub that had lulled her into a much-needed nap. The team loved it, thought it complimented the other two scents they’d been testing well. Ethan was hesitant, but he kept his mouth shut and brainstormed a backup if needed.

Grayson was thankful for the gesture, even when he’d told him that he’d started planning it as early as he had. But he wasn’t willing to give it up, and he made it very clear in their first meeting back that Polis was a permanent scent. It felt like a tiny piece of her that he could hold onto. Still, as he stood there and held the bottle up to his nose, it wasn’t the same. As pitiful as it made him feel, he tried closing his eyes, tried to imagine she was there with him, standing in front of him, giggling like she always did when they showered together.

He couldn’t do it justice. Couldn’t feel the warmth of her skin against his, couldn’t smell her shampoo or watch her try to bend over and shave her legs in her small apartment shower without bumping into him. He’d held her hips to help her keep her balance, listened to her laugh and talk about casual intimacy, heard the way it echoed off the tiles and became his favorite sound in the entire world.

His tears mixed with the water, his pain palpable as he started to quiver just barely, the memory enough to break down the paper thin wall he’d managed to drag back up to protect himself. When his knees shook he gave up and sunk to the ground, green tiles of the bench seat icy against his back as he buried his face in his hands. He’d never felt weaker in his life, and he wished he was ten again, so his dad could wrap his strong arm around his shoulder and tell him that everything would be alright.

He went for the next best thing once he managed to get enough energy to get up and turn the water off. A few swipes of his towel over his body and hair, then he pulled his boxers on and put on his robe, walking straight out of his room and down the hall.

Ethan’s door was open, but he wasn’t in his bed like Gray expected. He was at his desk instead, a look of stress on his face that Grayson was all too familiar with. A pang of guilt resonated in him when he realized what his brother was doing - picking up all the slack that he was leaving in his misery.

He hadn’t said a word about it though, and that made it worse.

It took Ethan a moment to realize his brother was there, but as soon as he did he turned his desk chair, giving him his full attention.

“Hey.”

Grayson didn’t answer.

“You okay?” Ethan tried again. Grayson’s throat burned, and he shook his head, sitting on the end of the bed. He’d never been able to hide from Ethan, and luckily, he never really had to. Because Ethan was the type of brother to act tough when he needed to, but soften up at the smallest things. Which was why Grayson wasn’t surprised to see his brother rise up out of his chair, coming to sit next to him. The bed sunk down a bit with his weight, and Grayson let himself press up against his brother. The air felt heavy while he waited.

“You’re good. Just let it out.” Ethan’s voice was quiet, and he leaned his cheek against his brother’s head and felt him go to pieces. It was the hardest Grayson had cried since the airport, and every sniffle made his head pound but he couldn’t pull himself together. Those were the kind of moments where he wondered how people survived without twin brothers. He felt safe there with Ethan - if everything else fell apart, at least he’d have him. There were a million things he could say, but he already knew what the answers would be. Ethan would tell him that he’d find someone else some day, and that Indy would heal and that he shouldn’t feel guilty for doing what he did. He also knew that Ethan would say all of it even if he didn’t believe it, because their pain was shared.

Grayson cried himself out again after an hour or so, his sinuses pounding behind his eyes as the headache settled in.

Ethan stayed still - he knew better than to leave him. It wasn’t until Grayson finally wiped at his eyes that his brother relaxed a bit, watched him stand up and run his hands over his face. It felt colder without Ethan right next to him, but he knew he needed to sleep.

“Try to get some sleep,” Ethan echoed his thoughts. “We need to record the pod tonight if you can.”

“Okay. I can help with the emails, I know we probably have a shit ton.”

Ethan was already shaking his head before he finished.

“Just get some sleep, okay?”

Grayson nodded and gave him the best smile he could manage before he went back into his room, climbing back into the safety of his covers with his phone in his hand, just in case she called.

Indy’s pillow was wet. It was mainly from her hair soaking into the pillowcase - she didn’t have the energy to dry it after her shower. But she’d also made a terrible mistake. One scroll through the app store and a quick log in and she was back onto instagram, ignoring the now thousands of follow requests she had in her notifications. It only took one click to her explore page and her tears were adding to the moisture below her cheek.

He had on his Cudi hoodie, the yellow one. She wished she’d been there to tell him not to wear it. It was too bright, a target for the cameras that seemed to find him. The first ones she saw stung. They were only of his back, taken from far enough away that she could pretend it was someone else. But she knew the way he sat, with his arms over his knees.

The next ones hurt, because she could see his face. He was walking, and she knew him well enough to know he’d realized what was happening and tried to leave, just from his posture, the way he slumped while walking. His eyes were red, those dark circles that she’d ran her fingers over so many times worse than she��d ever seen them. Ever since he’d left, she’d wanted to know how he felt. If he missed her at all, if he was as miserable as she seemed to be every minute of every day.

It hurt worse to get her answer than it did to wonder. She’d hoped he was upset, but suddenly all she wanted to do was hold him, tell him it was okay, that she was okay even though she wasn’t. It was impossible not to scroll, looking for anything new, any hints as to what he had been up to since he’d gotten off that plane.

She had never asked for a front row seat to his life, but she’d take it if it was the only glimpse of him that she could get. It made her feel pathetic, but she didn’t care enough to fight it.

Eventually, she found herself scrolling his page. She couldn’t tell how she got there, but she couldn’t seem to leave it either. So she just scrolled, averting her eyes from any comments, and pretending, just for a moment, that everything was back to the way it was. That he was just busy recording a podcast, or that he’d be sprawled out on her couch when she went out to the living room.

She held onto it until she walked out of her room, knowing she needed to eat even though she didn’t want to. She kept her eyes off the couch, moving to her cabinets that were barren apart from a few avocados that were rotten. With a sigh she threw them in the trash that was close to overflowing, opting instead for the last box of mac and cheese she had left.

