#in my feverish half-awake state this is all i can think about

[onyourowndaisymae]

i'd like y'all to put some respect on my son's name

[affableramen]

genshin impact men with a physically wounded reader pantalone - a bullet wound wriothesley - fell from the stairs

Pantalone - a bullet wound

“Does it hurt… too much?” Pantalone looks at you briefly before averting his gaze quickly.

You hum with slightly raspy voice. “Unpleasant.”

Your hot blood sips down your hand, dropping onto the floor with a noise that is hardly noticeable. The shock after the bullet hit your arm dulls your senses, making you almost ignorant of the pain. Pantalone’s look is almost awkward. You’re not too sure if it is unbearable for him to see you in this state, or it is the sight of blood that disgusts him. Either way, you have mixed feelings about him turning away from you, hiding his eyes and avoiding eye contact.

“Are you still dizzy?”

“…Yes.”

“Lean on to me.”

With your breath hitching you decide to follow his words that by tone and character have nothing in common with requests, resembling more of instructions or orders even. You can feel him carefully wrap one arm around your waist, the gesture is purest than ever.

“Get in my car and stay there.”

“Is that what you do every time someone’s wounded? Tell them to get on the backseat of your car?”

He ignores your half unintelligeble feverish words, helps you to walk into there and opens the door of his luxurious car.

“What if I faint inside?” you ask. As all your senses are dulled and you feel yourself detached from reality, disoriented and completely, utterly pathetic. For a moment you think you can’t even control your own tongue from speaking.

Pantalone sighs. He sits next to you on the backseat and puts your seatbelt on so it secures you before moving away, slowly, as if not entirely sure he can leave you to yourself.

“I will be driving. Try to stay awake.”

He gives one last look to your shoulder which is stained with crimson blood and finally moves to the driver’s seat.

“And if I don’t?”

He looks at you through the front mirror.

“I will have to carry you.”

You don’t know it, but he curses everyone in the world right now for letting you take the bullet. He curses the universe for letting you be the one to take it. He didn’t ask for it. He literally has men paid to take a bullet and die for him whenever he is in danger.

But somehow, it just had to be you there. There was no body guards, just you and… him.

He had his fair share of scolding you right at the moment when you took the bullet pushing him away and letting the bullet go through your arm instead of his chest. But right now you are too weak, no scolding would make sense. You’re still the person he’s in love with and cares for, so he will make sure you get the best care in the hospital and will cover all necessary bills.

He will constantly look back at you in the mirror checking your state.

Wriothesley - fell from the stairs

“Hey, hey, hey… shhh… Stay with me, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay, I promise. Just stay awake, stay here.”

Wriothesley’s voice shakes but his hands do everything to secure your survival. He gently pulls you closer to his chest, one hand over your neck and he start pulling you carefully to a safe place.

“I will get you a doctor. I will get you a doctor, we’re in a public place, there should be one. If not, we’ll call taxi and get to the hospital. Straight to emergency, with no queue, I promise.”

You are not sure that hear everything he says. Your ears appear blocked, the amount of blood covering you seems to shock you no less than Wriothesley. No one could predict such an outcome that you would get hurt just like that in the middle of an afternoon. But Wriothesley is with you, and that’s the best hope for you right now.

The surroundings seem blurred and the only sensation you can get is the quickened heart beat coming Wriothesley’s chest. But everything goes blank when the wound makes your senses even duller and you lose consciousness right in his arms. Wriothesley immediately catches you before your body touches the cool ground. He swiftly craddles you into his arms and you feel the motion - he carries your wounded body into some car, must be a cab.

In the middle of the agony you wake up, Wriothesley gently holding your ankle while sharing the backseat with you.

“Can you move? Can you lift your leg?”

“No…”

“Can you bend your knee?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Shit”, he barks quietly to himself, gently massaging your ankle, running his fingers so gently over it the impact is almost unnoticeable.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the scum who pushed you will get punished, and you’ll have enough rest, that’s for sure. Three, or even four months off. You will be alright, I promise, my love”, he kisses your hand lightly and releases it, giving you some space.

“You don’t deserve that. I hate it, I hate whoever caused you such pain. Why you?!”

It’s such a rare moment to see the duke so emotional and tensed up.

When you arrive to the hospital, Wriothesley helps you get out from the car and brings you to his arms again, carrying you closely to his chest until you’re handed to the resuscitation room.

[just-a-creep-babe]

I am craving soft Candy Pop.

Maybe him baking care of his S/O that's sick. (Though he's bad at it and asks the other Creeps how to help) 👀👀

Thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy uwu

Masterlist: x

Requests are closed

You grip the sheets tighter between ice-cold fingertips and close your eyes

Everything hurts

You’re miserable

You’re just on the brink of feeling sorry for yourself when a sharply clawed finger pokes at your cheek

You groan

“(Y/n)?”

His voice is uncertain, questioning—something rare for the blue-haired demon

“Mmh...” you sigh in response

A frown flashes over his usually brightly animated features

“Are you... dying?” he hesitates

“...”

You push your face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound you make because you feel bad for laughing at him

But he still hears your weak giggles despite your best efforts to cover it, and it has him making that annoyed sound he makes whenever he’s, well, annoyed

“I-I’m sorry, Pop, I don’t mean to laugh at you,” you apologize, still chuckling. “I’m just a bit sick, that’s all. I’m not dying. I’ll probably get better in a few days, really”

He tilts his head, the bells at the ends of his hair jingling slightly

“Sick? Have you been cursed? Poisoned? Did someone do this to you?”

Magenta eyes widen in worry

You don’t bother hiding you chuckle this time—except it’s cut short by a cough raking it’s way through your chest

“No, s’nothing like that,” you eventually answer after your coughing fit. “It’s a human thing, it happens”

You don’t quite have the energy to explain basic human biology to him, so you hope that your brief simplification is enough to satiate his curiosity

But judging by the look on his face, it, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to be enough

His frown deepens

“So you’re just stuck like this?”

“Mhm”

“And it’ll just go away on its own in a few days?”

“Mhm”

“But you’re not going to die?”

“Nope”

He pauses for a moment, thinking

You appreciate how pretty he looks when he’s lost in thought out of concern for your well-being

“…Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

The question admittedly catches you off guard

As sweet of a lover as Candy Pop is (no pun intended), he isn’t always the best with being attentive to your needs

To put it bluntly, he could act like a spoiled brat at times

You still love him despite that, of course, but it’s rare that his attention is so adamantly focused on you instead of himself

“Mmh...” you hum, considering his offer. “I dunno. I’m tired, but I can’t fall asleep. My head hurts and I feel a little nauseous, but I’m not sure there’s anything you can do about any of that...”

Though you didn’t know whether or not it was possible, his frown deepens even further

“What do humans usually do when you get sick? Surely, you have some kind of remedies available”

He prods at your cheek again, as if his knife-like fingertips could poke some health and vitality back into you

“Uhm... we have soup”

He pauses

“...Soup?”

A smile quirks at your lips

“Mhm, soup”

You have to stifle your weak laughter again at the sight of the puzzled look on his face

“Well... if that’s what you need, then I’ll go bring some. You better not move until I get back, my sweet~”

You shake your head, nuzzling deeper into your sheets, trying to find some semblance of warmth and comfort in your sickly state

“Don’t worry, I won’t, Pop. I’ll be right here when you get back,” you promise

You watch him head out the room, listening to the jingling of his bells get fainter and fainter as he leaves

You wait a few minutes, then a few more minutes, and a few minutes more

What feels like at least a good half hour passes, and your clown lover still shows no sign of returning

You wonder if he really decided to make a soup from scratch instead of just heating up one of the pre-made cans you no doubt have in the pantry

The thought of him trying to cook for you is simultaneously very amusing and very worrisome

Still, he told you not to move, and it’s not like you have the energy to do so anyways, so you stay nice and snug in bed

Your eyelids eventually grow heavy and you begin teetering along the edge of unconsciousness

Right as you’re on the cusp of falling asleep, welcoming a sweet respite from your cold, you hear the jingling of bells as he returns

“Soup!”

You’re jolted awake from your half-asleep state, and as soon as you look up, a warm bowl of... something is thrusted into your lap

“Oh”

Looking down at the contents in the bowl, you suddenly decide that maybe soup was, after all, a bad thing to put him in charge of

“Pop, I, ah...” you hesitantly trail off

You glance up at his hopeful grin, then back down at the questionable... food? he placed onto your lap

“I’m uh… I’m not entirely certain this... soup is edible. For humans, I mean”

He blinks

“Why not? It has all the essentials—syrup, milk, coco powder, sugar and a hint of nutmeg for that spicy flavor”

You stomach flips

So that’s what those brown clumps are

“Uhm... soup isn’t... it’s not supposed to be sweet, usually. And those ingredients combined definitely don’t make a meal. I was thinking something more along the lines of vegetables and a good broth, and maybe some kind of meat like chicken or something, you know?”

He blinks again

You move the bowl to your nightstand

And just as you’re about to open your mouth to speak, another cough grates up your throat

You feel dizzy and nauseous, and the pain has you forgetting what you wanted to say

So instead, you let yourself sink back into your sheets, groaning through the soreness rolling through your stiff muscles

“(Y/n)?”

Concern laces his features as he mutters your name

He seems to want to reach out to touch you, but at the same time, he looks too scared of hurting you to go through with it

You offer a small smile through your discomfort

“M’fine. Don’t worry, it’s ok”

He nervously chews on his bottom lip

You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him so openly afraid like this

His concern warms your heart

“Ok, ok. Stay here, I promise I’ll be back and I’ll make things better”

He’s spinning on his heels and heading back out your bedroom door before you can muster the strength to call out to him

It isn’t long for him to return the second time around

After only a few minutes, he returns with another bowl in his hands, a large grin on his face, and E.J. trailing in behind him

You breathe a sigh of relief when Candy Pop places the bowl on your lap and the contents inside look edible

Hell, it even smells good

“We had some leftovers, so I helped him reheat them,” Jack explains. “How long have you been sick?”

You shrug, picking up the spoon and tasting the broth

It’s delicious, and your appetite immediately roars to life in response

“A day or two maybe?” you answer after swallowing, “I think it’s just a cold”

“Just a cold?” Candy Pop interjects. “They haven’t even been able to get out of bed. This is much more serious than they’re letting on!”

Jack ignores his worried outburst, and address you again

“Have you been throwing up? Feeling feverish? Any heart palpitations?”

“I might’ve been a bit feverish earlier, but not much. That’s about it”

He nods, then turns to finally speak to Pop

“If you get worried for them, you can come get me. But if they tell you they’re fine, there’s probably no need to worry”

He gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he turns to take his leave

“If you want to be helpful, you can cuddle up with them. It’s not like you can get sick too, so you’ll be fine. And I’m sure they’d appreciate it”

“Thanks, Jack,” you call out to him as he leaves

He waves his hand in a “don’t mention it” motion, and you’re left alone with your boyfriend in your room

Candy Pop looks down at you, still frowning

You scoot over to one side of the bed, patting at the empty space next to you

He gets in, wrapping his arms around your form as you curl up on his chest, welcoming his solid warmth

A quiet moment passes before he tentatively breaks the silence

“...You promise you won’t die?”

You chuckle

“Yeah, Pop, I promise”

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Can you write something where a Supervillain was an absolute jerk to hero, but when she finds him, tortured, sick, and left to die, she helps him anyway?

Thank you!!!

Sure thing! Sorry this took a while. I had a million ideas for this and had to focus in on one.

Dear Diary

Warnings: fevers, delirium, left to die, betrayed, Stockholm Syndrome (implied, not directly stated), fungal infection, exposed bone, broken ribs and nose, starvation, implied neglect, bathing, stripping of clothes (non-sexual), blood, crying

~

Hero sat down at her desk, illuminated by a small lamp and pulled out her worn, leather notebook. She opened the first thirty pages to an empty one, taking brief notes of the way the pages were clearly, neatly filled out top to bottom.

Then, she took her pen- an object of sentiment, nearly as old as her, and gifted to her by her late grandfather- and wrote, as neat as the previous pahlges, in her cursive sign:

Dear Diary,

Then she stopped writing and glanced over at the sleeping figure in the nearby bed. His brown hair tousled, but neat. Old injuries securely bound by more bandages than Hero cared to admit. His once flushed and feverish skin, now placid and evenly moist, was completely neutral with no signs of that agony that brought screams that still haunted Hero at night.

Smiling, she changed her writing to a more easy going print and started writing.

I apologize for not writing recently. It's been so hectic that I think I need a vacation. So, before I tire my hand out complaining, let me tell you about the past couple weeks...

Two weeks ago:

Hero drove smoothly over the recently tarred road. It was night and the sky was absolutely glamorous with stars and constellations of all sorts of celestial bodies. She sighed, contentedly, and aimlessly tapped her fingers against the black steering wheel. She hummed no song in particular as cheery eyes scanned the long, expansive track in front of her.

Until suddenly, the monotonous road was broken by a Ford stranded across the center. Thankfully seeing it immediately, Hero flashed the lights on top of her patrol car, and stepped out with her gun in hand.

A F250, manual with only two seats, but it was empty. Hero raised her gun again and stalked to the other side. Nothing, just an eerie, sporadic vehicle in the middle of a county road.

She whisked open the door. The acrid smell of tobacco and liquor plummeted into her nose and she grimaced. But, like the exterior of the whole truck, there was nothing in the cab.

"Hmm." Hero shrugged, and slammed the door shut, slightly annoyed. She was about to call it in when she heard a tiny, pained whimper.

She tensed, bringing her gun back up again, and spun around. Nothing. Not even a deer or a racoon.

Then, the whimper sounded again.

"Who's there?" Hero asked, but she was starting to think it was just a young fawn or a toad or something.

But it sounded so human.

"Help."

The plea, the breathless plea, sounded the still air. Hero, now completely able to locate it, bounded to the bed of the truck and looked in.

To find a man, bloodied and bruised, with sweat glistening across his dirtied face. He seemed to be conscious- at least awake enough to call for help, as weak the call was- but his eyes were half-lidded and dazed. Blood, still fresh, streamed from a very broken nose.

"Sir?" Hero asked, lowering her gun and putting it in the holster.

The man's eyes opened slightly and he looked at Hero with wonder. A small smile formed on parched, ruined lips. Tears seemed to flood his eyes and he started to cry.

Baffled, Hero climbed into the truck and gathered the man into her arms, mindful not to hurt his neck or spine.

"Hey buddy," Hero cooed, concern evident in her voice. "Are you okay?" No, obviously.

"She-she left me," Supervillain rasped. "She left me here." He started to sob, clawing at Hero's shirt. "Villain left me."

Wait Villain? The stuck-up, obnoxious, feminine bastard that acted as if the world bowed down to her? Hero looked down at the shivering man. Villain, as arrogant as she was, wouldn't hurt a person to this grave extent, unless...

Unless it was...

"Supervillain?" Hero asked. The man turned his head and only then did Hero recognize the sharpness of his jaw and those dashingly handsome golden brown eyes. He let out a hoarse whine and pressed his face back into Hero's leg, chest rattling with broken ribs and mucus.

It was him.

Hero pushed the man off her lap and scowled. He didn’t deserve comfort, or love. Heck, he deserved whatever catastrophe Villain wreaked upon him.

But, after that cruel shove, Supervillain started to scream from the pain of both his horrific injuries and the fresh feeling of betrayal again. He curled his battered form into himself and started a nonstop crying session.

Feeling awfully guilty, Hero laid her hand on his hot shoulder and sighed. She took it back, no matter how mean or terrible a person is, they didn't deserve this.

Before Hero knew it, Supervillain was asleep in the back of her car. As she drove home, night shift forgotten, she thought of her plan. He needed a bath to wash the injuries out and to see the full extent of them. And then he probably needed stitches and a few bones set.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at the limp body. He was breathing, but very subtlety. If it wasn't for the periodic moan or a distressed cry here and there, one might've mistaken him for dead.

Hero shook her shoulders out and looked back at the road, slightly paranoid that she would stumble across another hazardly placed truck. Specifically a manual F250 owned by a certain woman named Villain.

But of course, she didn't. She arrived at home safe and sound, turned off her car, and gathered the now unconscious supervillain in her arms.

"Okay bud," she whispered, hauling him in a bridal carry as she made it to the door. If he wasn't so starved and lightweight, he would've been a big problem to lift.

She opened the door, then immediately in a sudden instinctual rush to hurry, locked the door. She took Supervillain to her bedroom and laid him across the floor. Then, she took off his shirt to reveal a whole menu of wounds.

He had, across both his sides, large purple- nearly black- bruises around his ribcage. They greened at the edges, leading to his torso where cuts and puncture wounds made up a revolting soup. His broken ribs barely had anything in the terms of flesh or muscles on them. Only skin.

His abdomen was sunken in, remnants of days without food, revealing high, pointed hip bones. Hero winced, running a finger lightly across a particular large cut. It was so deep that it revealed the ivory bone beneath. Supervillain, even in his unconscious state, stiffened and whimper pathetically.

Sleep was not an escape from the pain.

Hero stripped the rest of his clothes off. Even his legs and lower body were covered in those red and purple marks. She picked him up again and carried him to the bathtub where she delicately showered the dirt and grime out of infected wounds and off his face.

When it was over, Hero was dumbfoundly shocked at the lack of color in his ghostly face. He didn't wake throughout the process; he was throughly exhausted and sick. Fever raged behind those closed eyelids, appearing in his hot breaths and lolling head. Hero put some old shorts of her's that she bought at a garage sale a couple months ago. They were way too big, but maybe a bit of foreboding told her that they may be necessary one day.

Then she scooped him back up and carried him to her room, laying him on top of the bed, and got to work on stitching and bandaging the wounds.

Supervillain stirred when the needle accidentally pricked a bruise. The second his eyes opened, he screamed and tried to thrash away.

"Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" He yelled. "Villain? Villain! Help me, please!" He started to sob, pressing his cheek into the pillow. "Please... V-vill...ain."

"Shh, shh," Hero laid a hand on his shoulder. He tensed and made a blubbering sound. "You're safe, okay?"

"No, no... I-i want Villain," he sniffled, tears streaming down his face like a waterfall. "I-i need her."

Hero felt her heartbreak at the desperation taut in Supervillain's voice. She gently placed her hand on his forehead in an attempt to comfort and check his fever. He was hot, super-duper hot.

Supervillain pulled away from the touch, watching her with wary eyes. Hero gave a small smile and stepped away. He didn't trust her and her presence might freak him out more. So she stepped away and went to her desk, back facing him.

After a while, his sniffles ceased. Hero took the risk and glanced at him to find him asleep. She sighed, the poor guy was so sick and hurt and tired...

Hero walked back over and went to work again. She applied some antibiotic ointment on some of the more severe wounds, hoping the infection wasn't too deep.

She was about to get to work on tending to his legs, when something in his hair caught her eye. It was a tuff.

Curious, she went over and gently pulled on it to find that it just fell out. A feeling of nausea rose in her throat as more and more hair fell loose. Crunching her brows together, she cleared a hole spot on his scalp to reveal reddened, puffy and dry skin.

A fungal infection. She recognized this from when she took zoology classes in high school. They went on a field trip and the staff gratefully allowed them into the vet area.

Hero rummaged through her medical supplies and found an antifungal cream for athlete's foot. She hesitated, not knowing if something for feet would be good for scalp.

But it was all she had, and something was better than nothing.

So she spread the cream on Supervillain's head, watching as the rose colored flesh glistened with newfound moisture.

Then, she went back to work on stitching and cleaning the wounds of his lower body.

When that long feat was done, she went into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. She wrapped it in a towel and placed it on Supervillain's forehead. Even unconscious, he whimpered and relaxed into the new, relieving sensation.

Hero started to pace. As the minutes ticked by, his breaths seemed to get shallower and shallower and then would increase in a sudden gasp. Periodically, his eyes would flutter open, but only for a moment before he passed out again.

She ended up sitting on the other side of her bed, far away enough to not scare him if he ever regained consciousness enough to be aware of her, but close enough to monitor him.

Hero felt herself dozing as she watched Supervillain's chest rise and fall, but suddenly he awoke fully. She started backwards, then froze. Maybe he would fall asleep again...

But he stared crying, mucus filled lungs heaving. Then he started sobbing, then wailing.

"Villain!" He cried, loudly. "I-i need you." He pulled his legs into himself and Hero did nothing to stop it- too petrified about him hurting himself if he got too spooked.

"Please," he mumbled. "Please, please, please. Don't leave me. Leave me... please no. I don't want you to, I love you please."

Hero's heart broke at that.

Supervillain went silent, apart from nonstop screams of fear and incoherent begging. It got to the point where Hero had to roll him over and gather him into her chest.

"Hey, shh, shh," she cooed, rubbing his back. "It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. Deep breaths... that's it. Breathe in, breathe out. Good job."

Supervillain calmed down and clutched at Hero's shirt. He buried himself into her and fell back asleep.

[wtf-yoongi]

Bath card. / MYG

pairing | yoongi x reader

summary | yoongi gets worried because you’re sick + yup yoongi gives you a bath

genre/warnings | so fluffy i stopped working for a sec

words | 1,367

note | [this was requested kinda?? the request is at the end as always!] the second thing i ever posted on this acc was about giving a bath to yoongi. yeah, that hurts me to this day. intense fluff ahead and as always i apologize in advance for this oh man

Yoongi can totally feel the way your body shudders for the third time tonight. Subconsciously, he thinks maybe you’re just cold and moves his arm so he can check if the comforter is properly covering you — which it is.

He still doesn’t worry much, though. Not until a few hours later, when he wakes up with the sun peaking through the blinds and your curled figure slightly sweaty next to him. That’s exactly when an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach — the second Yoongi puts his hand on your burning shoulder and realizes something isn’t right.

Yoongi’s brain stops him for a second, going through his memory and trying to remember the list of symptoms for the flu, for infections and possible causes for a fever. All until he decides he needs to take your temperature just to be sure, get some medicine from the top right cabinet in the kitchen and run you a bath to cool down your body.

It’s 6:37. He surely can do all of that before going to work, right?

Yoongi is surprised with how awake he is less than a minute after opening his eyes. He’s quick to leave the bed, not bothering with his slippers and walking barefoot to the kitchen to get what he needs. Once back in the room, he quietly places everything next to the bed and takes a deep breath before calling your name.

“I know it’s early, but you have to wake up for me,” he coaxes, a light and delicate hand moving to uncover your upper body. You complain lowly, trying to pull the sheets back. “No, no. I mean it. I’m not going to give in today, you need to wake up.”

You may be stubborn, but so is Yoongi when he wants to be. He drags the comforter further, ignoring your whines and reaching for the thermometer when you finally open your eyes.

Your voice is hoarse when you speak. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m pretty sure you have a fever. Open up, please,” he asks and you’re too tired to say no or demand more information. Yoongi places the cold thermometer against your tongue and it makes you shudder again. “Hold on just a little bit, okay? I got the medicine, but forgot the water.”

When Yoongi leaves the bed again, you realize your body is acting weird. Your limbs are heavy and sore for no reason, skin damp with sweat, somehow feeling cold and hot at the same time, throat dry and tight — everything you were already experiencing the day before, but worse. And then you thought it was just your body begging for an early night… 

Yoongi is back less than a minute later with a glass of water and a permanent worried expression making the skin between his eyebrows wrinkle a little. He checks the thermometer only to mumble yeah, you have a fever before helping you rest on your forearm to take the round pill and water from his hands.

“What am I going to do with you today, huh?” Yoongi asks rhetorically, fixing a now disgusting strand of hair behind your ear. He doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t. “You’ll have to call in sick and I have a long day of meetings. I think I can cancel the last two and come home early, but…”

“Don’t,” you warn with a look and Yoongi is smiling warmly at you. He absolutely loves it when you try to sound threatening like that. “I’m good.”

“You’re definitely not…”

“I am!” You interrupt, voice cracking like a teenager. You don’t have to ask — Yoongi is already reaching for the glass again so you can drink the rest of the water. You thank him with your eyes when you return it empty.

“Okay, so are you good enough to take a shower? Or maybe I can run you a bath? My mom always says you should take a shower when you have a fever.”

“A cold bath?” Your voice goes up an octave when you ask and you hope it’s enough to distract Yoongi from the fact you’re dragging yourself towards him — it’s not, of course, but he would never complain about you getting closer to him. You wiggle a little, sighing contently when your head finally rests on Yoongi’s tummy. The arm that encircles his middle moves on instinct.

“No, not a cold one. A normal one. Just not as hot.”

“Does that mean you’re going to give me a bath in the morning? That has never happened before, I’m now officially interested.”

You can’t really see it, but Yoongi shakes his head playfully. “If you want to spend your bath card, then yes.”

“Can’t I have, like, an emergency bath? I wasn’t planning on spending the bath card, but I also wasn’t planning on getting sick, so it’s only fair that…”

“Yes,” Yoongi interrupts and, this time, you’re surprised enough to raise you head to look at him — toothless smile on his face, eyes staring right into yours. “If it helps you get better… I’ll do anything.”

Yoongi doesn’t say much after that — and, honestly, neither do you. There are a lot of things running through your mind, a lot of things you want to say, but you stop yourself for some reason. It’s like even in a feverish state your brain knows you could never find the right words to truly thank him for everything. 

When you hear the sound of water running in the en-suite and the footsteps getting closer, you open your eyes again. You know he’s worried by the way he walks — usually a bit more laid back and sometimes even lazy, but now determined and a bit heavy. You can see it in the way his eyes become more rounded, lips slightly parted, hands way too careful when he moves the comforter all the way down to free your legs.

When Yoongi speaks, however, his voice is as light as a cloud. “Come on. Your bath is almost ready.”

You let him help you get up although you really don’t think it is necessary at all. His hands are warm against yours, intertwined like he loves it the most, dragging you into the bathroom while he walks backwards. You notice his expression soften, worried and rounded eyes being replaced by smiley half moons.

What you don’t know is that you’re the reason behind them. Both of them. The worry and the delight — balanced. He really can’t help smiling whenever you look at him like this.

Yoongi’s hands only leave yours to help you discard the damp shirt, the other pieces of clothing following soon after and found forgotten on the floor. When your foot first touches the water, you whine and look back at him to complain this is cold! only to be replied with a soft, but firm it’s not cold, it’s lukewarm. It’s a bit uncomfortable at first, different from the feeling you usually get from the baths Yoongi gives you, but also incredibly easy to get used to somehow.

Once your body sinks in, Yoongi’s right hand promptly reaches for the sponge and uses it to bring water to your shoulders and neck. They’re definitely the warmest parts of your body and you immediately feel them calm down a little when the water hits your skin. He does it again and again, squeezing the sponge once it’s high enough to allow the water to fall where he wants.

It seems like a while has passed, but you’re not quite sure. You’ve lost count of how many times Yoongi has repeated his actions and slowly you feel your body fall forward a bit, helping him get better access to your back. You could fall asleep at any moment now.

“Hey, don’t sleep on me,” Yoongi says gently, letting go of the sponge before caressing the area near your waist with the very tip of his fingers. “Are you feeling any better?”

Out of sleepiness and laziness, you simply nod instead of using words. Out of fondness and appreciation, you reach for his opposite hand to leave a light kiss there. 

You don’t have to say anything — Yoongi knows the answer.

Read more ›› masterlist

request | Hey can i get something like when you’re sick and yoongi get so worried about it? Thanks

note 2 | so simple yet i still can’t follow the idea very well. yup that’s me

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 17: Lingering Touch

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood, penetrative sex, oral sex, breeding kink, heat, sex toys, overstimulation

Summary: Juniper wakes up after the Bloodmoon… but something feels different

Feedback appreciated. 18+

This is a smut heavy chapter folks….

Juniper awoke in their bed. Her muscles were sore and she felt incredibly hungry. She raised her hand to touch her face, but a sharp thorn of pain rippled through the bones of her arm. Juniper looked down, seeing her arm wrapped up in thick bandages.

She made a tiny sound of alarm, trying to sit up. Her memories were coated in a thick fog of the night before, the only thing that was at the forefront was the taste on her tongue:

Blood.

Was it her own? She was obviously injured. But oh god, what if it wasn’t. If her stomach wasn’t a yawning emptiness she might have retched.

Juniper heard the speakers rattle to life overhead.

“You awake buttercup?” Heisenberg’s voice sounded.

“Y-yea…” she answered.

“You sit tight and rest.” His voice ordered, “I’ll be up after I finish up down here, and I better not see your ass out of that room.”

As the speakers died Juniper huffed annoyed.

She shakily stood, making her way to the kitchen. She rummaged through the fridge and cabinets, desperately wanting to fill her belly and wash the taste from her mouth.

Juniper ended up making the biggest sandwich she’d ever made: it consisted of multiple layers of cheese and meats, even adding what little veggies she could find onto it.

She sat at the table, wolfing it down hungrily. She felt like her insides were hollow. As she neared the end of her meal Heisenberg came through the door to check on her.

He looked over the disorderly kitchen, shooting her an amused smile, “Hungry, kitten?”

She nodded, her mouth full of her most recent bite.

Heisenberg chuckled, striding past and sifting through the mess to make himself something.

Juniper swallowed, then asked, “What happened?”

Heisenberg gave a deep sigh, “Well…long story short, you turned into the big bitch again.”

Juniper grew quiet, trying to think.

Heisenberg went on, “I don’t know what you did, you fucking ran off on me. Found you in the stronghold, had a gunshot wound.” He gestured to her arm. Juniper felt it over swallowing again.

“D-Did I hurt anyone?” She asked tentatively.

Heisenberg gave her a long look before answering honestly, “I’m not sure Doll…but you were covered in blood…”

She read between the lines, nodding.

Shrugging Heisenberg picked up his plate to sit next to her, “It comes with the territory, buttercup. We all lose control early on.”

He reached out and took her hand in his gloved one, “It’ll get easier.”

Juniper nodded again, meeting his eyes.

~

The next few days went by slowly. Juniper felt restless and hot. Her skin felt sensitive and the hunger morphed into something more, a different emptiness and need filled her.

She sat down in the workshop, and Juniper was in a mood, the type of mood where she strove to be the biggest nuance she could be. It had long since worn Heisenberg thin, her status to him the only thing keeping him some semblance of calm.

“Buttercup…” Heisenberg hissed through clenched teeth, “You are really starting to piss me off.”

She pulled the tool she’d been lightly tickling him with away with a little whine. She wanted attention, wanted to be touched.

“How about you go back to the apartment.” It was more of an order, “Let me work.”

She begrudgingly did what she was told, returning to the apartment dejectedly. Sitting on the edge of the bed she fidgeted with the edge of her dress.

As the hours went on the feeling sharpened into a deep desire. Her body erupted into a cold sweat, muscles twitching under the skin. Her mind felt foggy and heavy.

~

Heisenberg finally entered the apartment, after he'd finished with the tasks he set before him that day. The second he was through the threshold Juniper was on him. She was unclothed, eyes dilated.

“Hello, Doll.” He gave a cocky smile as she started pulling his coat off. He let her as he slowly walked towards the bed.

Juniper pushed Heisenberg back onto the bed. He made a sound as he hit the mattress, chuckling once he got his breath.

“You ok buttercup?” He smiled cockily, watching as she practically ripped the rest of her clothing from herself.

“No.” She shook her head, crawling over him. Her eyes were dark and lustful, sweat gathering on her brow.

“I’m so horny.” She huffed out, “So horny it hurts!”

“Hey now.” He chuckled as she started to undo his belt. Juniper looked up at him almost annoyed before continuing.

“So am I going to be the pillow princess tonight?” He folded his arms behind his head showily.

Juniper struggled to get him undressed, her hands shaking a bit.

“You can be whatever you want.” She almost growled.

When his cock was free she found it with her mouth hungrily. Heisenberg made a sound of surprise as she lathed over him with her tongue.

She looked up at him with half lidded eyes, vision of a predator. His smirk faltered, her smell hitting him. She smelled sweet and alluring.

He licked his lips, realizing she’d been acting strangely since the bloodmoon.

Had its primal song sent her into a mock heat?

He didn’t have long to muse, she was on him. She trapped him between her thighs, letting out a ragged breath. Heisenberg rubbed up her legs softly, aware of her dripping core.

He smiled roguishly, thinking he was in for a good night.

~

Juniper bounced on him, seemingly unrelenting. Heisenberg’s eyes were shut, his jaw tight. His muscles would tighten with every movement of her hips. Her hands found his shoulders, beginning to buck faster as another orgasm inched ever closer.

Heisenberg had already come multiple times, concentrating more on holding himself together now then focusing on whatever she was doing.

Her walls clenched down on him, milking his cock. Juniper threw her head back, playing with her own piercings as she cried out.

Heisenberg writhed underneath her, unable to hide his sounds. He moaned loudly, gripping her hips as she kept up her onslaught. His thighs trembled with pleasure under her.

“F-Fuck buttercup!” He moaned out, huffing out hotly. His idea of the night was quickly turning over to survival.

Juniper couldn’t find real relief, her body searched it out with unending energy. His smell was driving her wild: a mix of musk and sweat. She ran her fingers through Heisenberg’s chest hair, drawing out a shutter from him.

Had it been hours? How many times did he spill out into her?

Heisenberg didn’t know, overstimulation and pleasure bleed together into a cocktail of primal passion that made his head spin. He was usually the one with higher stamina but Juniper was a force to be reckoned with in this state.

“Doll?” Heisenberg groaned out, when she didn’t stop he grabbed her hips hard.

Juniper mewled in protest.

“Doll, I need a drink.” He shook his head, “You’re fucking killing me here.”

She made a sound of distress as he lifted her off of him. Juniper pouted up at him.

“God damn.” Heisenberg tried to stand, his legs almost buckling under him.

He made his way to the kitchen, nearly falling into the sink. He bent forward, cranking his neck to drink straight from the tap needily. Water trickled down his chin, getting caught in his beard. Shutting off the water, he had a ragged breath.

He turned, seeing her still on the bed, rubbing her thighs together.

Sighing heavily he spoke, “How about I get that toy I made for you, hm?”

“Don’t go!” Juniper stood, worry making her shake.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Can I come with you.”

“It’ll be faster if you’re not hanging all over me buttercup.” He admitted, seeing her wilt.

“I’ll come right back and play with you for a while with the toy…Give me a bit of a breather.” He admitted, “Then I’ll be top for a while. See if that’ll help.”

She gave him a tiny nod.

He was true to his word, as he most often was, returning promptly with the toy in hand. He pulled up a char before the bed, sitting heavily down.

“Get on your knees, in the bed.” He instructed, using his powers to pull his cigar case towards him. She crawled onto the bed, lifting her butt up in the air. She waited impatiently as he cut and lit a cigar. He took a long drag before mentally bringing the toy over to her.

She made a little cry as the cold metal speared into her. Heisenberg leaned back in the chair, watching as he used the device to piston into her, setting a quick pace.

A mixture of her own slick and his come ran down her thighs from her swollen cunt.

He kept this up for a long while, removing the toy to press against her clit from time to time. He loved to just sit and watch her fall apart.

The way her legs trembled and her back arched to get better angles. He’d never seen her so feverish to fuck, unused to being the one running out of stamina.

When he felt his strength return with a second wind he pulled the toy free of her. It fell wetly to the floor with a metallic clink. Juniper made a little sound from the loss of sensation.

Juniper started to move, turning to look at him.

Heisenberg stood growling, “Stay right there. Ass up.”

She complied, wiggling her hips a bit enticingly. He stood behind her, marveling at the artwork of flesh before him. He ran his palms over the plush of her ass and down her soft thighs, earning a mewl from her.

“You want to act like a needy bitch, you’ll be fucked like one.” He spoke huskily as he lined himself with her opening.

He speared into her without mercy. If she wanted to be fucked in oblivion he would do his damndest to comply. He set a fast rough pace, hearing her cry out every time he hilted fully in her flesh.

“Yea this is what you fucking wanted, wasn’t it?” He growled, pounding into her. She made a sound, lips open and wavering.

He smacked her ass hard, “Want my pups you, needy Bitch?”

“Y-yes!” She cried.

“Tell me.” He thrust faster, fingernails digging into the skin of her hip.

“I want your pups!” Screamed out as an orgasm washed over her.

Heisenberg groaned out, feeling her walls fluttering around him.

Her nerves were shot, pleasure numbing every extremity. He was finally fucking all thought from her.

“That’s it.” He moaned, feeling her finally submitting fully.

Their hips clapped together loudly, almost drowning out the wet sound. Juniper mewled under him.

He gave a few more savage thrusts, gripping her hips enough to bruise as he buried his cock in her. His balls tightened as he filled her with everything he still had, roaring out like a Lycan.