Indy was thankful for muscle memory, her mind wandering off to better days where her kitchen wasn’t so quiet as she cooked the pasta she really didn’t want and took it back to her room, curling up under her covers as she ate.

Grayson had two empty boxes of vegan mac and cheese in front of him, one of which obviously had an ‘E’ scribbled on it that he’d ignored when he made them. He shoveled the noodles into his mouth, ignoring the way they burnt his tongue just barely. Ethan walked in and saw the boxes, opened his mouth and shut it again.

“S’pod setup?” Grayson said around a mouthful.

“Yeah, I set up the pod, we’re good whenever you’re ready.”

“Gimminute.”

Ethan just chuckled and shook his head, happy to at least see his brother eating even if he was shoveling it down like he hadn’t seen food before. He waited, seeing that Gray was done within the next two minutes, sitting his bowl in the sink and stretching his arms out. He looked tired, but Ethan hoped the pod camera was far enough away from them to make the dark circles subtle enough.

“Do you want some of my old concealer stuff? For under your eyes?”

Grayson hesitated for a moment, picking at his nails. “You still have it?”

“Yeah, hang on.” Ethan ran to his bathroom, snagged the compact from his bottom drawer and brought it to the kitchen. “Come over here, you’re supposed to do it in natural light.”

He held it out for Grayson, who just looked up at him.

“I don’t know how the fuck to do it, you do it.”

“Do I look like a makeup artist to you?” Ethan asked, and when Grayson stayed quiet, he sighed and flipped the compact open, swiping his finger through the semi-creamy substance and moving to pat it on his brother, frowning when it was more difficult than he thought it would be. “Look up you fuck, I gotta blend it.”

Grayson just rolled his eyes but did as he was told, sitting still until E said he was finished and led the way to the studio. They got settled in their chairs, double checking the camera angles. Ethan cleared his throat, waiting until his brother looked at him.

“Are we… do you want to mention anything about…”

Grayson waited. He wondered if his brother was really going to be dumb enough to ask.

“Are we talking about the pictures, yes or no.”

“What the fuck do you think the answer to that is,” Gray grumbled.

“I’m just saying, if you mention it you can say what you want about it, get your own voice out there. Whatever you say, I’ll go along with it.”

“Great.”

Grayson took a deep breath, gave Ethan a look that read as an apology, and clicked the button to start recording. He stayed fairly quiet the first few minutes of the recording, waiting to jump into a conversation that didn’t make his throat tight. The podcast was his favorite place, because he could let himself actually speak, say what he wanted to say without worrying.

It came back to bite him in the ass 45 minutes into the episode, when his guard was down and he had finally lost himself the way he did when he worked. They were talking about birds, and how they had a bad, unjustified rep.

“I mean, Gizmo can be an asshole sometimes, but she’s only an asshole when people are like, scared of her,” Ethan mused.

“Right! She gets all shy when I come home after a while, but when Dee came in the house the first time she was freaking out, just from hearing her and I swear, every time after that Giz just like, screamed every single time she was even in the house.”

“Gray-”

“No seriously! You remember how loud she got? Fuck, remember that time she went down to help mom with dessert and Giz was out and she cried?”

“Grayson.”

“What? Did I peak the mic?”

Ethan’s eyes were sad. “You… you said her name.”

“Huh?”

“Indiana. You said Dee, when you were telling that story.”

He swallowed hard. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He could see him spiraling, and he tried to reel him back in. “You’re okay. We can just cut it, and start again with a story about Gizmo.”

“Yeah uh… just give me a second.”

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

“Just, uh, say what you said again before,” Grayson murmured, shaking his head to try and clear it. But it was too late - he was so consumed by what his mind had brought back to the surface that he could barely hear Ethan repeat his words.

“Yeah-” Grayson came in a moment late. “Giz is a special one.”

Ethan waited for him to continue, but jumped in when he didn’t. “She gets shy when you haven’t been home in a while and you show up. That’s the thing about animals dude, like people think about cats and dogs and they can recognize their emotions, but with stuff like birds and cows and shit, people just don’t think about them that way, and it fucking sucks. They have feelings too! Gizmo’s fucking sassy bro, she will let you know how she’s feeling, especially if she’s pissed. Bro, we should have Giz on the pod, do you think she’d talk? She can whistle, we could show off her tricks.”

“You can’t put a bird on a plane,” Grayson mumbled. His eyes were fixed down on the blue center of the table, and he was fidgeting with his sleeves.

“Yeah, but we can put the mics in our suitcases and just record at home.”

Ethan realized it a moment too late. He wanted to snatch his words out of the air, scratch them from the tape when he saw the way Grayson’s eyes met his, saw the gloss near his waterline.

“Yeah - uh - um,” Grayson tried to save it, and then he covered his mouth, silencing the squeak that turned into a sob. He pretended it was a cough, bringing his hand up and running his fingers over his forehead, shielding his eyes from the camera.

“I uh, I miss home a lot more this time than I usually do,” he said, his voice froggy with the tightness of his throat. Ethan couldn’t say anything. There was nothing to say as he watched his brother fight and lose in his battle to keep his composure, covering his mouth as he cried, knuckles brushing up against the mic.

“Fuck, sorry, I’m sorry E.”

“It’s okay, hey, it’s okay.” Ethan was up so fast he forgot to take off his headphones. They fell back into the chair when they pulled off his ears as he moved to his brother, pulling him up into a hug. “We can finish it later, we’ll just cut to an ad or something. It’s okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Shh. It’s fine bro, it’s fine. C’mon, let’s go get some air.”

Air wasn’t what they found.

Instead, they found Eden, standing against the counter with her arms crossed in a way that had Ethan’s blood running cold. He thought the sight of Grayson practically curled in on himself might have softened her up, but she stood her ground until both of the twins were looking at her.

Grayson knew that she knew, and she only confirmed it when she spoke.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you.”

Back in New York, Indy’s phone was ringing. Or at least, she thought it was. But when she unlocked it and was blinded by the light, it was just her lockscreen, Grayson smiling at her with 3:04 written across the top. Judging by the darkness, she knew she hadn’t slept the afternoon away, but the buzzing continued until she finally climbed out of bed and realized it was the intercom system - the front desk calling her through the small phone on her wall that hardly ever rang. She pulled it off the receiver and held it up to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi Ms. Cross, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Her heart skipped, and she clutched the phone with both her hands.

“Who?”

There was a beat of silence, and Indy could vaguely hear her ask him for a name.

“His name is Devin.”

She sucked in a breath, letting her head and her hopes fall.

“Send him up.”

It took her a moment to process her grief before the panic set in. If Devin was showing up unannounced, something bad must have happened. She swung her door open, chewing on her nails as she stood in the doorway, waiting for him to appear. He came out of the elevator with a small duffle slung over his shoulder and a cautious smile that had her ready to cry.

“Dev, what the hell are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Charlie?”

“Also fine. We’re fine.”

She caught her breath, and then she was frowning. “If everything is fine, why the fuck are you here at 3am?”

“Because you haven’t answered your sister’s calls in a week, and she’s worried sick about you.”

Guilt panged in her stomach - she hadn’t meant to ignore her. In all honesty, she’d ignored everyone without realizing it.

“I- sorry, I didn’t mean to. Just slipped my mind. Is she here too?”

“She’s got a wedding to shoot this weekend, and we only had one ticket anyways. Flight got delayed, tried to find a hotel for the night so I could wait until later this morning but I couldn’t find one so you’re stuck with me. Sorry,” he teased, reaching out to hold onto her shoulder. There was no malice in his voice, and Indy was grateful. “Let’s go inside.”

He didn’t ask for it, but she made him a coffee anyways alongside her own. She was tired, her eyes burning, but it wasn’t anything new from the last few weeks. She fought it, pulling one of the few sweatshirts Grayson had left at her place over her head before she sat on the couch, waiting.

Devin was quiet, tapping his fingers against his mug, out of his element.

“Dev.”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t fly to New York to drink coffee with me. Talk.”

He sighed, sitting his mug down on the coffee table and turning towards her.

“Inds, we’re worried about you.”

Indy scoffed, a short, automatic sound.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t. You really, really aren’t. You’re running yourself into the ground for no good reason.”

“I’m trying to pay rent,” she countered, but even she knew it wasn’t true.

“Your hospital job pays more than rent. Jet’s is just because you’re scared to let your mind rest.”

Indy didn’t have an answer, so she sipped her coffee instead, cursing herself for telling Charlie everything in a moment of weakness. The silence was loud, and Devin sighed to break it after far too long.

“Have you talked to him? Since?”

Her throat was tight. “No.”

Devin wrung his hands together. “You do know it was fucked up what he did, right?”

“Dev-”

“I’m just making sure you know that. You can still make your own decision on however you wanna navigate it in the future, but you have to acknowledge that what he did was a new level of shitty. And he’s a good guy, I really do think he is, but he fucked you over, and you’re my family. And I protect my family. So I just need you to know that you didn’t deserve what he did to you, and he fucked up. Big time.”

“Right.”

“Okay, good.”

She let him believe it, though she’d only said it to appease him. She wondered if he would feel differently, if he had seen. If he had felt, the way that Grayson had shook in her arms, the way his sobs seemed to be ripping him apart every moment that he was hurting her. She wanted to pull up her phone, show him the pictures from the beach, show him that he was hurting too, that he didn’t want to hurt her. She wanted to prove it to him.

“When does your semester start?” He asked, pulling her mind off of it. She swallowed hard, then took another drink of coffee.

Indiana had spent three days in self pity when she got back from the airport. She let the misery have her fully - didn’t change her clothes, barely ate, hardly left her bedroom. And then, after that, she picked herself up and got to work. She applied for her tech job and called Patrick to see if she could get the schedules to align, and more importantly, she’d started to run numbers.

Medical school. Just the application fees alone were going to hit her budget hard, so much so that she reduced it down to two. JCU, and UCLA.

Her applications had gotten accepted three days prior, along with an email about a scholarship she was eligible for at UCLA that made it comparable to JCU’s tuition. But the money wasn’t the issue, and when it was time to accept, she knew that UCLA wouldn’t hold her spot forever.

She’d taken a deep breath, and emailed the registrar.

“I deferred.”

She was embarrassed to say it outloud, and for some reason it was the brick of the dam that fell, and her tears began to flow. She felt Devin’s hand on her shoulder before he spoke.

“Good.”

She hadn’t expected him to be mean - in fact, the meanest thing she’d ever heard him say was what he’d just said about Grayson. But it still shocked her enough to have her frowning.

“Good?”

“Indy. Do you realize how long you’ve been a student? Do you know who you are outside of being one?”

“I-”

“You’re the smartest person I know, and I love you, but I think you need to take a step back and really look at what you’re doing. Take a semester, fuck, take a year. Live. Breathe. You’re already ahead, and you’ll still be ahead.”

“I’m not worried about being ahead, Dev,” she whispered, running her hands over her face.

“Then what are you worried about?” There was a sincerness in his voice, and a gentleness in the way he held her hand that made her cry even harder.

“I just don’t know what the fuck to do anymore,” she blubbered, grateful when he pulled her over to his chest in a hug. He let her cry it out for a while, waiting until she was calm enough to hear him.

“I don’t have the answer to that, but I say, ask yourself what you really want the rest of your life to look like, and then do whatever you have to to get there. If it’s being a doctor, great. If it’s not, great. Just as long as it’s what you want.”

She took a shaky breath in, and blew it out through her lips, simply giving him a nod.

The problem was, she knew exactly what she wanted - and he was off in Los Angeles, cowering behind his brother.

“Baby, woah, hey, take it easy,” Ethan cautioned, side stepping into the war path she’d outlined, headed straight for Grayson. Her eyes were fire when she looked at her boyfriend and raised an eyebrow.

“He’s having a rough night, just take it easy,” he added.

He stoked the flames.