He fell forward, stomach pressed against her lower back. He dipped his head down and whispered in a gravelly voice, “Good girl.”

Heisenberg pulled out of her, feeling sore and aching. Juniper collapsed onto the bed, relief washing through her. He lay down beside her, the only sound the mixture of their labored breathing. Both were totally spent, mentally and physically.

“Warn me next time you feel…whatever the fuck that was…ok doll?” Heisenberg murmured with closed eyes.

Juniper gave a little rumble.

[ilalos]

Lavender dreams (Anthony Bridgerton x OC)-Part 2/3

Word count: 1.8k

Dances came and went and Grace had saved a dance for Anthony in each and every one of them, but he had yet to ask her for an outing. Gigi supposed he was busy enough trying to get Eloise to go on at least one outing with one of the few men that passed his rigorous check but was it so hard to take her out for a walk in the park or perhaps to have some tea? It didn’t help that she had heard rumors of him meeting actresses every night with unholy purposes, but she held hope for the eldest Bridgerton because every time they danced she felt as if there was no one else on the dance floor with them, and every time they talked he pulled a smile from her even if seconds before she had been upset.

She had had some outings with a couple of gentlemen who were approved by Simon and Daphne, and even if they were fine, educated young men she felt nothing for them. She knew her time was cutting short as it was already the middle of the season and her father didn’t have much time left, but she hadn’t felt anything resembling love for any of her callers. She had, however, started a friendship with non-other than Colin Bridgerton, and this lead Lady Whistledown to speculate about a possible engagement between the pair. The truth was, Colin saw Gigi as a sister at most and she saw him as the brother she never had.

The possibility of Colin proposing was truly daunting to Lady Bridgerton as she knew this union would break Anthony’s heart and could potentially cause a rift between the brothers. She had taken notice of the way her eldest tensed whenever one of the girls read the latest Lady Whistledown and the young couple was mentioned, Colin would always scoff and remind everyone he had no intentions of getting engaged anytime soon but that did nothing to lessen the deep frown in Anthony’s face or his mother’s worry.

Anthony had been visiting the brothel more often in a poor attempt to forget about Gigi and also convincing himself that he would never be deserving of the girl’s love. He knew he needed a wife and he intended on marrying that very season, but the thought of Gigi suffering half as much with his death as his mother did when his father passed, refrained him from accepting his feelings and proposing. Despite his resolve to forget his feelings for her, he continued to dance with her at every ball and party. When they danced he felt as if he could stay there forever, twirling her in his arms and holding her as close as possible; they talked sometimes at these events and felt as if they had known each other their whole lives.

It was the day of the picnic and the Bridgerton family was excited after hearing from the eldest daughter that Lord Watts had informed her and her husband of his intentions to propose to Grace. He was an earl and he and Grace had had some successful outings.

Grace had no objections toward the young man apart from the fact that she bore no feelings for him whatsoever, but given her lack of time to worry on such silly matters, she chose to ignore that in favor of having the wedding her father wished for, and who knows? Maybe their love would sprout once they were married.

When Anthony heard the news he could almost hear his heartbreaking in half, a pain ten times bigger than the one he felt when Siena rejected him. He almost wanted to beg Colin to propose before Lord Watts had the chance, at least that way he would be able to still see her when the couple visited. He decided to skip the picnic and instead stayed at home reviewing the business to avoid having to watch the happy couple celebrating their future union.

The proposal didn’t occur at the event, Lord Watts was there and he did take Grace on a walk but he had made the decision to make a formal proposal at his family’s home the following day so he limited himself to invite Grace, the duke, the duchess, and Lady Bridgerton to his house for tea. The invitation was accepted and the picnic continued without much excitement. The Duke's family left first because baby A was behaving quite fussy and her mother suspected it was due to the unforgiving sun beaming down on them; soon after the Bridgertons left due to a menacing black cloud that darkened the festivities.

Night and storm had fallen upon Lady Danbury’s home when a nervous messenger knocked urgently on the state’s door. Mr. Lock, the butler, had opened the door.

“How can I help-”

“Lord Bridgerton’s carriage was robbed and he is terribly hurt!” The young man had yelled the message hoping the duchess would hear him “Lady Bridgerton urges the presence of her eldest daughter in this uncertain times”

Grace had been the one to hear the messenger’s words and she felt panic take hold of her body. She ran to the door and demanded a horse be readied for her, the butler refused to let her go alone into the rain and advised her to wait until the carriage was ready. At his refusal, she chose to forget decorum and took the messenger's horse and rode it into the storm. The duke and duchess had heard the commotion and ordered the footman to ready the carriage at once.

Grace rode to the Bridgerton household in record time and when she got there she rode straight into the nearby stables, dropped the horse, and ran to the home’s door. Lady Bridgerton opened with teary eyes expecting to see Daphne and let a gasp when instead of her eldest daughter she saw the soaked figure of Grace Gillingham standing at her doorstep.

“Where is he?” That was all the girl said.

“Upstairs, the doctor is seeing him in his bedroom”

The woman barely finished her sentence before the younger girl pushed past her and ran up the stairs, politeness be dammed. She found Benedict passing by Anthony’s door and before she could ask about the man’s condition a pained scream tore through the wood. She gasped as if she felt his pain and fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

“The doctor said his injuries are extensive but not life-threatening” Benedict said it trying to calm the poor girl down but her sobs remained the same, “he said it would take a while, maybe you should go get changed into some dry clothes, surely Eloise can lend you some”

“I’m not leaving this door until I see with my own eyes that he is well”

Benedict only nodded and watched her seat on the floor with her back against the wall, right across the door. Daphne arrived not long after and she too tried to convince Grace to change out of her soaked clothing or to at least drink some hot tea while they waited but the girl refused

“I will be fine” was all she had said through gritted teeth and blue lips.

Hours passed and every once in a while a pained clamor would leave the room, Benedict watched how each sound made a fresh wave of tears fall from Gigi’s eyes. The wait was long and soon Benedict found himself nodding off against the wall, only to be suddenly awakened by the door opening, Grace barely waited for the doctor to exit the room before running inside and kneeling at Anthony’s bedside, taking his hand between hers and looking at his face with relief when hearing taking notice of his breathing and the pulsing of his heart.

“He’ll need lots of rest to properly heal his wounds but he will make a full recovery” the doctor took one look at Grace and shook his head with a smile “Give this to her as soon as you can” he said as he handed Benedict a vial with a yellowish liquid.

“What is this concoction?”

“It will help her fever and lessen her cold symptoms” he explained “If she looks abnormally flushed or agitated, call me immediately”

Anthony thought he had never felt pain as bad as when the doctor had healed his wounds but seeing Grace’s feverish form sleeping uncomfortably in a chair at his bedside hurt more than whatever he felt the night prior. He saw her pale skin and red cheeks that hinted towards a fever, and her labored breathing pointed to a terrible cold, his hand was resting between hers and he marveled at how small they looked around his. He saw Benedict enter the room and questioned him about her presence.

“She rode on a stolen horse in the middle of a storm to be by your side, brother” Benedict chuckled at his brother’s astonished expression, knowing his surprise would only grow “She pushed past mother, entered the house uninvited, sat on the floor in the hallway and refused to move until she knew you were alright” he pointed to her reddened cheeks and continued “She didn’t even change out of her soaked dress until she saw you with her own eyes, the poor thing caught a terrible cold and only accepted to take the medicine and the change of clothes if we allowed her to stay here by your side”

Anthony felt his heart explode with love for the girl, the feelings so strong his eyes glossed with unshed tears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have such an angel loving him so much, and he only hoped he could make her feel half as loved as he felt at that very moment. He had to admit he was angered by her reckless behavior but the love overshadowed his protective feelings...until he saw her being woken up by a sudden fit of horribly sounding cough. He watched as she fought to regain her breath and was ready to chastise her until he noticed the way she looked at him, with so much love and so much relief he forgot what he was going to say.

“You’re awake,” she said simply, processing “You are awake!” Once processed the information had caused her tremendous joy and she jumped to embrace him, only to jump back when she heard his quiet complaint from the pressure put on his recent wounds “I apologize Lord Bridgerton, in my excitement, I seem to have forgotten about your injuries”

“No need to apologize, love” the pet name just flew past his lips, catching them both by surprise “You must go to get some proper rest now, you are sick and tired, we’ll talk later about the poor decisions you took yesterday”

Grace only nodded and without thinking took his hand and kissed his palm before leaving to finally get some rest on an actual bed.

“Fetch the Duke of Hastings for me, Benedict, I have a proposal to make”

PART 3

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Hi! If you’re still following along this story know that I appreciate it :))))) Thank you so so much for reading! I hope you enjoy it

[hichi842]

Scenario: s/o taking care of sick midoriya, bakugou, todoroki (individual scenarios)

Pairings: Midoriya, Bakugo, Todoroki x reader

Warnings⚠️: None

S/o Taking Care of Sick Boyfriend

Izuku Midoriya

You and Izuku had been planning a date on the weekend since you both had an off day from school.

Though the morning of the event, you were surprised to see that you’ve received a text from the boy himself.

He told you that he had to cancel your date. He had caught a pretty bad cold and wouldn’t be able to make it.

As soon as you read it, you felt as if you should go to his place. You assumed that his mother was taking care of him, but maybe she could use your help or at least you can stay by your boyfriend’s side while he got better.

So you packed up a small bag of essentials and made your way to the Midoriya residence.

As soon as you got there, you knocked on the door, Midoriya’s mother opened it after a few moments.

“Oh! Hi dear, what brings you here?”

“Hey! I heard Izuku was sick and wanted to see if you need any help taking care of him.” You replied to the lady.

She smiled to you and ushered you in. There sitting at the couch in the small living room, was Izuku wrapped in a fluffy blanket, a dampened towel resting on his forehead.

You guessed he had heard his mother answer the door to you. “(Y/n), You really didn’t need to come over, I’m not too sick.” He said with a raspy voice.

“I know, but I would like to help and spend some time with you.” You replied, making your way to the boy’s side and patted his head lightly, which made him smile. “Anyway, Inko do you need my help with anything?”

“Could you help me make some soup darling?” You nodded with a smile as you two made your way to the kitchen.

From there, you guys made some miso soup and talked to each other, mostly about Izuku and your guy’s relationship.

Once you guys finally finished the soup, you dished it into three bowls for you guys.

“I already gave Izuku some medicine, so he should just take time to recover now. If you guys want to, I could leave you two alone and you guys can watch a movie together.” The middle age woman offered.

You smiled and immediately accepted her offer with a ‘thank you’. So she made her way to her room and you went to the living room to where Izuku was.

“Here you go.” You told him as you handed the bowl to him and plopped down next to him. “Let’s watch a movie!” You said.

“Okay!” He chuckled slightly, a couple coughs following. He removed half of the blanket and wrapped it around you, you pulled his head onto your shoulder and smiled, kissing him lightly in his soft hair.

You guys chose a cute Disney movie and sat there watching it together, eventually both of you ended up falling asleep together.

His mom most definitely took pictures of the two of you.

Katsuki Bakugo

It was any average day at school, going between your normal classes and interacting with your friends and boyfriend, Katsuki.

Though, for some reason, Katsuki wasn’t quite himself this day. He seemed very tired and dazed which was definitely interesting since this man legitimately goes to sleep at 8.

He also hasn’t yelled at a single person today, even when Midoriya bumped into him on accident or Kaminari was making fun of him.

Not to mention, that he was sweating A LOT. You knew his quirk required a lot of sweat, but this much was really unnatural.

Currently, you both were walking down the hall side by side to get to lunch when you decided to confront him about his weird behavior.

“Are you okay babe? You’ve been acting weird today.” You asked and he looked over to you.

“Tch. I’m fine you idiot, stop over reacting.” He rolled his eyes and you frowned.

“Well okay, but if something’s up, you can always tell me.” You stated.

He grabbed your hand and continued walking. “Yeah whatever.”

From then on, Katsuki continued with his off behavior, the only problem is that he wouldn’t tell you anything and you were starting to get worried.

It wasn’t until hero training class where you guys were sparing in pairs that you really started to get concerned.

You and your boyfriend were teamed up, but unlike usual, Katsuki was having a really tough time fighting you, he was breathing extremely heavy and was moving very slowly.

You had stopped trying to fight him, but as soon as you did, he collapsed and became unconscious. You immediately ran to his side and picked him up, calling for the teacher.

Aizawa simply told you to take him to the nurse which you swiftly did.

Once you had got to Recovery Girl, she examined him and determined that he had a high fever. She gave him some medicine and such before returning to her other duties. She allowed you to stay by his side till he woke up.

So for a while you just sat there watching the boy until he finally got up. He looked around the room, a bit confused.

“You idiot, you shouldn’t have went to school if you were this sick, why didn’t you tell me?!” You immediately began ranting and Katsuki just stared at you, he almost looked intimidated.

After you finished, he spoke up. “I know..............” He hesitated a bit, almost like he was fighting himself internally. “...and I’m sorry.” You were a bit shocked by that.

“Oh!... um... well, it’s fine.” You said. “Let’s just get you home so you could rest, okay?” You smiled and he gave you a defeated nod.

Shoto Todoroki

Ever since you and Shoto has started dating, you went to his house every Sunday in order to study or do homework together.

It was only a few hours and you had to leave as soon as his father came home from work, but you guys valued the time together nonetheless.

Currently you were walking to said boy’s house, only about five more minutes away. You didn’t even contact him before you left since you did this every week.

Once you had made it to his house, you immediately knocked on the door which Shoto’s sister, Fuyumi, answered.

“Oh (Y/n)! I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you that Shoto can’t meet today.” She said as soon as she saw you.

“Oh, why?” You replied, a bit surprised to hear that.

“He was training his quirk and used a bit too much of his left side, he got a really bad fever from it.” She answered and you nodded, understanding the situation.

You sat there, thinking for a second. “Well, is it okay if I visit anyway to see how he’s doing?”

Fuyumi smiled and gave you a quick ‘of course’. You made you way into the familiar place before excusing yourself to Shoto’s room.

Once you made it down the hall, you saw that his door was already cracked open, so you decided to just go in.

Stepping into the room, you saw the boy laying in his bed. He seemed to be asleep, so you made your way over to him.

You could tell he was in bad shape. His breath were ragged and he was sweating. You laid your hand on his head and it was burning up.

As soon as your retracted your hand though, Shoto began to stir from his slumber, looking up at you with tired eyes.

“(Y/n)...?” He asked.

“Oh Shoto, how are you feeling? You don’t look to well.” You frowned.

“I- I’m a bit warm...” He hesitated before saying the next line. “I think I’m going rest again now.” He started to waver, obviously in a dazed and feverish state.

Of course, I’ll go out in the living room with your sister, get lots of rest!” You were about to turn around before arms pulled you into the bed.

“Would you lay with me for awhile love.” Your cheeks reddened slightly at his words, he was definitely a bit more affectionate in this state.

Nonetheless, you laid down facing the boy as he adjusted his arms around your waist.

You two were there for awhile, Shoto eventually going to sleep as you laid there in his warm arms.

You had started to feel a bit tired yourself, you tried to stay awake, but the longer you did the harder it was.

Soon enough you just decided it was best to sleep and deal the consequences later, after all you felt like your boyfriend needed this.

You looked up to the sickly boy, it almost seemed like his fever was going a bit down. You smiled before kissing him gently on his forehead and cuddling into his chest.

You slowly nodded off to sleep.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Feverish and Teary & How Long Has it Been Since You’ve Eaten- Prompt Fill

@thatonekidellis​ Jon, Tim, and Martin have a rough time after the Unknowing. Especially Jon.  I hope this is kind of what you were asking for?  

@janekfan​ you get a ping because this is your au!

CWs: nausea, vomiting, fainting, fever, food mention, alcohol mention, canon typical mentions of Tim's pre-unknowing mindset, canon typical Jon not taking care of himself.

I am still accepting bingo prompts, so let me know which character, which prompt, and if you want a drawing of a fic!  Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa​!  This one is twice my usual length because it is two prompts and I did not want to cheat!

The Unknowing blows up.  

As simple as that.  

All according to plan.  

It really is as simple as that.  

Jon, Tim, Daisy, Basira.  Piled back in Daisy's car.  Ears ringing.  Soot slowly settling.  Trying to drive away before the actually police get there.  

It hasn't been Jon's problem how to avoid arrest.  

He is even more glad it isn't his problem now, as he slides down the beat up seat in the back of Daisy's car.  Ash streaks the window, mixing with the light rains that is starting to fall.  

Jon tries not to vomit the nothing he's eaten in the last couple days.  Nothing in him but frayed nerves and statements.  Hadn't even managed to stomach dramamine before their trip.  

Jon just wants to sleep.  

They still have their hotel reservation for another couple hours, so Daisy drives them back there to clean up before heading back to London.  Yes they have to go back today, it's less suspicious.  Jon isn't sure if that is actually true, but he doesn't have the energy to argue.  

Tim showers.  Jon sends a text to Martin.  'Alive.'  

He doesn't answer Martin's near-immediate call because just then he's dry-heaving into the small bin in the corner.  Stiff and shaking and sweaty and miserable.    

Jon showers.  Too dizzy to stand, he sits on the shower floor.  He hates that.  The tub feels filthy.  He feels filthy.  He scrubs his skin raw.  He stands.  He throws up more nothing.  He scrubs himself again, leaning heavily on the wall.  

He wants to talk to Tim.  He wants to tuck himself into Tim's arms and never move again.  Christ, he's running an impressive fever.  Probably.  It's hard to tell.  And his brain is swimming too much to even think about asking the Eye.  

He's cold.  He shivers in his threadbare joggers and stolen jumper (Martin's).  

He wants to join Tim on the bed by the window, but Tim ...looks too deep in a melancholy thought to even notice.  Somewhere between losing his drive for anything, adrenaline crash, and losing the last hope of a last glimpse of Danny, if Jon were to guess.  

Jon could say something.  He knows he could.  But, hasn't he caused enough of a fuss?  Made Tim and Martin trail after him after the ...the.... with Daisy and... that.  If he'd have just stayed quiet and stayed still... well Tim would still hate him... and might not be alive... but ....but he's caused so much worry with that.  And then with... his other kidnapping No.  He can't think about what that... what... not without puking again which... the point is not to worry Tim.  Which means he should try some medicine again.... if he can keep it in him half an hour he'll survive the drive back.  Probably.  

Christ, when is the last time he bothered to drink anything?  

He lays there in a daze until Daisy bangs on the door telling them it's time to leave.  

Tim sleeps on the drive back.  Finally giving into the last few sleepless nights.  Jon is jealous.  

Last night had been spent tangled together, shaking, awake, and silent.  Anxiety too thick to slice with words.  Not even nothing to turn off the lights, because the fear is a little easier to manage in the light.  Jon couldn't stop thinking about Nikola.  He couldn't stop thinking about plastic hands on him.  Couldn't stop thinking about how many things could go wrong and how he could lose Tim and Martin when he only just got Tim back.  

Jon was pretty sure Tim hadn't been sleeping the last few nights.  Jon knows he hasn't.  Not that he has slept well in a long time.    

In any case, Tim sleeps.  Jon doesn't.  

Daisy glares at him through the review mirror.  Jon isn't sure if she is still waiting for him to prove himself monstrous so she can attack, or if she is making sure he isn't ill in her car... again.  (He really wishes he could forget his first ride in her car.  Really really really wishes.  It was not a pleasant experience for anyone, and Daisy had made him pay the cleaning bill.)  

It doesn't matter, he slides down further in his seat and closes his eyes tightly.  

His head hurts.  

Thankfully the medicine knocks him out soon enough.  

Martin greets them at the institute door.  Melanie by his side.  

Jon hazily wakes up to Martin gently touching his shoulder.  

"You actually made it!  I'm so glad you're safe... I was so worried, Jon why didn't you answer your phone, I've been so worried, I mean I know you would have said something if something had happened, but Christ I've been so worried about you, come here."  

Jon starts mumbling some apologies, but is interrupted by Martin gently gathering him in a hug.  Jon sinks into it, fervently hoping Martin doesn't notice the heat rolling off of him.  

Thankfully Martin is too distracted, gathering Tim in a crushing embrace.  Likely very relieved that Tim didn't die, and knowing Tim is harder to break than Jon with his delicate bones and fragility following many incidents.  

Jon... doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish.  Just... get out?  Or go in?  Or get to the cot?  Or just curl up on the cold tile of the basement toilets?  Get away from people he will inevitably worry?  

Just go somewhere where he can fall apart without taking anyone else down with him.  

It looks like Martin has been crying.  Jon hopes it isn't over him.  

Tim needs to recover from the emotional toll of the last few days without having to pick up the pieces after Jon Again.  

Jon slowly backs away.  

His head is swimming, but that's okay.  If he can just reach the Archives.  The cot.  Anywhere.  Anywhere away from this moment.  This breath.  

His vision swims violently, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to be very well acquainted with the pavement in a matter of seconds.  Either that or he's going to be ill?  No.  Sidewalk.  He's going to eat the sidewalk.  Heh... first thing he'll have eaten in days.  

He isn't sure if he loses consciousness or not.  It's hard to tell in the blur of motion and sounds and his spinning head.  Sound is almost gooey in this state of almost unconsciousness, but he thinks someone might be shouting.  Or several someones.  He should maybe worry about this?  But in actuality, he is praying he properly passes out to save himself any more embarrassment and save himself from his unsteady insides.  

His face hurts.  

Someone is holding him.  

Jon fights to open his eyes.  They don't seem to want to look in the same direction, rolling in their sockets instead of doing what he wants them to.  He blinks hard a few times, failing to bring things into focus.  Glasses?  Does he still have those?  Did they break?  No... still there.  Skewed on his face.  Just... too dizzy to see, then.  

Daisy and Basira are glaring at him.  Melanie is walking away.  Possibly.  Hard to tell when the world is tilting with unsteady regularity.  

Jon closes his eyes again, pressing a groan against the nausea that threatens to overcome him, despite the medicine.  

"Jon?"  

"Burning up."

He's too hazy to put a name to a voice.  The words dripping in the air around him, tightening around his chest, silly string sitting on his skin in fibrous heaps that jiggle uncomfortably, cold and clammy.  

Shit, thinking in gibberish.  That can't be good.  

“Does anyone know how long he’s been ill?”  

Someone grunts.  

Footsteps.  Two sets?  I’m asking away.  Leaving him.   

“I.... I don’t know.  I don’t think he was feverish last night?  But... I haven’t exactly been... It’s.  It’s been hard.”

“Jon?”

He’s being jostled.   He whines.  Stomach flopping dangerously.   

"Jon?  Are you awake?  Can you open your eyes for me?"  

"Oh shit, he's gonna puke."  

He's being lifted, shifted on his side, bin shoved in his hands.  Where he throws up more nothing.  

He's crying now, feeling like utter shit, and unfortunately more awake.  

He isn't sure if eyes swimming with tears is better or worse than the unsteady world tipping around him and making him feel worse.  

"Christ, Jon!"  

He finally pries his eyes open.  Martin and Tim solidify above him.  More or less.  Still fuzzing in and out of focus.  

Now that he's crying, he just... can't stop.  Fistfuls of Martin's sweater.  

"Oh Jon..."  Martin's arms circle him, carefully.  Gentle not to jostle him more.  

"Buddy.  Think we can get you off the sidewalk?"  Tim.  Cupping his face.  Smoothing back sweat and tear soaked hair, long since escaped his bun, still not dried from his earlier shower.  "My flat isn't far, you know?  Didn't bring my car here, though.  Still... wasn't..."

Tim cuts himself off, but even addled as he is, Jon can fill in the rest of the sentence.  

So can Martin apparently, because Martin frowns.  It's never been more apparent that he's been crying quite recently.  "Still weren't sure you were coming home...  Tim..."  And his eyes start looking damp.  

Tim is tearing up now.  "Martin... let's not in the street...  I can carry Jon back to mine, it isn't far.  You can come too.  We'll get some take out.  Drink some whiskey.  Get Mr. Smoking hot cooled off.  We can talk then.  It's.... it's been a rough week."  

"Jon?  Can I carry you?  I think that might be less rough than a cab ride?  Do you need a few minutes?"  

Martin's voice is soft, and Jon thinks he could sleep right there.  In fact, he might.  So he nods.  

Martin lifts him carefully.  His head swims again.  This all is feeling rather familiar.  Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He tries to relax despite the lingering anxieties about heights.  Martin feels safe.  Tim is also safe now.  He lets himself drift.  

He wakes briefly on the trip.

"Hey bud, how are you feeling?"  Tim.  Tim seems off.  Too many things crossing his face to parse out, probably even for someone with a better sense than Jon of what those subtle face changes mean.  But Jon is too hazy to think.    

Jon's mouth feels gummed up.  His eyes feel gummed up.  

He's thankful his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it, though.  Although he is very aware how unhealthy it was that he's spent a good portion of the day with his body trying to turn itself inside out, and he couldn't so much as produce bile.  

Jon feels sick thinking about it, so stops.  He drifts again.  

He wakes to a damp rag on his forehead, no memory of anything past the explosion. 

How did he get here? 

"Sorry, that looked like a nice sleep, but you'll feel better with some medicine in you, and some water.  We can try some tea later, once the meds work.  And some food hopefully."  

Martin helping him sit up.  Just enough to get a few sips and some pills into Jon.  Which, Jon thought was probably optimistic, but he'd try it for Martin.  

"When was the last time you ate?" Martin again.  

Jon blinks at him in confusion.  "Is it over?"  

"Is what over?"  Still Martin.  

Where's Tim?  Where's Daisy?  Where's Basira?  Where's Melanie?

His breathing picks up, and that makes his head spin again, and makes him wonder just how long he can keep the medicine down.  

"Is it over, what happened?"  He's panting now, halfway to a panic attack.  

"Jon?  Jon!  Calm down.  Can you take a breath for me?"  

How did he get here?  Where is he?  This looks like Tim's flat, but there is Tim?  Did he survive.  

Jon reaches for anything.  But comes up blank.  

"Where's Tim?  What happened?"  He gasps out.  It feels like his ribcage is shrinking, being laced up the front. fighter than the corset he had worn in acting class in uni.  

"Tim's... taking a moment.  As soon as we got you here... he.... it's been rough on him, you know?  He did all this for... and I know he said he wanted to live.  He wants to live... but he's... not been in a good place and it's helped that you two are talking again... and that he's had company more... but he saw an old picture with.... with his brother.... and that polaroid with ... with Sasha.  Well, he keeps going between you know tearful and sorry and cackling about how everything blew up.  It's... probably a lot to have three revenge schemes going at once for the same.... not a person really... but ... Her.  And then... having it sorted.  But...  Listen Jon I don't know.  What don't you remember... or what's the last thing you remember?"  Martin edges on histerical near the middle, but takes a turn for the sad near the end.  

"I remember the... the world was all wrong.  Then... then it blew up.  Is it over?  Martin are you real.  Is everyone alive?  What happened to you?"  He's desperate.  Desperate breaths too shallow.  Words interrupted by jagged pulling of too thin oxygen.  He's going to pass out.  

He does.  

He wakes feeling... clearer.  The last period of wakefulness a distant and flighty thing, dancing just out of his reach.  The rest of the embarrassing day back in vivid detail.  Tim's sitting over him.  Or rather, curled around him.  Jon's hair is being played with.  A stray curl looped around Tim's finger as he laughs softly to himself.  Muttering that he's alive.  That Jon's alive.  That Martin is alive.  he didn't lose anyone else.  That that clown is finally dead.  Finally.  

Gentle and warm hand on his face, refreshing the cloth.  Checking his temperature.  

"I..."  Tim chokes on a sob.  And Jon tries to remember how his arms work so he can let Tim know he's there.  

"Tim?"  

"Hey bud... sorry."  Tim wipes his eyes on his sleeve.  "It's been a hell of a week.  I... don't know how to feel about it.  Fuck I need a drink....  And to check in with Martin.  I... he hasn't told me what happened, but he's upset.  And.  Fuck I should have noticed you were ill, why didn't you say anything?"  Tim's voice starts to rise, and Jon tenses.  All the times Tim yelled at him still too fresh in his mind.  He trusts Tim.  he does... but Christ he is still afraid.  Afraid that it can't last, that it isn't real.  Where it be a trick of his mind, or some manipulation tactic to an end Jon can't see, he doesn't know.  

"Hey.  Hey.  Buddy... Jon.  I'm sorry.  didn't mean to yell.  It's just... been a day.  I'm not mad at you.  I just... I'm worried about you and Martin and I...I don't know how to feel about everything that happened.  I'm sorry you feel like shit."

Jon feels... like shit.  Marginally less nauseous, however.  A little less like he's going to pass out again.  Probably been given plenty of pills by Martin.  

"Sorry."  He croaks.  Voice probably shredded with smoke.  And fever.  

"He, bud, don't apologize.  I'm sorry I didn't notice you weren't well.  I... I thought I knew better than to be that preoccupied.  I mean... I guess I didn't make it worse this time, but..."  Tim sighs.  "I'm disappointed in myself because I don't want to fuck this up again.  And no don't apologize again part of that was on me and yes part of that was on you and we've done apologies to death.  All we can do now is keep going.  I just wanted to protect you and I couldn't see you were fading in front of my eyes.  Again.  I know you haven't been eating or sleeping, but I haven't been either so I didn't want to call you on it, and I didn't want you to call me on it, but I should have noticed.  I know I couldn't have done much, but I didn't do anything but shut you out again.  I could have told someone to stop to get you medicine, or food or even a bit more rest.  I know that would have done fuck-all, but I still could have offered you a little comfort and warmth and had us brought straight back here."  

Tim's crying properly now.  Jon is too.  Not sure if it is the fever, or just... everything.  There is so much to feel and think and worry about and yes they saved the world but that the fuck comes next.  

What comes next is that Martin enters with tea for Jon and a bottle of whiskey.  

Jon scrubs at his eyes.  "Martin what happened?"  Jon can see he's been crying again.  That is starting to scare him.  It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't pulled an answer out of anyone yet today.  

"It's... well it isn't fine.  I... well our plan worked here too.  Just... you know... Elias.  He can.... He can do things.  It's fine.  It's worth it."  Martin swipes at his eyes furiously.  

Jon pushes himself up, ignoring the room tilting around him, and hugs Martin.  Jon's still crying.  Martin sniffling.  Tim also crying.  It's... a very damp hug.  And Jon knows he's too warm to be comfortable to hold, and he's shivering hard enough to rattle Tim and Martin.  

"I'm... I'm so sorry Martin."  Jon chokes out.  

"It's alright.  It was worth it.  And you both.  Christ I am so glad to see you again... I thought... I thought.... I didn't..."  Martin is fully sobbing now.  Tea set down on Tim's bedside table, the whiskey being pried from his hands by TIm.  

Late that night the bottle is empty (and so are a couple more), Tim and Martin have killer headaches, and Jon is still feverish, but less so.  A lot of tears have been shed.  And Jon has been plied with enough liquids that he feels a little less like a crumbling husk.  

By the time that Tim and Martin are ready to think about food, Jon is finally feeling like he can maybe stomach something.  They order takeout.  Jon... has some broth. 

By morning Jon manages a few bites of leftovers.  

By afternoon, Elias Bushard is arrested.  

[jarienn972]

Weathering the Storm - Part Four

For a multitude of reasons, it has been ages since I've been able to update this story. I had the chapter all plotted out, but never seemed to be able to find time (or sometimes just motivation) to write. I appreciate those who reached out to me asking if I planned to update it and I thank you so much for your patience! I absolutely plan to finish it and right now, there are 2 more planned chapters to close everything out.

For now though, since it has been a few months, here’s a quick recap of where we left off in the last chapter: Emma braved the elements to investigate the abandoned Sheriff cruiser, and after seeing the dashcam video, knows that her husband is injured after the disastrous traffic stop. She's made the assumption that Killian would try to make his way to the closest dwelling to the lonely stretch of highway - Zelena's farmhouse. We're going to pick up at that same farmhouse as the unrelenting thunderstorm continues. 

If you’d like to catch up from the beginning, you can find all of the current chapters on FF.net and AO3. Tumblr: Part One  Part Two  Part Three

Despite the warm glow from the flickering orange and gold flames in the fireplace behind her chair, the lingering dreariness of the day was wearing heavily on Zelena's mood. The sky was still laden with dull, grey clouds unleashing unholy torrents of rain upon the farmhouse's metal roof and continuous gusts of wind threatened to blow away the fluttering blue tarp which was only barely protecting them from the elements.

Oh, what she wouldn't have given right now if she could still possess the ability to poof them all away from this isolated outpost deep in the forest. Maybe she shouldn't have been so hasty and rammed that beat up old jalopy of hers into the Black Fairy. She wasn't particularly good at driving the beast but perhaps she could have managed to get into town… Oh, heavens...who was she kidding? In this weather, she wouldn't have made it to the end of the drive, and anyway, the ugly, metal death-trap was still sitting on a lot in town, rusting away as it awaited repairs. It hadn't been a high priority to fix when she'd had electricity and a working telephone to call Regina who'd pop in with supplies and whatever if she needed a hand with something. If she couldn't solve the problem with magic from a distance, she'd drive out to help her sister and niece, but she certainly couldn't do that right now.

At least, she could be thankful for the simple fact that Robin would sleep through almost anything when she had a full tummy. She couldn't recall the exact time she'd put her daughter down for her afternoon nap, but she estimated that it had been about an hour and a half, meaning her child was going to awaken soon and Zelena would have to figure out a way to entertain a cranky toddler in a dark, drafty house. For now though, the exasperated mom was enjoying the quiet reprieve from this stress-filled day before Robin was awake and wanting to play ,and then Zelena would also have to figure a way to keep the baby from bothering their guest.

Their guest.

How long had it been now since Hook showed up sopping wet on her doorstep? Two hours? Closer to three? Surely Emma would have realized that something was amiss if she'd not heard from her husband by now. How long might it take before someone realized that he was lying on her sofa right at this very moment? He was still semi-peacefully slumbering after taking a swig of the children's pain reliever which might have taken enough of the edge off to allow him to rest - or he'd just passed out from sheer agony and exhaustion.

Either way, she tried to distract herself with a little bit of reading by the firelight. The dancing flames cast odd shadows across the pages making the text difficult to see at times, but then she wasn't fully paying attention to the prose before her. She could scarcely recall a thing she'd read from the prior chapter, much less the last paragraph. She just needed something - anything - to keep her weary mind occupied during this brief reprieve. She was going bloody stir crazy, even beginning to believe she was hearing things that weren't there. She'd swear she just heard something rapping on the kitchen window, but quickly dismissed the thought, figuring it was just the swirling wind rattling the creaky door.

Until she was certain that she heard the sound of her name being called over the howling of the storm.

**********

Emma had briefly considered poofing herself right into the center of Zelena's kitchen, but decided against it at the last second, instead materializing from a cloud of pale grey smoke on the front porch instead. While she was somewhat protected from the storm by the narrow extension of the roof, rain water poured over the eaves in sheets. Considering that the gravel driveway leading up from the road had morphed into a shallow, muddy lake, the porch was relatively dry in comparison, although Emma wasn't certain just how protected she was from Mother Nature's fury when a bolt of lightning lit up the darkened skies. The tin roof above her head probably wasn't the safest right now…

She took a long stride closer to the door, wiping away some condensation from the glass with her sleeve as she peered through the window. She couldn't make out much inside the empty kitchen as it was fairly dark with a faint orangish glow in the distance. Zelena probably had a fire burning to provide some light and heat to stave off the chills with the power still out. She couldn't hear any voices emanating from the interior of the house, but it was possible that the noise of the rain striking the metal roof was drowning out any sounds from inside. But in the dim backlight provided by the firelight, Emma could make out a dark mass draped around the back of one of the ladderback chairs - a shape that looked decidedly like the collar and shoulders of a coat. A dark coat that had enough of a sheen on its surface to reflect the warm hue of the flames. Just like a certain black leather coat that her husband had been wearing when he departed for the station this morning.

Please, let that be Killian's coat, she begged of whatever higher power might be listening as she knocked anxiously on the window. Not noticing any movement inside the farmhouse, she rapped again, but this time on the wooden door instead of the glass as her sight fell upon a ruddy stain upon the white paint. Was that blood?

"Zelena?" she shouted, hoping that her voice would carry louder than her knocking. "Zelena? Are you in there?" Well, that was a stupid question...Of course she had to be inside. Most people wouldn't leave home with a fire still burning and where exactly would she go? Even if she'd managed to get her crappy car running, there was no way she would have made it into town in this downpour. She probably wouldn't have reached the end of the driveway… "Zelena!" she cried out even louder this time.

Seeing the familiar hue of the former witch's wild auburn hair through the steamed up glass, Emma's nerves abated momentarily and she let out a relieved exhale as the door was yanked open.