“You know who else is probably having a rough fucking night? Indiana. And we are gonna talk later-” she poked a finger into Ethan’s chest - “but right now, I’m not talking to you so I suggest you get out of my way.”

There was a bite in her tone that had Ethan rocking back on his heels, questioning just how far his duties as protective brother would go. He breathed out a sigh when he felt Grayson’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s fine E.”

He’d never admit it, but Grayson had been waiting. Ever since he pulled away on New Year’s, he had waited for the punishment. The anger, the disbelief, the spite that he thought would arise in Indiana at the realization of what he’d done.

It wasn’t until he got off the plane and into his room that he realized his true punishment would be the guilt, and the grief, and the realization that he’d pushed away the only future he’d ever truly known he wanted.

The anger was a welcomed change.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck, Grayson.”

“I know.”

“I don’t say a lot of shit about a lot of shit, but whoever you decide to be with could possibly end up as part of my family, forever, so fuck me if I’m invested, and I think I deserve an explanation on why I just got a call from Charlie to see if I’d talked to Indy, cause she’s ‘really going through it’.”

“I didn’t want to hurt her.” His eyes turned glossy, and Ethan stood up straighter.

“The fuck you didn’t,” she scoffed, running her hand through her hair to push her curls out of her face. “You realize how badly you fucked up, right? Right?”

“Yes.”

“And that you broke her heart right? Probably absolutely fucking destroyed her.”

“Eden-” Ethan spoke up.

“Yes,” Grayson answered, his chest tight. He wrapped his arms around himself, willed them to hold him together. It felt different, to have someone say it to him so directly, to confirm what he had done.

“Then why? Just… why?”

“Long distance wouldn’t have worked, and I didn’t want -”

“Oh bullshit. No one would have tried harder than Indiana to make that work, you fucking know that.”

“She shouldn’t have to deal with that, with me being so far away -”

“God you fucking self-sacrificial fuck!” She yelled. “She loved you, you moron, and when you love someone, you give! You hit a crossroads, you sit down and have a fucking conversation, and you fucking give! That’s what a fucking real relationship looks like, not you deciding that you don’t deserve to be loved and running in the other fucking direction!” Her face was red when she stopped to catch her breath. Ethan looked just as shocked at the outburst as his brother. Her mind seemed to catch up to her ears, and she backtracked.

“Sorry, fuck, that was -”

“No, you're right. You’re right. Everything you said was fucking right,” Grayson didn’t even try to hide his tears. He blubbered into his hands, ugly choking sobs that he wasn’t sure how he even produced. Ethan was at his side immediately, arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“What do I do?” He asked, voice muffled by his hands until he finally raised his head and looked at Eden with pleading eyes, waiting for an answer she was reluctant to give.

“You let her live. Don’t text her, don’t call her. If she calls, you don’t answer. When you go home, you don’t see her. You let her let go, and move on.”

All he could do was nod, and lean into his brother.

Indy leaned against the wall. It was cold and unrelenting against her shoulder, but it held her up better than her own legs would. She’d dropped Devin off at the airport that afternoon, and found herself back on the ped’s floor, waiting.

Valentina spotted her first from the nurses station, and the way she held her clipboard made it look like a weapon.

“My eyes better be deceiving me, cause’ I know that is not Indiana Cross standing in my hallway on her day off.”

Indy found it in her to laugh dryly. “Relax Val, I’m here to see Beks. Haven’t gotten to visit her off the clock for a while.”

Valentina still gave her signature disapproving stare, but she gave it up with a sigh. “Well, her family is visiting too. Mom and Dad, if you wanna say hi.”

It had been a long time since she’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Newcomb. They were lovely people, and they truly did come see her as often as they could. But they also worked two jobs a piece to try to foot the medical bills, which meant often was scarce.

Indy had never seen them in the same room before, and her stomach tightened. She was hesitant to go to Bekah’s room, scared to interrupt, but when she peaked her head around her doorway, she saw the couple sitting on the couch in the room quietly.

Mrs. Newcomb spotted her, eyes brightening as she waved her inside.

“Come in, come in!”

Indy was still hesitant as she walked inside, eyes darting over to a sleeping Bekah. She was curled up under her halloween blanket, brows furrowed down and skin pale.

“Hi Indiana, how are you sweet girl?” Mrs. Newcomb asked.

“I’m good, I’m sorry to interrupt, I just thought I might stop by and check on her but I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no you’re fine! She was actually asking about you just before she went to sleep, you and Earring, whoever that is. Hang on.”

Indy watched as she moved over to the edge of her daughter’s bed, running her thumb along her cheek until she started to stir.

“Sweetheart, Indiana is here to see you. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Bekah whined, but pulled her eyes open, smiling slightly when Indiana moved into her view.

“Hey punk,” Indy said, crouching down so she could get to her level.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice hoarse. On instinct, Indy reached out to fix her head wrap, making Bekah’s mother smile. “What time is it?”

“6:55,” Indy answered.

“Mmm. Meds coming soon,” she mumbled. “Where’s Earrings? He doesn’t like needles, don’t let him see the needles.”

“No needles baby,” Mrs. Newcomb said. “Just some to make you feel better. You rest now.”

“Earrings,” she said again, and Indy could tell she was asking.

“He’ll be here to see you soon,” Indy lied, rubbing over her wrap like she would her hair if it was still there.

It didn’t click for Indiana until 7 rolled around, and Jennifer came in with a cup of pills instead of an IV pole.

Radiation and chemo don’t come in pills, Indy knew that much.

Mrs. Newcomb watched the realization come across her face, and she gave her a sympathetic smile.

“She’s… she didn’t get her meds.”

“Indiana baby, it’s what she wants. The new round didn’t work, the stem cells failed. It’s time to let her rest. We’ll keep her comfortable, the doctor says it’ll probably be a few weeks, maybe a month.”