"Emma?" a startled Zelena muttered as she found the drenched, blonde sheriff standing at her doorstep, but her mood instantly lifted. "I am so happy to see you! I was hoping that you'd soon figure out your husband came here to seek help."

"Thank goodness. There weren't many places he could have gone, so I was really hoping he made it here. He recorded the whole thing on the dashcam, so I know he was shot. Is he alright?" Emma tried to keep her nerves in check, but as she rambled on, she knew she was failing miserably.

"He's in on the sofa. He's sleeping right now. Well, at least I think he's sleeping… He's been in and out of consciousness," Zelena explained as she waved Emma inside. Emma brushed past the redhead who closed the door quickly before the wind blew any more of the never-ending precipitation into the kitchen. Zelena continued detailing all she'd done to help, even though she doubted Emma heard half of it. "I've tried my best to get the bleeding under control. It isn't near as heavy as it was before, but he still lost a lot. The bullet that hit him went clean through and I don't think anything too vital was struck, but I really don't know for certain. He's still a bloody mess and a bit feverish. I tried giving him some of Robin's baby ibuprofen to help with the pain too, but I don't have a bloody clue how well that worked..."

Half-listening as she rounded the corner into the living room, Emma made a bee-line over to the sofa where she discovered her husband curled on his side with a woolen blanket draped over him. Even with the golden glow cast by the flames, his skin bore a deathly pallor. "Oh, Killian…," she sighed as she dropped to her knees on the floor beside him. She cupped her palm around his cheek, finding it cool and clammy beneath the warmth of her fingers. A muted, but guttural moan escaped his throat as he stirred at her touch. He blinked twice in the low light but as his sight adjusted, his eyelids parted fully to focus on the unexpected, but magnificent face of his true love.

"Swan?" he mumbled, his muddled brain trying to determine if she was real or just a cruel hallucination.

"It's me," Emma smiled, happy to find him conscious and communicative. "I'm here and I'm going to get you help…"

"Now that you can heal him, it'll all be fine," Zelena spoke up. "I would have already done that if I still had my magic, but now Emma can get you all fixed up," she gave a nod to Killian but the expression that crossed Emma's face confused her.

"Unfortunately, it isn't quite that simple…," Emma groaned in frustration. "Because this situation involved criminals from outside of Storybrooke, I had to have David notify the state police and put out a bulletin to watch for the vehicle. They'll have questions about the shooting, and if the deputy who they can see being shot on dashcam footage is suddenly, miraculously healed, those questions are going to get uncomfortable and weird and cast doubt on the whole thing. I don't even think that saying Killian was wearing a bulletproof vest would hold up under the circumstances…"

"So, what does that mean?" Zelena questioned.

"I'll have to get him back to Whale - transport him directly to the hospital…"

Emma was cut off mid-sentence as the storm unleashed a tremendous gust of wind that blasted through the broken window, billowing out the tarp until the nails could no longer hold and the resulting gush extinguished the fire. Swirls of raindrops, leaves and other debris were forced through the opening as the tarp floundered and flopped about the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, she spun around and raised her hands. In a split-second, a magical wave of bright light filled the room, vanquishing the tarp and all of the storm debris as it repaired the damaged window, restoring it to its original state like its twin further down the living room wall.

Zelena breathed a sigh of relief as the threat of further damage subsided for the time being, even though the room was plunged into darkness without the flames illuminating it. She wasn't going to miss that ugly plastic sheet, nor would she miss the drafts and rainwater that seeped in around its edges.

"Thank you for fixing that awful eyesore," Zelena said as Robin let out a terrified wail after being awakened by all of the commotion. "I'm coming, my love," she assured her daughter but she also gave Emma a quizzical look before heading over to the play yard. "Do you think you're going to have to explain that one?" she asked Emma with a gesture towards the repaired window.

"Hopefully, it won't come to it, but I suppose I'll think of something, if necessary," Emma replied as she turned her attention back to her wounded husband while Zelena scooped up a whimpering toddler. "Okay, one crisis averted," she whispered as she gently squeezed her husband's bicep through the blanket. "Let's get you into town so we can get you fixed up too."

Killian gave a weak nod and allowed his eyes to fall closed again as he steeled himself for teleportation, never knowing how rough the landing may be when they re-materialized. The commonplace of magical transport was something this grizzled mariner was still getting used to.

"Take us with you," Zelena interrupted. Unprepared for such a request, Emma glanced upward into the pleading eyes of the redhead who was still bouncing a teary-eyed toddler on her hip.

"What?" Emma stammered, her brow knitted in confusion. Had she heard that right?

"Please… Will you transport us there with you? I promise, we will be out of your way as soon as we get there. I'll call Regina to come pick us up, but I can't stay isolated out here in this bloody storm with no power and no way to get in touch with anyone. I hate not having magic anymore… I don't want to be a bother, but please…?"

"Um...sure, I guess," Emma responded. "For everything you've done for Killian today, I suppose it's the least I could do."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" the former witch gushed. "Let me grab Robin's things. I'll be less than a minute!" She scurried into the bedroom to collect Robin's diaper bag as well as a jacket for each of them, then quickly darted into the kitchen to grab the baby's pre-made evening bottle, which the little one eyed greedily as they returned to the living room. Her final task was to toss a pitcher of water onto the smoldering remnants of the fire to ensure it was completely out before they vacated the farmhouse. Returning to Emma's side, Zelena gave her daughter a tight hug and exclaimed: "All ready."

"Then off to Storybrooke Hospital we go," Emma stated, swishing her wrist before the magical cloud enveloped them.

[sebsunset]

Creation, Both Haunted and Holy - CHAPTER 2!

I’ve been working on this thing for weeks straight, to make it as amazing as possible!

As always, I am dragging @muffinlance‘s AUs into my work

this is the angsty one :) yUP, the year-old au!

and don’t worry, i have another one in progress... also using a muffinlance- inspired au- one of the more obscure ones, i think!

Mother Hama is. Suspiciously nice to write, and very angsty

TRIGGERS: Graphic-ish descriptions of wounds and child abuse! Please beware, my dudes! Things will get better soon, but this is really really bad right now!

LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578904

OR, READ HERE :) 

In the moon’s light, an urutau-vulture screeches out its song, pure and eerie grief ringing out in the wind.

And that’s how Zuko’s mind briefly comes back to reality.

Awareness fading in and out with each breath he wheezes through.

With wakefulness, comes the purest of agonies. A mouth open, voice too hoarse to scream out for help.

The hot pain, all over him, the memories tugging at his head, the memories of-

The burning. A cleanse that felt so dirty, like-

Oh, the sheer smell of it-

Of him.

The smell of cooked meat is his.

He wheezes out a cough, remembers the time Mom had no servants to help her, and had asked Azula to light up the fire for them to cook.

He tries thrashing about, to get a good view.

Mom ought to be around there, around somewhere.

(Even if it’s been so long since she was last around.)

She must be there, somewhere he can’t see, maybe in the blurry shade of the trees. She will bring a bucket and cool water, and she will hold him and-

“W-Where’s mom?” he tries asking, to nothing, to no one.

But only one of his ears hear it, the raspy, damaged sound that he can hardly recognize as his own voice.

He tries to ask again, words broken, tear tracks he can only feel in one cheek.

The burning pain he struggles to breathe over.

He doesn’t know what happened, but he can’t move. Can’t do anything, nothing but begging for it to go away.

“Where?” his voice comes out, finally.

The pain in his throat finally registers with the blabbered words, and suddenly he feels like he’s been screaming for all too long.

I’m sorry, Larva, says the feeling of hands on him. I’m so sorry it came to this.

Ghostly hands that don’t quite hurt when they touch his left side.

There is no shadow to hold him, though.

He can’t remember what happened, but the questions come to his mind nonetheless.

Why does it hurt so much? Why is his arm numb, why can’t-

Go to sleep. I’ll keep you safe, little Vessel.

The voice is soft, warm.

And, as the moon sings her song, his brief moment of awareness fades off.

Only one eye closing, as he breathes out again.

Painful, laboral.

His last thought is that he hates it.

The tone in the voice.

It’s all too-

.

.

.

-

It’s in the way the moon sings, as the boy’s skin peels off.

It’s in the way he doesn’t let any infection set in.

Scabbing away as the days pass, as Vaatu tries to heal him.

But there’s a reason the two of them were together. Glued, some might say.

Possessed, united fully.

He is part of Zuko, he is his mind and he is confined, locked away from seeking any further help. Not while the boy is that hurt, not while he can’t be awake and alive on his own.

Were it not a tragedy of occasion, his tendency to lock himself in the tiniest confides would be quite entertaining to watch.

Maybe, were it not happening to him, of all creatures.

Truly, he has been reduced to cowering on corners, to being not much more than a shadow.

Was it selfish, to wish for freedom when he had given it up to save his Vessel?

The two of them had done it.

An Avatar State of their own volition.

A sacrilege against the nature of a human body, a way to twist and bend their souls, braided together into a necklace of rope.

He doesn’t want to tell his boy what happened.

What the two of them had done.

He was too young to know what their purpose really was.

What would happen next, once he managed to get Zuko awake for more than a few minutes, enough time for them to scavenge, to do anything?

But keeping him awake, at that moment, would be nothing short of insane.

Yes, he must change. But this is too painful. Vaatu can feel the pulsing, the infection begging to seep in, to eat away at their flesh.

The way the dead limb hangs limply, charred black. The way the damaged leg attracts flies, like a plate of fruit slathered in honey, only kept away by him.

Blisters that look like they could open into eyes, watch the world for them all.

And so, Vaatu brushes off the sickness, scares away the vermin.

Lets his presence seep through, for nothing can keep him from affecting the world, not even being tied so deeply to his vessel.

The woods grow around them, thick foliage, colorful flowers in the vines.

No other spirit to bless or curse them.

Just the lonesome pocket of the world to which Vaatu and his Vessel have gone.

He is the eye of the shadow, the chaos that lurks deep in that tiny, undisturbed piece of the world.

He is a warning to the creatures.

He warns the world to stay away, lest it feel his disruption. His returning strength, his effect on the world around them finally taking place again.

Now that they are united, he can see that they could easily become unstoppable.

Rotting limbs thrown into any position, blackened flesh still smelling like it's been cooked.

The way it all brews in the two of them is nauseating.

The sickness is in the bursts of consciousness, when the one eye that can close opens up, blurry from tears.

When his head faces up and he sobs, lonesome and in pain.

Vaatu tries keeping the pain at bay, even if just by lulling him to bed.

Their vengeance is yet to be completed.

Disaster will strike again, he will make sure of it.

He tries telling, he tries consoling.

We will come back, he says. Rest for now, their fate is incoming.

But he is just a voice in his head, the feeling of a ghost-limb that can't really pull back hair, brush away feverish sweat.

Even if their Vessel is growing more powerful, Vaatu feels as weak as he can be.

But, as consciousness slips away again, he can’t help but notice the way the world is shifting around them.

The way the rabbit-mice has started chasing the otter-fox.

It is a victory, but it feels wrong.

-

Unsteady feet, weight put all into one as Zuko drags himself up.

The pain is hot and hard, it almost drives away the overwhelming hunger.

He didn’t think it could get that bad.

It could be worse, Vaatu says, but his voice still sounds angry.

Maybe not at him, but angry nonetheless.

(Angry like-)

When coherency slips away from his mind, when the pain is too much, as each of his slow, measured hops grows more and more exhaustive, he feels something in him beg for destruction.

But he won’t.

In the same way that Vaatu won’t bring him food, in the same way he will stay quiet, never saying a word of what happened to him.

Zuko wants to proclaim that he isn’t forgiven, but for the moment, his focus is on the steps.

Barely more than hops, as his one useful hand hangs onto trees.

Bare feet, grass scratching up against the angry, still-bleeding skin.

The question is pressing, rubbing against the back of his mind, as he cries out and whines, intense pain barely dimmed.

How is he alive?

All firebenders are taught about the sheer power of their fire, about the great deeds and prowesses they can achieve.

About how much damage they can inflict upon their enemies, when they chose not to end their suffering.

It should be infected.

I am trying not to let that happen, Vaatu whispers in his head, like it's a secret, like saying it out loud will destroy their chances of it getting any better.

 He isn’t moving in the shadow.

“The left side feels green.” he says, barely noticing he’s speaking at all.

Sunlight streams in through the gaps in the foliage. The moon is going to rise up soon, and the world is orange and it all feels green.

Find help, the voice instructs. You need someone to help you.

“First, food.” he argues, hearing the rumbling of his stomach. “I mean- Where there is food, there are people.”

You make a surprisingly decent point, he says, and there ought to be some farmhouses around here.

Zuko shudders.

People watched back there, people saw his shame burned into skin, his last rite of passage.

His whining sounds pitiful to his own head, but he can’t make his mouth shut up.

Involuntary sounds, flinches and shudders, as he drifts through.

Tall grass scraping against his wound, every touch sending new jolts of it.

The gentle breeze, the falling petals of flowers, blown away by the wind.

All so gentle. The kind pulsing of the world’s fiery heart, a piece of peace in the battlefield of its little nations.

And all so, so very painful.

Maybe this tells more than it shows, but pain is hard to show through words, hard to show through barely coherent thoughts, by the mind of a child who had never been through such great agony before.

A bad leg that can’t sustain his weight much longer.

Tiny complaints amidst panting.

He feels like he is the only source of noise. The world is eerily still.

Holding its breath.

Zuko shudders, tree bark scraping at tiny hands.

He looks down on himself.

A foot half-blackened. White and violent red, all blistered and-

Cooked. Broken.

Zuko doesn’t look at his left arm.

He is all too broken, all too destroyed by the time he’s been through.

You aren’t, says the voice.

Scabs that peel away too easily, like they were never meant to form.

Droplets of blood calling for any animal. He is prey, and the world is so, so very much now.

The disorganization of the world doesn’t manage to feel quite right, quite how it should be.

Like someone’s disrupted it before, like they’ve re-organized the world into something it shouldn’t be.

Something hangs in the air, hidden but never overshadowed by the smell of his tracks.

Yes, deliberate.

They’re onto something, he realizes.

A pike of wood, somewhere from which a scarecrow once stood.

“A garden.” he says. “I think we’ve found a garden.”

Purring at the back of his head, his blurry eye half-focusing around him.

A bush at the entrance.

Calling to him.

Food.

It has to be food.

Overtaken by hunger, he can only see them.

The rest of the garden is just carrots, little beets and a cabbage or two.

Nothing that looks that sweet.

And so, Zuko drops down, hisses in pain and twitches about, before grabbing a handful of berries in his one hand.

Vaatu takes a minute too long to realize they’re the kind used to make rat poison.

-

Her abode is a humble one.

A tiny inn she’s set up, rooms rarely occupied.

Of course, she has other places for travelers to sleep in.

It’s her lair, made of damp wood, of floorboards that creak comfortably under her old feet. Of roofs that leak, of the smell of a harmless old person.

She has a thousand little closets, a million nooks and crannies.

Hidden memorabilia, memories she’s carved back up for herself.

All wheatered by rain and by soot, but kept clean and tidy, far away from the fire.

She didn’t have many clients, but she had more than enough time to tend to the ones she had.

And so she did, for a time.

She kept herself satisfied, working towards her goals day in and out.

Followed through with a routine, day in and day out. Cooked plenty for herself, made sure she had the energy to follow through with her tasks.

That night, she can feel the full moon.

A welcome presence above her, making the world pulse with her divinity.

She has blessed the woman with her presence, and so, that night, she will go…

Watch the moon.

It’s a nice way to talk about the indulgence in her favourite of all things.

When she can make the world malleable around her, when she can dance and sing, pulling at the strings that bind the world together.

She smiles, feels it pull at her eyes.

That night will be formidable, she thinks

With finality, she treks along.

Yet, she doesn’t feel alone.

How can she, when the full moon rises, making the world finally feel alive again?

 The leaves crackling under her feet as she strides, the roots and branches snapping under her like she is a mighty beast.

Remainders of the sun’s warmth slowly seeping out, Tui taking her rightful place in the throne of the sky.

Her court of stars, rising slow and steady in its march.

And the world is silent around her. She knows it ought to be gawking at her, the last of her kind.

“Oh?” comes out of her mouth, before she can even stop herself.

An ear strained out.

“What is that…” she tsk-s in amusement, looks around with a half-absent mind.

Just what poor creature dares it, to choke in her garden, to foam over the leaves of her poison, to die in Hama’s territory?

-

Wakefulness comes slowly.

 His brow furrows in confusion, only half his vision able to focus.

But he doesn’t need to.

All Zuko sees is darkness.

He shivers, suddenly hit with the sheer cold of the room.

It's eerie.

He doesn’t know where he is.

He lashes out, trashes about.

His feet burn. Tied together with rope.

There are no windows, the space cramped. The sickeningly sweet smell of mold, the only sound meeting his ears, his own panting.

Like a piece of bread that’s been left hanging around for all too long.

Something is wrong.

It’s in the way his tongue feels garbled when he tries to talk, it’s in the way he can’t quite move.

It’s in the involuntary twitching of a dead limb, that he can’t stop, even when it hurts.

He can’t sit up, wouldn’t even if the dizziness would let him.

Vessel, are you okay? comes to his head.

Why didn’t you stop me, he tries asking. Where are we? Why are we here?

There are no little hands in the shadows, no feeling of a ghost hand touching him.

But the pain is dulled, pushed back.

Cloaked.

“Where am I?” he looks around. “Va-Voice, where are we?”

Someone brought us here, Larva. Get up,  I’m curious.

“Then move on your own.” he spits. “I’m tied up. Stupid.”

Regret makes him shake his head, but Vaatu is too old to hold up a grudge.

I can’t. We are united now, Larva. We are one in the same, and wherever you go, I go too.

“Chained?” he remembers. Like he is. Stuck, chained.

Chained. But fret not, my Larva, for stagnation will not come back to us. For now, though, you shall recover your energies.

A groan, as he lifts his hand, swipes a bug from his brow.

You sound like Uncle goes unsaid, but leaves the taste of bile on his mouth nonetheless.

Shudders, head shakes. The feeling of strands of patchy hair brushing against his shoulder.

He may not be alone, but there's no armor, no protection.

Zuko shivers, suddenly cold.

A part of him would give anything for that surge of power, for the feeling of the elements at his will, ready to be summoned up, to be harnessed and used as he deems fit.

For anything that can protect him, even with the collateral damage.

He can’t do anything, but he struggles to turn to his side nonetheless, to crawl out of the pile of rags that was his bed.

He can’t get up, so he drags his body along, pulls it slowly.

A trail of blood from his left side, scraped against the floorboards.

Dragged by his hand, whining and growling.

He can’t untie himself, no matter how much he tries.

Some kind of different knot - intricate, woven tight.

Vaatu guides him slowly, words that barely register to his mind.

Nausea, the feeling of ants crawling at the tips of his fingers as he drags himself to the door.

Get to the door - away from the fabric, it burns too easily - and then you can burn through the rope.

And suddenly, he wants to scream.

“I’m not burning myself. Shut up!” he plops onto his right side, drool pooling at the left corner of his mouth.

Beyond his control.

You know how to control the heat. It wouldn’t hurt. It's like pulling a bandage.

“Shut up.” he tries screaming, but his voice comes off hoarse.

… I apologize. I understand your fear, Vessel.

“I’m not forgiving you.”

I won’t let you stagnate for long, but feel free to stand your ground for a few more days.

“I’ll give you a week.” A bit of snark, that comes off soft.

A dry chuckle that breaks through the darkness.

He rolls his eyes, but can’t bring a smile up. He knows it would hurt. It would sting on his face, it would pull at the burns.

He reaches the door, struggles onto his knees, pulls at the handle.

Rattled, shaken, pulled and pushed with the feeblest of strengths.

Breaths growing quicker, as the weight of what he had done sets onto his shoulders.

Oh, what he did-

You should’ve eaten your vegetables, comes out as a light-hearted attempt, falling so very short.

“Shut up.” he wants to yell, because he’s locked in a strange home and oh Agni-

It’s dawning on him, slowly and steadily, just what he did.

Just what happened.

He hurt them.

(He did much worse.)

Falls to the floor. Looks at his one hand.

Now only one. Covered with little burns, old marks of his failures set onto his wrists. Little reminders of hands that were once there.

His breath, puffing out as smoke in the dark, cold room.

And suddenly, tears are falling down onto his hand.

(Father did that.)

No voice to comfort him. Nothing but the oppressiveness of his lonesome state.

Zuko wants to drown in tears, but his left eye refuses to cry, his bony body refuses to shake with sobs just yet.

So he just shrinks in there, holds himself close through the pain, pretends someone else is there to hold him.

"W-why?" He asks, feeling only half of his mouth move.

Words coming out garbled, blabbered through tears.

No answer comes, and he feels all alone.

He is a big boy, he wants to remind himself.

A big boy indeed, and that's why he cries and cries and cries, ignoring how the hollow place of the moon is soon filled by Agni’s eye.

-

The walks back home tend to be a less than exciting ordeal.

Oh, of course there's glee. Catharsis, even.

But lately, there’s some more than that. There’s the weight of the years on her shoulders, the soreness on her legs, the ache engraved deep into her bones.

That’s the vengeance of her people, of the men and women slain, torn down from the inside, overtaken by insanity.

She was meant to do it. It was why the art had come to her, it was why she had mastered it.

To bring down the rain of vengeance.

Nonetheless, that particular walk was made through with a quicker step, with a less vengeful head.

She had spent so long hurting, and the ones who hurt were the ones who learned how to heal the best.

She knew where to make it ache, and she had studied plenty of how to heal before.

(Kanna and her, studying scrolls that would be burned less than a day later, until late at the night.

Listening to the tribe's men sing and dance around the campfire, laughing and betting. Rolling their eyes, t hey healed eachother with little kisses by the moonlight, as Hama listened to Tui's song, to the calling of the full moon.

And with her friend's mittened hand in hers, she closed her eyes and felt the warm pulse of a world suddenly coming to life.

In the night's light, the cold wind whipping against their warm bodies, they danced together.

A dance that would soon turn into brisk movements, into desperate jabs.

But, at the moment and to that very day, the times before were painted with a rose-tinted glass.)

What mattered was that she had a patient, someone hurt as badly as she once was.

A son of ash and soot, a child with an eye burned open, blinded but still moving.

A child whose mere existence, whose life was astounding to her. How could that little thing keep going, how could he crawl to her and lay by her grassbed?

A little creature that proved her either insane or lucky enough to have a spirit in her hands.

He was going to be useful, she had decided when she found him foaming at the mouth, turning and twisting, rubbing dirt all over the open wound.

She’d cleaned him up, she had left him a nice little room, for an ashmaker that had yet to pay her back.

He would be grateful, that was certain.

And she’d seen first hand, how gratitude could destroy a man. Break down his flesh, make him bow and worship like a dog.

(She'd stood, suspended in her cell, watching an affair below.

The guard with bright yellow eyes, a glint like that of golden daggers, pointed towards her favorite prisoner.

A young woman, barely more than a girl.

She was from a neighboring tribe. Beautiful button nose and plump lips, bowing down low, foreign words slipping off her tongue.

She was meant to sing to the moon and the sea, but she sung their tribe’s songs upon anyone’s request. Danced as well as she could, tied up in chains.

A slap to the back of her head, something in the dirty ashmaker's speech.

A correction, two apologies delivered in a low bow.

Forgiveness in the form of a plump bowl of jook and not much else.)

Her garden blooms around her.

What little use she could make of the soil there. Little plants, poisonous berries. Nothing too beautiful or lavish. She was just a humble old woman, afterall.

She’d been nice, asked around the village. Seeds, some tools. She was sweet and defenseless, and nobody ever dared suspect her to her face.

The village had never been a tribe.

And the house she lived in had always been just that. A house. Some might stretch it and call it a lair.

Not quite a home, as much as she tries to keep it cold, to make it feel like one when she closed her eyes, and look like one when she dared open them up.

That place is still a land of fire. Lava below her, the sun all too hot, not a single break in his wicked reign.

She misses the polar winters. They’d always been so good for weeding out the weak and the fiery alike.

Perhaps her glasses are tinted blue, contrasting all too sharply against the blood-red of that place.

But the point still stands in her mind. That place is no real home.

It doesn't have the foundations to be one.

It doesn't have the people to make it one.

There’s no Kana or Panuk or any of the children running about. There is no tribe to embrace her, no new stories to tell around the campfire. No dealings with the neighbors, and no polar-bear sled dogs to lead to the market every month.

There’s only the oppressive loneliness of a single person lost in the sea of snakes.

But for now, she can rejoice in the luxury of a new toy. One that can be mended, sewn and filled up with the truth. A child of ash, all hers.

(Malleable as the water she’d once sculpted into ice.)

Slow footsteps, steady smile. A bit of excitement, despite the bits of a lazy cat in her demeanor.

The doors of the inn, all open and empty.

Until the locked closet.

It’s their smallest room. It’s perfect for someone that small, that frail.

A plant left in a pot too big will soon spread, grow out of control.

If he grows up well enough, if his leaves twist and bend and his roots stretch out as he tries to reach the sun, she will put him on a leash.

Hama had been wanting something to keep her entertained.

-

He sobs and heaves and nearly vomits once or twice.

Snot and bile, no comfort, no caress.

Not a word amidst the fit. Nothing that he can hear, nothing that can make itself noted in his mind.

His body hurts, but there is no infection to take him away, to lend him a hand.

He can’t think straight. Repulse fills his throat whenever he thinks of himself, whenever he opens his eye for enough time to truly see himself.

And he can’t do this, he thinks.

Like any child does, he slips into a spiral, falls down and down.

Thoughts swirling in his head, screams that his throat can't force out.

Until something breaks through, snaps him out of it.

The sound of a door creaking open.

A tiny stream of the morning’s light drifts into the room, so gentle yet so bright, revealing dust that doesn’t quite form bunnies and mold growing on the walls of a cramped closet.

The decrepit coldness is suddenly accentuated, with the gentle warmth that hits his back.

He shudders, suddenly, as the light is taken away.

When he turns, a figure stands, back-lit in the doorway.

Old and hunched, his blurry eyes barely able to focus on anything but her kind smile.

He turns to her, ready to question why she left his legs tied up, why she locked him there, how long he'd been alone, what she wants to do now-

“Are- Are you-” he tries stuttering out a question, but suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t know just what he wants to ask.

She comes closer, looks down upon him.

“Bow down and ask, young one.” she says, gently. “Be respectful of this old woman, won’t you?”

Vaatu growls at the back of his head, and, for a second, he forgets that his friend is simply locked inside his mind, with no real effect on the world once they’re not alone.

So, he breathes in deep, pretends there’s nothing wrong inside him.

And drops down in a rigit bow, so the kind woman won’t burn him.

“I am Hama. Who are you?” a cane pokes his burnt side, the arm that’s no longer there.

Deep breath. He knows who he is, and so will she.

“I’m Zuko. Son of-”

“Nobody.” she says. The harsh word startles him, slipped in such a gentle voice. “Not anymore. Not after what happened to you.”

He tries again.

“Zuko, son of P-”

A poke from the cane, right in a blister. He flinches and hisses, unable to stop himself.

“You are a son of nobody.” she says, her voice sweet as the smell of moldy grain. “After all that must’ve happened to you, it’s better as that. Poor thing.”

That silence lasts for a few seconds, before her voice returns, kinder, to his sight of nothing but fetid floorboards.

 “Now, young one, tell me, what have they done to you?”

He won’t say. He won’t speak out again.

Not when Vaatu hisses, pure in his anger, taking over his head.

“Don’t you think you owe me that, after all I’ve helped you with?” a cane pokes his head, gently thumping against his skull. No real intention for pain, not on his bad side.

He gulps down something.

A single tear hits his lip, salty against the bitterness in his mouth.

Why does he cry? Why do the tears betray his mind, why does his gut feel so raw?

“I- I was burned.” he says.

“That I can see.” she says, gently. “Now come on, darling. I must know your affliction to heal you.”

“I was burned and banished.” he says. Words spilling out dirty and fetid and spat out like falling teeth.

But he tells no more. Hopefully, she won't see any tales of spirits, any curses or blessings to destroy.

(What if she wants to cleanse him, too?)

“Oh, dear.” she says, voice perfect in compassion.

Be careful, Vessel, Vaatu says in his head. His voice no longer a hiss, just a thought at the back of his mind. Do not trust her. Do not.

“That is very unfortunate.” she says. “Then, you aren’t Zuko, are you? As a banished boy, you have no name.”

“I- I still have my honor.” is the only defense he can give her.

And she laughs.

It would be warm, infectious as any other disease, were it not happening at that moment, when he felt raw and when his vulnerability was so easy to turn into anger.

“I am Hama, and you are Nobody.”

This is the point where the scene should end. Here, it should all fade away to silence, to maybe a sob or two, a twitch or whine at his own discomfort, until he is instructed to get up.

But please, remember just who we are talking about.

Nothing ends when or how it should, down here.

“B-But-” he tries stammering out, his heart thundering in his chest. His voice can’t come out as a scream, but it tries.

Maybe, a part of him thinks, his voice will be heard then.

She pokes him again, straight at the ribs.

“Nobody.” she says. “Nobody, with that attitude.”

If only she knew, he wanted to say.

Be nobody, Vaatu whispers, locked inside his head.

Zuko wants to fight. He wants to bite and gnash and destroy, to bend and twist and fall upon that state again, that state that made him-

“Not nobody,” he says. “I- I’ll prove to you. I’m not nobody. I swear on my honor.”

He can feel her smile.

“Son of nobody, then.” she says. “But make good on that promise, please.”

Hissing in his head, he looks up.

Tap, straight at a hollowed-out cheek.

“Stay down.” she says. “The light might hurt your eyes, so keep down low, son. I’ll get you something to eat.”

-

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 2)

CHAPTER 1

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Y/N seemed to already have a spot in the house, and also a feverish feeling inside her heart. Totally unwavering and in distress. Geralt could feel it happening again as he could feel his heart soften at the woman who'd pop out of nowhere, thus; he doesn't know if her arrival has been a good thing or can be considered as ill-fate for him. 

Warnings: Modern references because reader lives in modern day era in earth. Geralt and Jaskier banters, non-stop. 😂 Just a filler chapter but also considered important because we can see how frustrated and scared the reader is and not being happy in an instant? 😂 Kinda fluff with Geralt and Y/N’s interaction? 

Words: 4,500+ (IT'S DAMN LONG. I'VE BEEN TOO HAPPY WRITING THEIR BANTERS 😂)

A/N: 2nd chapter for WITCHER OF THE NIGHT! 😊 This will prolly consist of 15-20 chapters or less! 😊 TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THIS! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE IN THIS SERIES, POTATOES! 

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS FIRST PART! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us​ @nympeth​ 

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters and said monsters aren't from moi as well. (Gif down below is from witches-ground)

MY WORKS ARE NOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots! 

You sat on the dusty, creaking wooden chair that they owned. Eyes studying your surroundings as Jaskier moved around to get a pale of water while Geralt stood a meter away from you; leaning on a wall with his muscular arms across his chest, silently watching you like a hawk.

The stares he have been giving you were completely tangible for the naked eye or it was probably because you were conscious of his incomprehensible gawking. You noticed their roof was also thatched. Adding a burning furnace which also utilizes as their stove and heat for the night.

Your face frown at the realization that they didn't have any refrigerator nor a stove but noticed two rooms sat together. You've heard ruffling from the far back and liquid being poured down the bucket as your eyes landed on the man watching you in silence. Abruptly, a soft, vindicated smile raised your lips as you leisurely shook your legs left to right to suppress the consternation tingling your nerves, "Thank you," a quiet, sincere whisper was all Geralt heard amongst the oak wood burning in the background.

No answer was given other than having to take a gander as you sat away from him; a little bit recherché with that look in his eyes, "Thank you for saving me, Geralt." you repeated to utter out a word from the man himself. From the moment you've heard his voice; surprisingly, it was rather soothing to your anxious nerves. Frightening thoughts run over cars after cars inside your brain as you didn't know what the future holds.

You didn't even know how to go home. They've been avoiding the question as to where you could find the airport.

Geralt's name that rolled off your tongue sounded unfamiliar and thoroughly anomalous. But, you would probably get used to it once the dream reaches an end.

Technically, that was the problem. You didn't know if it was entirely a dream because it felt so real.

Shifting were heard and you've come to realize that Geralt had lifted himself off the wall, taking heavy steps close as you guiltlessly gawked at him. He fairly lifted the hem of his black long-sleeved shirt, giving you a slight view of his jutting torso. You've anxiously cleared your throat and avoided his pretty glowing, golden eyes keeping under scrutiny.

God has been testing your forbearance since you've woken up in the forest. Adding more inclinations to probably torture you till you wake up from your utter deep sleep.

Much to your inattentive state and your eyes shutting tightly; asking the heavens to wake you up in that instance, Geralt stopped before you; giving much space for you to breathe and seeming to be standing on your side rather than in front because it would be a very nubile sight to be in face with his leather-clothed crotch.

Damn you and your short genes.

"You are awake," he suddenly distracted you from your distraught. You were completely engrossed on wishing out loud for whoever to just kick you on the bed so you could be awakened.

Geralt dangled a piece of cloth in front of your face. Minimal blood dots containing the cloth on his hands. So that's what he was doing when he'd tried to give you a sneak peak of his chiseled torso. He ripped the piece of a long white clothing used for his wounds that surrounded his body.

There was blood. It simply means he's really human and not anything part of a pack of wolves.

"What's this for?" you've observed the piece of clothing hanging in front of you. Brows in a tight twist as you winced from the itch on a part of your soot-filled face. Geralt left no reply and gathered his hand on yours, the sudden gesture making you jump in your seat because of the sudden touch. His hand giving you some kind of tepid, amiable warmth that made you believe that everything was real and true as you catch a sight of his passive expression.

You've felt a soft cloth fall on the soft center of your palm, "--For the grime scattered all over your face and body," As quick as he'd grabbed onto your hands, he was fast enough to leave them hanging in front of you as he turned his booted heel. The width of his abnormally burly shoulders giving you a view as he strolled around their cozy home, locking your gaze on his overwhelming presence.

"You don't have to...." a trail of thoughts protested out loud as he'd crouched before a leather bag, thus hearing a clothing being ripped after. There was a Lute sitting beside the bag and you've took notice of it and focused on the instrument instead, wondering if Geralt owns the string instrument. Geralt rose to his feet and situated himself in front of you again to dangle another set of torn, clean white cloth, "---and for your wounds,"

The smile you sent was thoroughly cordial and unnerving. Geralt was supposed to turn away and mind his own business until you've peered up at him like a cat asking for attention. The powerful looking man had to emit an evident sigh; cursing beneath his breath that questioned your sanity as to why he was already kneeling before you; eye to eye and probably trying to enchant you as it bear into your mind that magical things have been happening since the moment you've woken up.

Yes, you debated with yourself and believed in your hunches that his effect with you had something to do with casting a spell for you.

"Do...you have a name?" he grumbled with a slight drawl to his words. His unorthodox eyes were much clearer against the fire and thoroughly fetching. You've had to blink to ruin the spell he'd tried to cast upon you and took your time in understanding what he have asked.

"Ughm," you mumbled like an idiot and played with the cloth in your hand, gaze fixated on the ball of cloth scrunched on your palm, "Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N,"

Geralt was attentive of your palpable and otherwordly scent. It was completely out of this world and he probably meant that literally because of how mystifying and strange you were around them. The latter could also hear the fast beating of your heart, taking to account that the effect of it was rather much a mental struggle he didn't know. Howbeit, the other half was another piece he wasn't familiar about.

He'd given you that captivating look as you continued to stare at your fidgeting fingers, "Are you a princess?" at that declaration and inquiry, your head snapped, fast enough to give you whiplash. A scrunch of your nose telling him that you've found his question rather uncanny, "What--as much as I'd want to be a princess, I think I'd rather suit to be a queen,"

You've bunched the cloth in your hand and restlessly cough onto it, looking anywhere except for that stare he was giving. What were you even saying? 'Where was Jaskier?' the voice inside your head spoke for your nerves.

A side of Geralt's lip involuntary lifted into a smirk, "You'd suit to be a midget," he paused, golden eyes glowing in amusement, "---A grimy, naive midget,"

His opinion suddenly struck a gut in you, snapping your head to meet his mischievous golden peepers, "EXCUSE ME?" you exclaimed, rather offended.

"Y/N of Novigrad? Vizima? Brokilon--" Geralt started telling peculiar names of places, and you were quick to object his options, "No! Y/N from State farm,"

There was a long minute of silence. His forehead creasing because of the bafflement that was accountable to your words. Geralt has never heard of that kingdom. If so, the kingdom had a bizarre name out of the ones he'd visited. State Farm didn't sound frightening to him if there were even beasts he could kill. Other than that, those beasts in State Farm rather had creatures like Hirikkas or Sylvans.