Indy’s throat burned, and her breathing quickened, chest rising much too fast. She couldn’t say goodbye to anyone - it took all her focus to make it out of the building, running down the stairs and across the lobby before she was dry heaving in the bushes, the sight of Bekah’s frail body in her bed appearing every time she closed her eyes.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. More of an instinct, really, that drove her to pull her phone out of her pocket and pull him up and call.

In LA, Grayson’s phone buzzed against his nightstand. A new picture of Indiana popped up - her contact photo that he’d taken one day in Jersey. With a knot in his throat and Eden’s voice in his ears, he reached over and turned it off before rolling away and letting his tears soak into the pillowcase.

#mixtape #SO SORRY #im prepared for the yelling again #grayson dolan #grayson dolan fanfiction

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antique-traveler · 5 years ago

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wróżka

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Jaskier’s hands drive him.

They push and they pull.

They push and they pull and sometimes they have claws.

Geralt never sees them.

He never sees them push or pull and he never sees the claws.

He never sees them push or pull the edge of the forest, or the growl of a beast.

He never sees the claws swipe at monsters that Geralt has neglected to kill.

Jaskier’s mouth is soothing.

It is soothing and it is filled with teeth.

The teeth can be sharp and dangerous, but Geralt doesn’t see them.

Geralt hears as his voice carries through the wood in a strange, haunting way. Not the way he sings in pubs, not the way he sings to children in town squares, only the way he sings to the forest. Because that is who he’s singing to.

Geralt does not know that.

Geralt only knows that, after they’ve been separated for too long, he finds it hard to look Jaskier in the eye, and he can never quite remember how tall Jaskier is, or how long his fingers used to be, how wide his smile should be. He only knows that when he’s with Jaskier the weather is always favorable, and he can always find enough to eat. He only knows that Jaskier has two voices, and sometimes they sing together.

He spends a long time accumulating glances.

He spends a long time trying to focus on memories that someone has made him forget, trying to piece together fuzzy edges and censored images from his past, things that can’t quite add up.

Were his eyes glowing, or was the moonlight merely reflecting off of them? Had those flowers sprouted around Jaskier, or had he simply not noticed them before? Were those horns atop his head, or where they only conveniently-posed branches framing him?

“Are you ever going to tell me?” They’ve been walking for days, and Geralt has started to notice how Jaskier seems to be tripping on purpose.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Geralt.” Jaskier trips again, flying just a bit too far forwards.

Geralt is shown more.

He knows that he is not simply seeing, no, he is being shown. He is allowed to know a secret.

He is allowed to see the glint of Jaskier’s teeth as he smiles.

He is allowed to see the glaze over the tavern patrons’ eyes when Jaskier strums his first chord.

He is allowed to see the shimmer around the pool of water in the tree stump that Jaskier drinks from.

Jaskier is lithe and graceful.

He dances around tree roots and stones on the forest floor.

Unless he knows Geralt is watching him.

If he knows Geralt is watching him with those big swords on his back, he will trip and stumble and fall over every bump in the path they trudge.

If he knows Geralt is watching him with those big swords on his back, and with potions that will make him unstoppable, unkillable, he will sing just a little worse than otherwise. He will make himself miss a string on his lute, or fall flat on a note every now and then. He will mispronounce a word, or force himself into a slant rhyme.

If he does not know Geralt is watching him, he will float across the moss and soil effortlessly, never misplacing a foot, as if he has known every single pebble on the ground for all his life.

If he does not know Geralt is watching him, he will harmonize with himself, and his lute will sound like a dozen instruments that Geralt has never heard before. He will sing lyrics in an unfamiliar language, every rhyme perfect, every stanza unblemished.

Geralt begins to wonder if Jaskier is really unaware of his surveillance, or if, once again, he is being shared a secret.

Geralt has had enough. He is not fond of lies or secrets.

He hears Jaskier strumming his lute, and singing in a strange tongue, and walks up behind him.

“I’m not familiar with that one.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier turns pink, and his hair seems less shiny than it had been a moment before, less curly, “I didn’t hear you coming!”

“What were you playing?”

“Oh, not really anything.” Jaskier has never been a good liar, “Just some nonsense, you know me!”

“Jaskier, I know.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your teeth. I’ve heard you speak in a language I’ve never heard before. I’ve seen tree branches bend out of your way without you touching them.”

“Surely you must be mistaken. That’s impossible! Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Geralt is quiet for a beat. “Tell me what you are.”

“Geralt, I don’t know what you’re talking-”

“Tell me what you are.” Geralt is trying very hard to stay calm.

In an instant, Jaskier is no longer nervous. His hair glistens, and his eyes shine. Perhaps he grows a few inches taller as he sighs, and perhaps a few flowers bloom beneath his feet.

“I think you know, Geralt.”

“Tell me anyway. I need to hear it from you.”

Jaskier sighs. “I am Jaskier, Prince of the Seelie Court, son of Rzeka, Queen of the Faeries.”

Geralt’s pupils shrink into slits and his brows knit together. “Take it all off. I know there’s more.”

“Geralt, don’t make me do this-”

“Take it all off.”

Jaskier looks away. The sun dips behind a cloud, perhaps on purpose. Jaskier’s shape grows hazy for a moment, as if Geralt were looking at him through a thick fog. When he comes back into focus, he is glorious.

He is tall, much taller than Geralt, thin arms and legs sprouting from his wide shoulders and thin hips. His face is sharper, with electric blue eyes nesting above a mouth just a little too wide, holding fangs sharper than any sword. His hair curls, and small yellow flowers peek through the waves. His large, delicate hands grow claws. From his forehead emerge long, twisting horns. His shoulder blades sprout two massive wings, the wings of a lark. Moss and mushrooms grow quickly on the log upon which Jaskier sits, and flowers bloom around his feet.

Jaskier avoids Geralt’s startled gaze. If Geralt didn’t know better, he’d say he looked ashamed.

“I never meant for you to see this.”

“Then why keep giving me hints?”

“It starts to hurt, after a while, not using my magic. Feels like I’m drowning. I’ve got to let it out.”