Entirely harmless for an unknown person like you, if you were still alive by now.

"Kingdom of State Farm," he lowly grumbled, keeping the name of the place in mind as a hum followed through, "Hmm,"

Your mouth momentarily went ajar as he nodded to himself, giving credence to the pun that was shared. The joke seeming to be rather irking than funny because of how convinced he appeared to look like.

"What do you mean hmm? It was a joke! You actually believed it--oh my! This is depressing!" you crowed with a finger to your temples, giving them a massage. Geralt guiltlessly cocked his head to the side, watching you rant and rave like you were close to having your patience blown.

He continued to stare you down with chaste; utterly childlike innocence, making you ogle back at him because he really had no idea what it was. Geralt seemed to wait for your vexation to stop and you couldn't help but bite the insides of your cheeks, feeling guilty for being frustrated when the man himself didn't actually know what it was.

"---I'm from...earth," your voice turned a volume lower, only for him to hear as you were close to melting from those blazing eyes.

You've raised a finger just before his chest, pointing your index at him as you couldn't help the tender beam growing on your face despite of how much problem you were experiencing.

"E.T vibes,"

Geralt eyed your finger in bewilderment. You high-spiritedly wiggled your finger for him to connect; a soft giggle baffling him to the extent as he watch you waggle your finger in front of him. Much to your disappointment, he distractedly grabbed onto your finger and shook your finger like he was shaking your hand.

Your giggle died down and so a disappointed frown was about to appear when the crash of a door opening resonated in the house. Jaskier tumbling in with a bucket of water as he gave off a set of exasperated breaths.

Geralt continued to shake your finger wrapped around his palm, never minding Jaskier who marched towards where you were and his gaze fixated on the connection at hand.

Jaskier dropped the pail of water beside you, breathing in a long breath before giving you both a double-take of his surprised expression, huffing out the rude awakening that startled out his breathing.

"What am I just witnessing?"

His Witcher of a friend instantly ceased from shaking your finger, dropping them like he'd been cauterized and languidly turned his head to peer up at Jaskier who has his eyebrow up in a sassy state.

"You treat her wounds, Geralt."

He gave the Bard a glare and a tight grimace.

They've continued their stare down contest and made you smile to yourself. Their friendship seemed to be pretty much earnest from how they playfully bantered at each other. More passionate than what you had back at home. Thus, you continued cleaning yourself; after saying your thanks to Jaskier and he seemed to smile a smug one at that before going back to narrow his eyes at the man before him.

"What? Don't you give me that scowl! I've already fetched a bucket of water for the grimy lady,"

"---You've also ruined my nap for this woman!" Jaskier retorted back even though he'd only gotten an unpleasant hum from the latter.

"Her name is Y/N Y/L/N," Geralt deeply chided as you continued wiping your filth-filled face and neck. Glad to know that he wasn't looking and gave his friend the attention he needed.

"Greetings, Y/N of Y/L/N." Jaskier started rather confidently, humbly and acknowledging you who sat in front of Geralt.

You've squeezed the cloth out from being drenched as you felt much squeaky clean than earlier. Once you've realized its done as you've essentially washed the dirt away from your wounds, you dropped the cloth Geralt has given you inside the bucket, fishing out the set of new clean cloth hidden under your leg, "My name is Y/N and Y/L/N is not a place--"

Your thoughts were ceased as Geralt pulled the long cloth out of your hands. The flat part of the bandage being wrapped around your wounded knee. Your heart was jumping in utter madness and you tried to softly pull it back, apprehensively looking into his eyes as he gazed at you in question. "I-I can do it on my own, Geralt. It's fine,"

He seemed to be reluctant at first, staring at you with no words said before humming to himself about his approval of leaving you to it as he stood on his soles.

The proximity was undeniably giving you an edge of one's seat. So, it was better to avoid the warmth at all cost until you haven't shaken up from your dream.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes on the cloth on your hands, seeming to recognize the bandage. His eyebrows raising in displeasure. "Is that..Is that a piece of my clean under-tunic?! You've ripped it off, didn't you?!" he snapped his head towards the Witcher and had his brows in a twist.

Geralt only gave him a small smirk as he brazenly stood tall before the bard, crossing his arms across his chest.

The bard started to reiterate again, jotting down points after points in bullet form as to how unreasonable it was to cut a piece of precious clothing just for it to be wrapped around for a wound, "I've bought it from a beautiful merchant named Albreda on a marketplace--"

"You've bed the fuck out of her in exchange for the Tunic, Jaskier."

The haughty tone in Geralt's voice made Jaskier groan; not because he was wrong but his friend was also right and he was frustrated because he was feeling guilty of nothing in particular, "Oh, gods! This is obnoxious! You're lucky I treat you as a friend!"

"Simmer down, you're going to wake Ciri." Geralt continued to grouch and nodded his head to the door beside his own bedroom.

"Oh, no you don't get to include Princess Cirilla in this defense of yours, Witcher!"

You were completely unaware of their banters. Though, you were certainly curious as to what has Jaskier been calling Geralt like it was established and a brand named for him. Your ears perked at the name been said.

"Witcher? You're a witch?"

Both men refrained themselves to continue their repartee. Eyes glued to each other before giving you a glimpse and saw the agog in your eyes, wishing for an explanation or answer.

You've scanned the whole house, searching for a cauldron and anything that could sense he was a witch, yet none. "Where's the cauldron where you cite spells or anything?"

Geralt subtly shook his head, "That's not my job,"

A wag of understanding was given; thinking that maybe you got it all wrong based on the video games you've managed to finish back at your home with your Playstation. Jaskier stepped a foot close, a cordial smile carving his lips, "That small rat, is a mage, a sorcerer or a wizard you are saying,"

He stepped another as he let you continue to wrap the wounds on your knees with his ripped clothing. The frustration suddenly thrown out in the sky as he cleared his throat, raising a hand to Geralt's chest to stop him from even saying anything, "Let me handle this Geralt, I'm downright absolute at this---"

His nose flared at where the topic was going, Geralt knew what was he pointing out and how his poetic wits could get him enthusiastic and utter clumsy, "Your endeavor makes my head hurt to its extent," he bleated with a deep groan sent to the latter.

"I can sing you a song to give you knowledge about Witchers--" he cut his friend off with a deep scold, "Jaskier,"

"What?! Every villager loved it! They've also learned to be accustomed by your presence whenever you're around!" he elaborated, straightening his back with a gesture of his hands as he twirled it around to prove his point.

"Well, your singing is like eating a pie and finding it has no filling,"

With that witty comeback, Jaskier dramatically clasp his hands on his hips, mouth forming an 'O' as he pointed at his friend like he has been deeply insulted below the belt; repeatedly shaking his head as he couldn't accept his opinions, "The audacity! Your character development is declining in such a repugnant way tonight, Geralt!"

Thus, all of a sudden; you've been included in their random retaliation as Jaskier pointed a finger at you, "This is her fault! She ruined your nap!"

Geralt gave out a fascinated hum, "You're just mad because you were frightened by an Alghoul,"

Jaskier shut his mouth at that, mouth hanging mid-way before closing like a gold fish. He cleared his throat for the second time around and nodded to you as you looked up at him after bandaging every wound you have that were sensitive and rather deep. A small smile at how satisfied you were with your work and at both of their foolishness.

Jaskier blinked as he saw you be all smiles despite of your problem at hand. Their banters surprisingly calmed your anxiety away for the moment and you couldn't help but be entertained by whatever they were talking about. He tightly shut his mouth before looking at Geralt and seeing him already taking a good look at your twinkling smile. He'd given you both a once over, a skeptical look flashing before his eyes and ignored the Witcher beside him and setting his bright blue eyes on you.

"You'll have your explanation of Witchers next time, small, adorable maiden. Geralt over here is just stingy about the whole ordeal because of certain pasts that he doesn't want to hear,"

Another exonerated beam was given to Jaskier which made him nod to himself because of how much radiance he had been receiving from your merry self; simultaneously followed by a nod of understanding that came from you.

"You need to sleep," Geralt gave away on the spur of the moment. Golden eyes still on you as you could feel the heat crawling on your skin for the third time this night.

Jaskier hummed a yes before responding and sublimely bummed to see that Geralt wasn't actually pertaining to him; but to you, "I know I do---" he shut his mouth before adding humiliation to the abrupt blissful feeling he'd felt after looking at you.

"---My bed is unattainable," the bard changed his sentence as he tried to read his mind. Nonetheless, he was contemplating that maybe Geralt would give his own bed to you or maybe not. "---Also, she needs to change into a much comfortable set of clothing," Jaskier stated the obvious as he took in your soiled clothes that you were wearing.

Geralt just gave him a look and with just one glance he was sure at what he wanted to say despite of not opening his mouth.

"You've already ripped a part of my under-Tunic, Geralt. I'm not having it,"

The Witcher cussed beneath his breath and gave him a glare. Jaskier's will unwavering, "Fuck," before strutting to his room and shutting the wooden door closed.

You and Jaskier looked at each other in utmost peculiarity; shrugging both of your shoulders at the sudden exit of the man himself. He was quick to come out of his room with a rather large looking black, thin, Tunic buttoned top which seemed to be fitted for him and rather short.

Geralt handed the shirt and you wholeheartedly accepted the clothing in a heart beat, "This is...Thanks," it was much better than having no clothing to change as you realized there was no shorts or underpants included with the simple long sleeved shirt, "Turn around, please."

Both of their foreheads creased with only Geralt having the desire question your point.

"Why?"

You raised a skeptical brow at him, standing on your seat with the single clothing you were holding, "Unless, you want to watch me get changed then..."

Jaskier scoffed at that, also hearing a perceptible snort as he gave his friend a look of mischief; with Geralt already having a tight scowl on his face, his friend wanting to add more tightness to that scowl he was having, "Maybe Geralt would want that based on how grouchy he is tonight! This Witcher needs to bed a woman after a month of great abstinence--Ow!"

The bard has been smacked on the head by the Witcher which made Jaskier stumble from the weight. Geralt snaked his heavy arm around his shoulder, never forgetting the nerving smile he has given you before turning them both around to give you your time to change.

"Shut up, Jaskier."

Jaskier gave him the stink eye, rubbing at his head because of how heavy and painful it was. His abilities could get Jaskier in bruises because of foul play.

You changed in haste, not wanting for them to see you in your unpatterned undergarments in the midst of it all because they were impatient enough and that you were taking too long.

"I can..take the chair and the table," you dubiously started to inform them that you were done. Geralt's shirt on you stopped just below your thighs, leaving your legs bare but enough to cover the decency you wanted because it was huge.

They both turned around and studied you from head to toe, a groan rumbling out of Geralt's chest as his eyebrows seemed to draw closer. The bard gave him an unimpressed tone of his voice, "That’s your kind of comfortable?"

“It’s kind of...freeing. Believe me,” 

They’ve shared another minute of death stares before you smiled to yourself. 

You shook your head to tell them that you were thankful of their help, giving them both another beam which reached from ear to ear as you pointed to their wooden table which seemed to be rather quite feeble as well as the chair that came with it. Four chairs surrounding the table that peaked your curiosity as to whom was living in the house aside from Jaskier and Geralt, "I can rest my head down on the table, I think it could suffice for now,"

"---Besides, I think I wouldn't stay long enough. I'll probably find a way to...an airport or something," you added, smile now wavering because you could feel your heart dropping because of the thought of never going back again.

Geralt stared you down with that subtle slant of his head, watching you speak, "As long as we're in earth," you tried to get an answer out of them, yet their silence says that they didn't know what you were really talking about, "---please do tell me we're in earth,"

Geralt exhaled a sigh, making your nerves stutter from the scary demeanor of his that was back again like the curtains has been opened. He didn't know what to say nor explain to you whatever it is that has teleported you in their dimension because he certainly had no idea that it was even possible from the start.

He was sure of the portals made by wizards and sorceress' that can only reach a certain depth of dimension, not thoroughly a dimension where their world couldn't seem to connect with each other. A portal only exists and can be opened through witchcraft and not having one partial entrance.

Though, why have you suddenly pop out of nowhere in middle of the far north forest of Kaedwan when you've originally lived on earth?

"Get some sleep, Midget." was the only answer as Geralt left without a smile, walking to his room and leaving your heart bothered at the fact that your questions were unanswerable by them and even you, yourself.

Jaskier have managed to rummaged a piece of clothing as a pillow for you to sleep on. Technically, he only has one and you've objected when he wanted to give it to you because you knew laying on the floor with a thin looking carpet seem to be uncomfortable in the eye and physically itself.

The cracking of wood was the only sound you've heard other than Jaskier's shifting on his side of the room. He was twisting and turning, completely distracted by your fourth attempt in sighing out loud as you've held onto your full battery phone that strangely didn't even had the clock on. It was simply four dashes which has been unable to tell the time back in your country.

You were staring on your phone, seeing the battery level go down to ninety-nine percent and you've decide to take the battery off, so you can use it for emergency purposes in the future.

The battery was off in just one lift of the recharge-able bank. Thus, in the middle of being eaten by your own pessimistic thoughts, Jaskier turned around as he laid on his bed, looking at your hunched form, your arms on the table and fingers holding your temple, "I...I....You seem to be in a distress," the latter stuttered, finding the correct words to comfort you.

He continued with a hushed timbre of his voice, "---I don't know what to say because this world is filled with magic and monsters," pause. "Geralt can only be the person to help you in going back home,"

You've taken a proper look at him, tears forming your eyes by how you were thinking that there was no going back. The knot in your throat making you swallow hard because you didn't want to cry in front of a stranger no matter how much of a softie you are. The fire emitting a rare sight of Jaskier's face glowing under the flames, "---That is if you really aren't from here and you've just hit your head on a rock or something,"

There it was, the tears starting to fall before you've immediately gathered those tears with the pad of your fingers. The utter hopelessness and sadness suddenly weighing on you like a boulder. Jaskier couldn't see you from his perspective, though he could hear the tiny sniffs coming from the other side of the house.

"---Maybe after getting some sleep, you'll get to go back home and magically pop back to where you came from, Y/N."

You've breathed out of your mouth and fumbled with the hem of the sleeves that covered your hands, solemnly looking at Tunic that the Witcher has let you use as your own. The cloth seeming to be wonderful for some snot and tear catching expeditions of yours.

There was no answer sent to the Bard as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He did eventually as you continued your weeping in the middle of the night, thinking that nobody will be able to hear it.

Though, you were wrong because you were unaware of Geralt's heightened senses as he sat on his bed and contemplated as to why your scent was indistinguishable from Yennefer. Entirely greater, stronger. Yet, with you; there was no magic involved.

Chapter 2 for WITCHER OF THE NIGHT is here now! PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE FEEDBACKS WHEN YOU DO LOVE IT! Thank you, tater tots!

[liladiurne]

Brighter Than Bright - extract from chapter 15

Here is a short snippet of chapter 15, which is well under way by now. But I am slow, as always, and it’s a very eventful chapter, so it requires a lot of tinkering and thinking. I thought I would share the beginning at least, to make the wait a little while shorter. I hope you’ll enjoy!

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 15

Harry wakes with music in his ears and a smile upon his face. At once, such a sudden feeling of elation overtakes him that for an instant he is convinced that it was all a dream, all of it. He must still be in his bed at home, perhaps feverish or caught in some delusion, and has imagined all these wonderful events. The visit to Hampstead, the acquiring of the beautiful coat that he can now wear whenever he desires, the unexpected ball, and the dancing. Most of all, he must have imagined the dancing. It cannot truly have happened. But it did! And Harry knows it to be true because, even before he is fully awake, he realises that his feet are sore under the blankets. His feet are sore! From dancing!

He laughs joyfully, the sound half muffled into the pillow. And when he opens his eyes, he is delighted to realise that he is not at home, of course. Bright sunlight peaks through the drapes, bathing Uncle Gideon’s old bedroom in a golden glow. All around him, the house is entirely silent. Sounds and voices do not carry here the way they do at The Burrow, the walls of Prewett House much thicker and sturdier, but perhaps everyone is still asleep yet. They all went to bed so late, after all. And most of them have had quite a lot more to drink than they should have had. Harry himself has discovered that dancing is even more enjoyable after a fair bit of port. But even the resulting numbing pain around his temples cannot ruin such a perfect morning.

If he closes his eyes, he can still see Cedric’s handsome face. He can still feel Cedric’s hand in his as he was led amongst the dancers. Harry was so nervous at first, his heart beating so loudly that he was certain that everyone could hear it over the music. He did not want them to know that he had never danced before, not like this, that he had only ever stomped stupidly around the parlour with Charlie. That every ball he had attended before he had spent sitting by himself and wishing, wishing to be noticed, and so was terrified to forget the steps that he had barely learned and never used. But Cedric’s gentle smile and familiar presence managed to put him at ease, and Harry grew confident and fearless by his side. And Grandfather had chosen his guests well. There was not a single frowning glare on Harry, neither from the dancers nor from the bystanders.

And he danced with others as well! It seems so perfectly ridiculous to think about, but Harry danced with so many young men that he cannot remember all their names. He would dance with one, who then would introduce a friend, who then would ask for the next dance, and then introduce another friend, and so on and so on. And now Harry’s feet are sore! They are sore! He laughs again into his pillow.

Can life truly be so sweet? So perfect? Harry never wants to leave Hampstead again, and he wonders if Mamma and Papa would let him stay with Grandfather if he were to ask them. At least for a few months. Or for winter! How perfect that would be! And perhaps Charlie would stay as well! He seems to have made peace with Grandfather last night. Harry remembers Grandfather introducing him to a great number of people, and then seeing the two of them laughing together. Yes, perhaps Charlie would like to stay here with Harry for a while. It pains him, the thought of his parents all alone in the empty house in Hogsmeade, but perhaps they would allow it. Hampstead is not London, after all, and he would be safe with Grandfather and Charlie to watch over him. Oh, how wonderful it would be to remain here! He could attend the balls and dance at each one! He would not have to suffer the gossip and glaring of the townsfolk! He would not have to fear stumbling on Cormac in town! And he could see Cedric again!

May I call on you soon? Cedric had asked at the end of the night. And Harry, his head swimming with the joy and the dancing and all the port he had drunk, said yes before Cedric was even finished speaking.