“Then why hide it in the first place?”

Jaskier turns to meet Geralt’s eyes. Geralt finds that it almost stings. Jaskier’s eyes are shining and vibrant. “Because I wanted to see everything! I wanted to see people! If I meet them like this, they act strange. They’re afraid of me. And they have good reason to be. I only wanted to experience life as they do.”

“What else can you do?”

Jaskier smiles softly. “Everything.”

Geralt sighs and looks away, noting how the trees seem more full, and the moss on the forest floor seems greener. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier scoffs. “Don’t be daft, Geralt. I know what your lot does to the fae folk. I’ve seen the wings nailed above door frames. I’ve seen the heads on pikes.”

“But have you seen me do that?”

“Of course not, but Geralt, you must understand my position. You’ve been alive for, what, a hundred years? A hundred twenty? I’ve been alive for seven hundred and eighty. I’ve seen the first witchers slaughter my cousins. I’ve witnessed the Great Cleansing. I’ve seen how humans treat us.”

“I’m not-”

“Don’t be stupid. You know that you’re more human than you let on.”

Geralt hesitates, measuring his words. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Jaskier takes his hand. “I know that, love.”

Jaskier does not recast his glamour until they get closer to the next village. He seems less tired. He keeps up with Roach easily, and he moves stones and fallen trees out of their path.

Geralt hunts.

Geralt hunts rabbits and deer for food, and he hunts bruxae and alghouls for coin. Jaskier hunts with him.

Jaskier is too fast to see.

Jaskier is too strong to hold down.

Jaskier is too smart to catch.

Jaskier is too, too, too.

Jaskier is so much more than he was before.

But still exactly the same.

He loves music and women and men and shiny things.

He hates cramped inns and shitty ale and being dirty.

He touches Geralt on the back while he passes by him, and Geralt feels strange. Like the strange coldness one feels when first getting into a steaming hot bath.

He lets down a bit of his glamour when they’re alone in an inn and Geralt feels his mind go foggy.

He kisses Geralt for the first time.

They are in the woods, Jaskier is happy to be so close to nature, to his home.

He has let his glamour down, and he dances across the leaves and soil gracefully, trees bending out of their way and stones rolling away from Roach’s hooves.

They set up camp, and Jaskier prattles on about how he despises the latest musical trends while Geralt brushes Roach and agrees to whatever Jaskier says with a hum.

Jaskier moves over to him elegantly.

“Geralt?” Jaskier takes Geralt’s chin in his hand and plants a kiss on his lips, soft and chaste, before continuing his ramble about meter and rhyme.

Geralt has heard lovers say they felt a pleasant dizziness after kissing their betrothed for the first time.

This is not that.

This dizziness makes the hair on his neck stand on end, and makes him unsteady on his feet. It makes his heart pound in a strange rhythm and the world around him spin and shake. Jaskier does not seem to notice this.

Lying awake on his bedroll, Geralt thinks about that kiss.

How, despite the nausea and uneasiness, it was rather nice. He recalls the pleasant, stinging tingle on his lips, and the strange heat radiating from Jaskier’s breath.

Geralt has never kissed a man before. He knows that most humans don’t really fancy the concept. Does Jaskier even count as a man?

Does it matter?

Jaskier kisses him again.

They are in some anonymous inn in a small village, waiting for news of a contract.

Jaskier has his glamour on, but he does not hesitate to make their food taste better, or to make their blankets a little softer.

Jaskier is about to go downstairs to begin his nightly performance while Geralt mends his armor.

Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and presses their lips together. This one lasts longer, Jaskier squeezing them together before letting go nonchalantly and leaving Geralt alone.

Geralt feels the same dizziness and unease, but it goes away soon.

He touches his lips.

They taste like honey now.

They taste like honey for days.

Geralt and Jaskier enter a town. Before crossing its border, Jaskier stops.

“This place is wrong.” Jaskier is staring at a white flower growing at the base of a stone.

“We’ll be fine,” Geralt urges.

Jaskier is tense as they walk along the dirt road in the center of the town.

They approach the alderman’s house. Jaskier sees a pair of horns above the door, bloodied.

Jaskier runs into the brush and vomits, tears streaming down his face.

They leave the town.

Geralt and Jaskier enter a forest. After a few hours of walking, Jaskier removes his glamour and sings in the voices of a full choir.

He is singing in Elder. Something about elaine aen vatt’ghern, and something else about caen me a’baethe Gwynbleidd. Geralt has always been shite at Elder.

Through a clearing in the trees, Geralt catches sight of a small ring of mushrooms. Jaskier follows his gaze and, with a wave of his hand, a thick patch of trees grows between them and the clearing.

“Should probably stay away from that, don’t want any trouble.” Jaskier seems nervous.

Geralt knows what those mushrooms were, and he knows why Jaskier was nervous.

Geralt kisses Jaskier.

They are alone in the forest. Jaskier is playing with some flowers while Geralt oils his swords. They ate a rabbit for supper. Jaskier muttered a small blessing over it before he let Geralt skin it. They sit now beside a roaring fire while Jaskier hums the tune to a song Geralt’s never heard before.

When Geralt has finished sharpening his silver sword, he gets up to grab his steel. He steps over Jaskier’s outstretched legs, careful not to step on his feathers.

Before he sits back down, Geralt bends over Jaskier and takes his head in his gloved hand. This kiss is unlike their previous kisses. It is sharp and it stings and it tastes like smoke. Geralt does not want it to stop.

He does not feel dizzy afterwards. Jaskier looks up at him with wide, wide eyes and a smile full of teeth.

They fall into a habit of kissing each other without a word. Always when they are alone. Never in public.

Geralt is scared. Jaskier is not.

Geralt is scared.

They sit on the bed in their shared room at an inn. Jaskier has draped a wing across Geralt’s body, and his head lies on his chest. His horns tickle Geralt’s chin, but Geralt’s hands are too deep in Jaskier’s hair for either of them to care.

Jaskier sighs. “Have you ever been with a man, love?”

Geralt thinks for a moment. “No. Didn’t know I could.”

“You can. You are, I suppose.”

“Are you a man?”

“I think. Maybe.”

“I’ve heard it’s different for Fae.”

“It is. You humans and your rules, it’s very hard to keep up, you know.”

“Hm.”

“You can kiss me in public.”

Geralt is quiet, pensive. “How?”

“Pardon?”

“How? People disdain me enough for sleeping with women. Don’t see how me being with a man would be any better. Worse, probably.”

Jaskier looks up at him, eyes full of sympathy and a dash of sorrow. “I’ll make sure no one has a second thought, love.”

“What about me?”

Jaskier blinks.

“I never knew I was allowed to do this. I feel like I’m breaking a rule.”

Jaskier sits up and rests a hand on Geralt’s cheek. “My dear, you are a mutated beast-slayer who’s been kissing a Fae prince that masquerades as a human for the last six months. I’m not sure if there are any rules left to break.”

Jaskier leans down and presses himself into Geralt, pushing his tongue into his mouth and inhaling his breath. Geralt knots his fingers into Jaskier’s hair as Jaskier bunches up Geralt’s tunic in his fist.

Geralt pulls away. “I love you.”

“Oh, dear heart, I love you, too.”

Geralt and Jaskier are travelling, as they always do.

They will always travel.

They will always travel, and they will always kiss without a second thought, and they will always stay away from small circles of mushrooms.

Geralt will always let Jaskier bless whatever he kills for dinner. Jaskier will always beg Geralt to stop for a while when they come across a picturesque stream.

They will never not travel.

Geralt will never stop Jaskier from stretching his wings when they’re far enough from humanity. Jaskier will never stop warning Geralt of signs that his family is near.

Jaskier’s hands will always drive Geralt. They will always push and they will always pull. His mouth will always be full of teeth, and he will always sing in two voices.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandilion #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #gerlion #fae!jaskier #creature!jaskier #immortal!jaskier #fic #my fic

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secretobsessionstuff · 4 years ago

Note

i’ve missed madix and riley a bunch lately!! so maybe when you’ve got the time (and inspiration ) would you write something for them? maybe with the phrase “hey, you passed out. don’t sit up yet, just relax.” (or something along the lines of rhat) for them? i hope you are staying well & healthy, and happy new year!!!

Sorry it took me so long to get to this prompt. Anyway enjoy this fic that is in no way inspired by my life.

“I know you’re nervous, but you have to eat something,” Madix said to Riley as they drove into the student parking lot.

It was early, around 8 o’clock in the morning, and neither of them had had breakfast yet. There was a coffee shop inside the building that Madix hoped would have his favourite donut. Next to him in the passenger seat, Riley wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs for the millionth time. Riley was certainly not hoping to eat a donut because his stomach was already queasy from the nerves. It was the master’s thesis presentation day, and he dreaded what was to come. A full day of watching presentations was not appealing, especially since he was the second to last person. Riley wished that he could have been earlier and just get it over with, but instead he had to sit through other people presenting their research.

When Riley didn’t respond – too focused on wiping the sweat on his pants – Madix carried on. “There’s still a while before we all meet in the lecture hall. At least get something to drink.”

So that’s what Riley did. He carefully sipped his tea (coffee would simply make his hands shake more) while Madix ate a decent breakfast. He munched on his donut, forever worried about his boyfriend who looked around nervously. Madix reached his hands across the table to grab onto Riley’s. “It’s going to be fine. It’ll be less than an hour and then you’re done!”

“Forty-five minutes is so long.” That is an ungodly amount of time for one person to talk continuously. Riley thought back to his undergrad thesis that was only 10 minutes and even that was terrifying! He did not want to ramble in front of a whole room for an hour.

“And the whole thing is fantastic,” Madix insisted. “You practiced for me a billion times and it always sounded great.”

“I wish it could just be you in the room.”

“Then just look at me the whole time.”

Riley let out a nervous laugh. He supposed looking at Madix for an hour straight didn’t sound too bad. “Okay yeah, yeah. It’ll be fine. It’s fine.”

Madix raised Riley’s hands to his lips and gave them a kiss. “It’ll be more than fine.” Then he pushed a donut towards his boyfriend who was looking far too pale that morning. “Now eat something goddammit.”

Later when that donut and tea were sitting uneasily in Riley’s stomach, they all found themselves in the lecture hall. Riley tapped on the table in front of him, waiting for the presentations to begin. The first half of the day wasn’t terrible. The presentations were interesting enough that Riley could forget about his own. Well, his taping fingers and bouncing legs never really forgot about what was to come, but the panic didn’t start until his time slot got nearer. By the time the lunch break came around, Riley’s stress was rising higher. Of course, he completely ignored eating again because the ache in his belly was more than a little stress stomach-ache.

His time slot was next. Every inch of his skin was on fire except for his hands that were cold and clammy. From beneath the table, he felt Madix put his hand over his bouncing leg.

Madix leaned over so that he could whisper. “Please breathe, you’re as white as a ghost.”

Riley wished that he could be a ghost and disappear. Instead, he settled for a trip to the bathroom. Maybe he could flush himself down the toilet. “I’ll be back.”

As Riley stood up from his chair, he needed to catch himself on the desk in front of him. He reached his sweaty palms out to save him from falling forward as the edges of his vision got dark. Whoa, his head felt funny. And God, his stomach felt worse. As if he were drunk, he swayed out of the door. Madix didn’t follow him but that was okay because he needed a moment to himself.

Riley felt like he was dreaming as he walked down the hallway. Once in the bathroom, he braced himself on the sink and tried to take deep breaths. Sometimes he swears that his eyes have dimmers, and in that moment, he thought for sure that someone was dimming the lights behind his eyes.

The darkness didn’t spread luckily, but the nausea was certainly spreading through his body. Oh fuck, he really did not want to be sick just minutes before his presentation. He also didn’t want to risk presenting with a vomit-stained shirt, so he knelt to the floor in one of the stalls.

The still water in the toilet taunted the choppy seas in his own belly. Actually, he wondered how his stomach could have been anything more than a dried-up wasteland. The only thing he ate or drank that day was a donut and a tea. Still, his stomach was mad and didn’t like the stress that ran through his veins.

A harsh gag came up Riley’s throat, but it was dry. Oh God, oh no! He couldn’t believe this was about to happen. His stomach spasmed again but still nothing came up. His chest burned. He didn’t want to do this; he didn’t want to be here. Another gag grated up his throat.

Meanwhile, Madix was getting more concerned with how long Riley had been gone for. The current student was wrapping up his presentation, and then there would only be the question period before it was Riley’s turn. That’s it. Madix left to find his boyfriend.

Madix opened the bathroom door just in time to hear a strangled noise come from one of the stalls. He could see Riley kneeling on the floor. Riley moaned miserably after letting out that choked gag. Madix swore under his breath and mumbled, “Oh deer…”

He stood behind Riley who left the stall door open. He watched as Riley’s shoulders quaked with each empty heave. “Well shit, Ry.”

Riley was too focused on the roiling of his gut to be surprised by Madix’s sudden appearance. He sniffled as snot ran from his nose. “Ugh – I’m sorry.” He coughed which triggered another rough retch. “I can’t. I – hic.”

“Alright, alright.” Madix got to the floor next to Riley and put his hand on the boy’s trembling back. He needed to calm him down before anything worse happened. “Remember to breathe.”

Instead of breathing, Riley decided to make thing worse for him. “Is it my turn yet?”

“I’m not sure…” Madix bit his lip in worry. “How about you focus on calming down before worrying about that.”

Riley really wanted to get up. His time had run out and no one would care that his stomach was in knots. “I have to get back.” A belch burst from his mouth that left saliva dripping from his lips. He wiped it away. He made a move to get up, but a heavy hand stayed on his back. “I haven’t actually puked yet.”

Madix clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “That’s because there’s barely anything in your stomach, baby.” He hated the fact that he could feel the tension in Riley’s muscles. He hated the way Riley’s legs shook as he tried to get up. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“What else am I supposed to do? I have to do this.”

Madix stayed quiet, unsure how to respond. He had no clue what time it was, but he guessed that the lecture hall would be waiting for the next student. Madix sighed and backed up with his hands in the air. “…If you say so.”

Riley sniffled and stood up with legs that trembled as bad a newborn deer. Once he became upright, those lights behind his eyes flickered for a moment. That dream-like sensation returned and he couldn’t tell which way was up. There came another flicker of his vision before the lights died out completely.

“Riley!” Madix shouted as his boyfriend went limp. The boy’s legs buckled awkwardly, and some unconscious part of Riley’s brain made a last-ditch effort to catch himself before blacking out. His arms came reaching out towards Madix.

“Ah okay, I got you. I got you.” Madix caught Riley before he could fall to the ground. They became a tangle of arms, and Madix wasn’t prepared to untangle the mess. He heard Riley mumbled something in his semi-conscious state, but it was all gibberish. “Shh, You’re okay.” It was good that he only really blacked out for a second.

“Ugh…Madix.” Riley’s eyelids fluttered opened, but soon closed again. There was no way for him to hold his own weight. His head rolled forward onto Madix’s chest as he was being carefully lowered to the ground.

Madix gently sat Riley up against the wall. They were no longer in the stall because Madix had stumbled backwards to catch his boyfriend. He clumsily brought them both to the floor just as Riley’s eyes began to regain clarity. Madix put his hand on Riley’s pale cheek and slightly rubbed his thumb across his dry skin.

“What happened?” Riley mumbled. He squinted in the florescent light of the bathroom and moaned in pain. Everything hurt. His mouth was dry, and the nausea was as persistent as ever. In his disoriented state, the only thing he knew for certain was that his belly was being stirred up. The thumping of his heartbeat was a ticking clock telling him that he was still screwing up. He put his hands on the ground, about to stand, but then he saw Madix’s sweet face.

“Hey, you passed out,” Madix said softly. “Don’t get up yet. Just relax.” He gave Riley’s shoulder a squeeze. His boyfriend really did look awful with dark sunken eyes and a grimace of pain.

Riley groaned and wrapped his arms around his torso. He wanted to say something to Madix, probably sorry or thank you, but the only thing that came out was a wet gag. He followed it with a weak heave, the first one to not be dry. A small amount of pale vomit spilled past his lips and landed on his shirt.

Madix cooed, feeling terrible that his boyfriend had to deal with this. “You’re alright, baby. Let it happen.”

Riley let out a shallow burp that brought with it a thin string of bile and frothy saliva. A hiccupped seized his chest and forced his shoulders forward as another small gush of sick dripped down his chin. Riley wanted to cry but his eyes were too dry. “Ugh, what am I going to do?”

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” Madix said as he ran a paper towel under cold water. He came back with the wet paper and gently wiped Riley’s face. “You’re going to sit here until you feel ready to get up – until you won’t pass out when you try to stand – and then we’ll talk to someone about rescheduling. We’ll see about getting you a more private presentation.”

Riley moaned. “I don’t like any of this.”

“I know you don’t,” Madix said. “I’ll help you fix this. There must be accommodations for mental health.”

That seemed like the best Riley could hope for. He accepted that there was no way he’d be able to go on today. It was irresponsible for him to push himself anymore, and Madix managed to convince him that he didn’t screw anything up. Things happen and most people are understanding.

“However,” Madix began with an intent look, “that doesn’t mean you can just not eat or drink. Like I said, you’re hurting yourself, and I don’t like seeing like this.”

“I know...I’m sorry.”

Madix gave his boyfriend a sad smile. “No need to apologize to me.”

#emeto #emetophilia #emeto fic #sickfic #fainting #pass out #nervous stomach #puking #dehydration #faint #Madix #Riley

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