As much as Harry has always loved the Prewett estate and his grandfather, he used to be homesick whenever they came to stay, and he would always look forward to returning home. But suddenly, on this particular morning, this house seems like the most beautiful place in the world to be.

He is wondering what time it could possibly be, and if breakfast has yet to be served or if he has simply missed it, when suddenly there is a great scuffle in the hallway outside and then the bedroom door bursts open. His mother barges in with a maid in tow, the poor girl desperately trying to finish fastening the ribbons on Mrs Weasley’s dress.

“Suitors!” his mother shrieks, all the while attempting to pin up the rest of her hair, but the strands keep falling again. “Suitors in the parlour! Get dressed! Quickly!”

Harry sits up in bed, startled. “What? Do you mean… for me?” he stutters.

“Yes, for you, silly boy!” she cries out desperately. “Get up now! You must meet them at once! Goodness, some have been waiting so long! We cannot let them leave!” She turns abruptly to the young maid. “Go and offer them refreshments! Go now! Quick!”

“Yes, Madam!” the girl squeals before curtsying awkwardly and hurrying out of the room.

“I do hope you packed some decent clothes!” Mrs Weasley continues at once, grasping the blankets and roughly pulling them off Harry’s bed, forcing him out of his warm cocoon of comfort and bliss.

“Poppy packed them for me,” Harry says, but his intervention is thoroughly ignored.

“Why has none of this been put away properly?” she exclaims shrilly, flushed with anger at the sight of his trunk, on the floor, still filled with clothes. “You lazy boy! Is this how I have raised you? You could have asked a maid if you could not be bothered to do it yourself!” she scolds, grabbing the trunk and hoisting it, with surprising strength, onto the end of the bed. “At least they seem properly folded,” she mumbles, rummaging through. “We cannot have you meeting these young men in wrinkled clothes, and there is no time for ironing! Goodness, hurry up, will you?” she snaps when noticing that he has not moved from the bed.

Harry jumps to his feet at once, and he has stripped off his nightclothes before she can threaten him. His hands shake as he takes the shirt that she hands him, all the while mumbling under her breath about which trousers, which waistcoat, which neckcloth is the most suitable for the receiving of suitors. She is clearly as unsettled at this turn of events, and as unprepared for it, as Harry himself is, and he finds some comfort in this.

“The blue one? Or the green one?” she asks him, bewildered, holding up two waistcoats.

“I… I do not know,” Harry stutters.

They pause and look at each other for a moment, both wide eyed and perplexed.

“The green one brings out your eyes,” his mother remarks.

“But the blue one is not as stiff,” Harry replies.

“Oh, suit yourself! The blue one it is!” she declares nervously, throwing the garment at him before resuming her rummaging in search of a good neckcloth, all the while complaining under her breath about the poor selection. “Why did you not pack more?” she hisses.

“Poppy packed them for me,” Harry repeats. “And these are all I have.”

“Goodness, we shall need to get you more. None of these are suitable. None. Absolutely none,” his mother rambles on, her hands shaking as she completely turns around the contents of his trunk.

Harry rushes over, troubled at seeing her in such a distressed state. “It is only a neckcloth, Mamma. Any one will do,” he says soothingly. “This one,” he adds, grabbing a perfectly ordinary one, “this one here will be perfect. I shall wear this one.”

He holds her shaking hand in his for a moment, gently, and then she lets out a small sob and sits down heavily on the bed. “Oh, my little boy,” she gasps, eyes filling with tears. “Suitors for my little boy, at last! Oh, Harry, sweetheart, how long I dreamt of this day…”

Harry can only stand there uncertainly as she continues, sniffling and babbling emotionally.

“Oh, I knew the day would come, of course. How could it not? You are so lovely and handsome. And you danced so beautifully last night…”

“Mamma…” Harry mumbles uncomfortably.

At this moment, Charlie appears in the doorway. He pauses for an instant, then raises an eyebrow at the scene.

“Are you not dressed yet?” he asks Harry in surprise. “There are gentlemen waiting–”

“Yes, we know!” Mamma exclaims before bursting into tears.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Drowning is amazing! Please continue!!!

Thank you! I am glad that you like it!

And I wrote it. It's a late post though, sorry.

Drowning Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

@shydragonrider

Warnings: feverish whumpee, drugged whumpee, head trauma mention, pneumonia, pills (antibiotics), exhaustion, betrayal, talk of medical settings, mentions of attempted murder, anxiety, thoughts of anticipated retribution, nightmares

~

Hero scrambled to her feet, nervousness eating at her stomach. There was Villain, standing six feet tall and raging with anger, in her doorway. Not only did he look like he just went on a killing frenzy, he had a knife.

A knife and a true intent to kill.

"Villain," Hero cautioned, approaching the tall man. He glared, snarling down at Hero.

"I know you have him, Hero," he said, not even acknowledging Hero's quiet plea to step down. "Now, where is he before I bomb the place."

Hero noted that he still had a hospital gown on. His right forearm had blood dripping down it- the remnants of where he had ripped the IV out. The side of his head was still stitched up and hued in a deep royal purple shade. His damaged right eye was swollen, but not nearly as bruised as his temple.

"Where is he!" Villain hollered again and rushed at Hero. He stumbled a little bit and swayed as if a dense feeling of nausea washed over him- and considering the state of the villain's head, she wouldn't be surprised if he was indeed nauseous.

"He isn't here," Hero lied, but it was obvious that she didn't mean it.

"I know you took him home with you," Villain clenched his jaw, the bruise pulsating. "Why else wouldn't you visit me earlier?"

"Villain, I did visit you earlier," Hero tried to reason. "Remember?"

"No, no, no," Villain shook his head. "Only doctors and needles and fogginess and..." His voice trailed off ad his gaze darkened. "Not you."

"I'm sorry," Hero apologized, grabbing the villain's hands. She felt the knife loosening, but Villain didn't let go. Both breathed deeply, trying to calm themselves. Hero couldn't afford to get protective- if that was the correct word- and if Villain blew up again, by golly she would be.

But, the villain was obviously on another page. He suddenly punched Hero in the stomach, jabbed her jaw with the hilt, and lumbered into the house.

Hero doubled over, panting for breath as she tried to reorientate herself. After a good minute of puffing out breaths, she followed Villain.

She found him slamming his hip into her bedroom room. Instinctively, Hero lept on top of him, pulling him back. Thoughts rushed through her head. She had no means of restraints other than a pair of handcuffs in the bathroom cabinet- don't ask. She didn't even have a good enough room to lock such an explosive person in.

She had to take the handcuff route and somehow lead the maniac into the bathroom. Linking her arms around Villain's armpits, she attempted to drag the thrashing man down the hall, but, half-drugged and injured or not, he was still much taller and much bigger. He dug his heels deep into the hardwood floor and grit his teeth. He was going to kill Supervillain if it was the last thing he would do, and nothing, not even someone like Hero would stop him.

He yanked himself out of Hero's grasp and face planted into a wall, knocking down a sunset painting that Hero herself did. He weakly tried to use his arms to push himself back up, but they trembled and collapsed under his weight.

Hero returned her arms back to the position that caused Villain so much strife and dragged him. The villain had clearly exhausted himself to the point of compliance, so it really was an effortless task. She brought him to the bathroom, leaned his now lolling head against the baby blue wall and grabbed her horribly placed handcuffs. Putting them on deftly, she crouched down next to Villain.

"You are supposed to be in the hospital, you know," she lightly scolded him.

"I know," came the reply, so timid that Hero couldn't even correspond the rabid wolf that entered her den with the completely subdued fawn resting in her bathroom. His eyes were closing, too weary to stay open.

"Let's go get some sleep," Hero offered and pulled Villain to his shaky feet. But as she led him to the door, she noticed that he would not be able to make it to the living room without collapsing, so she scooped him up. Now that he was just hanging there limply, it was easy- there wasn't a fight, just complete and utter trust to allow the other to care for the wounded and exhausted one.

Once Villain was settled upon the couch, sleeping soundly, Hero went back upstairs to check on Supervillain. Unlocking the door with the key that worked for every lock, she pushed the door open and walked inside.

Hero scrunched up her nose. After spending sometime in fresh, lavender scented air, the revolting scent of sickness and sweat was like a trash can that had to be taken out to the curb.

But nonetheless, she walked over to the unconscious supervillain. His face was even paler, signifying that his fever spiked again, and he was shivering profoundly. She tossed another blanket over him and performed the hourly task of slipping the thermometer under his tongue. It beeped and like everytime, it revealed a nerve-wracking temperature.

Hero ran her hand through the grimey hair with a sigh and knelt down next to him. He was getting worse. Heck, he hardly looked like he was breathing, yet the consistent rise and collapse of his chest proved otherwise. Silent whimpers slipped through barely parted lips, a little trail of saliva streamed over parched lips. Eyes were closed, but barely. Hero could see distressed pupils shifting about as placid facial expressions contorted into ones of utter misery and pain.

"Hey," Hero whispered, grabbing his boiling hand. It didn't nothing to stop the unconscious torture Supervillain was enduring. His breaths sped up and he started to outwardly gasp, but never awoke.

"Supervillain?" Hero's voice was risen in pitch. "Hey, now. Wake up for me." She shook him, tapped repeatedly at his flushed cheeks, but nothing seemed to work.

Until he bolted up screaming.

No. Screaming was not the correct word for the desperate screech that tore itself away from Supervillain's face. It filled every crevice of the room- possibly even the house- with the haggard voice of terror. It made Hero cringe, her tired body jumping backwards. After the screaming festival was over with, Supervillain resumed a crying sound. Sobs turned into coughs as the sick man dealt with both illness from the pneumonia and whatever fear drove him into such a defensive fright.

Hero wrapped her arm around Supervillain, lethargically seating herself next to him. He turned his body over and pressed his face into Hero's side, relishing in the warming comfort it brought with a contented sigh. Soon after, he fell back asleep, mouth parting to draw in more precious oxygen.

Hero leaned against the pillow, allowing her ward to sleep cuddled up to her. Her own eyelids drooped, reminding her of the dire need to sleep. She contemplated sleeping next to the supervillain, but once Villain awoke it would be a catastrophe. Yet, the instinctual pull towards the awaiting slumber was too hard to resist. Hero scooted down into a more comfortable position, pulled Supervillain onto her chest and fell asleep next to him.

It was sometime before she felt something move beside her. Hero blearily opened her eyes- still heavy with left over sleep- to find Supervillain awake, still hugging her, but staring at something by the foot of the bed. At first Hero brushed it off as another feverish hallucination, but then she saw a shadow move.

Her eyes opening all the way, Hero's head darted to where her other unplanned guest was leisurely standing, using his knife to pick at his nails. Didn't she remove that toy from him?

"What did I say?" Villain asked, pressing his palms into the bedrail. "I say: you are housing Supervillain. No, she replies, blushing the entire time. And then what do I find? The criminal mastermind himself sleeping over the little princess with the tiara. Figures." Villain rolled his eyes, or his eye because the other was still sealed shut by the purple tarp that obscured the machine of sight from the world.

"I-i couldn't just leave him."

"He tried to kill you."

Supervillain whimpered, cowering deeper into bed as Villain's blantant mention of the past triggered his anxiety. Hero would surely get back at him once he was healed. She was just waiting so that she could redo the damage already done to his lungs. Make him suffer the agony he was experiencing. Supervillain let out a quiet sob and squeezed his eyes shut.

As complex as these thoughts seemed, the thinking of them only took a moment because soon, Hero was replying to Villain's accusation.

"And you tried to kill him," she retorted. "Twice. I stopped you both times."

"And knocked me out and hospitalized me in the process. Hero, we are the victims here. Not him," Villain shot a pointed glare at the scared supervillain with a sneer.

"You gave him pneumonia! He can die!"

"Okay, okay. One, I could've died from head trauma. Two, if he was going to die, take him to a freaking hospital. And three, you helped push him into the tank. Remember that."

The memory swarmed Hero like bees- the reminder of her own grave mistake making her feel a rush of guilt.

"I shouldn't have done that and I can't take him to the hospital or he will be arrested."

"I could've been arrested."

"Not everything's about you!"

Villain was silent, chewing at his bottom lip. "This isn't a decision of intellect, darling, housing him does not justify yours or mine or his actions. Not to mention how much you are going regret this," he pointed out, flinging the knife in his hands carefully.

"Why would I regret this. I am-"

"The Hero Agnecy dear. Did you think that your little medic friend thought it was normal for you to call my injuries in? Or are you that naive?"

Hero was silent, stunned into utter silence, but Villain's words. Medic never came. She never came to help Hero, but that didn't mean that she reported Hero's possible betrayal of the agency. It didn't mean...

She never came.

And Hero brought Villain to the hospital. That was all the proof needed for the Agency to put her on a watchlist.

"You need to go back!" Hero suddenly exclaimed, jostling Supervillain who was just about to doze off again.

"To where? The mangy excuse for a hospital?" Villain snorted. "Heck no." He chuckled. "They will put me back under with restraints this time. The chances of escape will go from 95.6% to zero in a matter of seconds. Its suicidal, not to mention probably stupid beyond reason."

"They are gonna think I busted you out..." Hero's voice trailed off when she saw Villain raise his eyebrow mockingly.

"Not everything is about you," he mimicked in perfect representation of Hero's prior exclamation that could've once been described as an arguement's winning statement.

"Shut up."

Suddenly, Supervillain started hacking, but this time around not only mucus left his lungs, but blood in the color of the deepest crimson.

"Hmm," Villain stayed silent for moment, brow ceasing. Hero thought she could literally see the gears clicking and turning in his head.

"You could be right," Villain agreed. "Going back would be beneficial. Especially for me." He grinned wickedly.

"How?"

"Well... Supervillain needs medicine and care, antibiotics to kick this pneumonia," Villain started to pace. "I could go back and gather some. Tell the docs that I escaped on my own... but for a price."

Hero got a sense of Rumpelstiltskin's classic, "all the magic comes with a price" speech with the twirl of his scaly pointer finger, from the series Once Upon a Time.

"Name it."

"All of my criminal charges are dropped, meaning I get to leave that hospital when I deem ready. Not when the stupid heroes decide that I am redeemed enough."

Well, uh, that... Hero shook her head. She never thought of it, but antibiotics were needed to make Supervillain better. She had to go through with it.

"Second," Villain counted off with his fingers as he threw sarcastically intended smirks. "I get a new motorcycle. Your boyfriend trashed it."

"He's not-" Hero stopped when she saw Villain raise an eyebrow.

"Shush, honey. Lemme talk," He drawled. "I will bring you the antibiotics if you swear you will heed my requests."

All sense of caution and foreboding were lost as Hero rummaged her thoughts over the promise. Supervillain's health for two simple things. It was easy enough.

"Deal," she said, nearly involuntary, but that wasn't entirely accurate because she indeed wanted this.

Villain smirk, running his tongue over his lips as he bounded over to shake Hero's hand. The second the two's flesh met meant that the deal was struck. Hero couldn't back away, nor could Villain.

Hero was in the kitchen tenderly feeding Supervillain some soup and prompting him to drink some gatorade when Villain returned triumphantly with a large red bottle.

"Sweet!" Hero exclaimed and grabbed the much needed tuberware. She opened it and admired the pills inside.

"One twice a day," Villain instructed, sitting down in the empty chair next to Hero. His eyes glinted with excited anticipation, narrowing slightly at the edges at the way Hero regarded the antibiotics.

She then took one and opened Supervillain's jaw. He didn't even attempt to resist and compliantly allowed her to maneuver his mouth around. Even though swallowing the hefty pill was an ordeal in itself, he managed.

Hero, seemingly satisfied, picked him up and carried him to the living room to nap on the couch. Villain followed behind her, shooting glances at his phone every few seconds.

Hero propped him against her shoulder and flicked on the television. A comedy show was on. Supervillain glanced up at it before digging his head into Hero's shoulders, completely disinterested.

Supervillain was asleep, Hero was resting with a relaxed look of tranquility on her face, and Villain was draped across an armchair completely absorbed in his phone and periodically looking out the window when the door made a knocking noise.

Hero tensed, and looked at Villain who had stood up.

"Wait here," he said, but there was no ounce of anticipation in his voice. Hero furrowed her forehead. There was even a hint of buoyancy in his typical monotone voice. Even though he usually spoke in a sarcastic air, he always seemed to drawl.

But this was different. Abnormal. Eerie. And a bit- if not very- concerning.

Hero stood up, leaning Supervillain against the armrest and pressed her ear to the recently shut door.

It was Villain who was speaking, that monotone that would stand out anywhere.

"I have them," he said. "I have them both."

Hero's heart dropped when she heard the click of guns.

[faetxlity]

Here’s A Health To The Company

@save-a-witcher-bingo  Prompt: At Sea Characters: Witcher Gerd, Togeir the Red, Jerome Moreau

 Torgeir was looking up at the ruins of what had once been his home. What      was     his home.      Is.    The flames were spreading quickly, Fort Tuirseach was all but destroyed. Like the Jarl who had filled its halls with laughter and mead- ruined.

 At his side, stained in blood, sat the Witcher Gerd. His jaw was tight, his hands were fisted in the fabric of his own filthy shirt, but his eyes were clear. He did not watch the ruin of his adopted home, rather he watched the blood seep from the bandages that he had wrapped around Torgeir’s leg. Already they were in need of changing but they had no fabric with which to do so, his original job had been so hasty... Unless they ripped apart the sails there was nothing to be done. But to do such a thing as that was a death warrant.

 The little ship they had taken was not meant to go much further than around the cape but they had set out for sea with no choice. They had with them five men and a woman, of whom only two were well enough to take up oar, not counting the Witcher who had rowed them the first half hour from shore nearly on his own with eyes blacker than coal.

 The Witcher rested now though, so much as he could with his life burning on the shore.

 “We will die out here.” The Jarl said, voice was devoid of emotion. Gerd looked to his friend’s face then, to his lover’s eyes. The anger, the      grief    , all the emotions he had expected were nowhere to be found.

 “No.” Gerd replied, “we will live. We will see them pay for this and you      will     see it rebuilt.” He received no answer, no acknowledgement as the jarl’s hand did not return the gentle pressure that he put upon it. Gerd looked at the island they were sailing from, the land they may never get to set foot on again.

 They would live; he would accept no other outcome.

 ~seven days~

 For seven days the ship rocked, sailing for some imagined safe haven on the mainland but without hope or half a crew. One man had succumbed to his wounds on the first dawn and another had followed two evenings after. Torgeir had said nary a word since his ominous assertion of their fate, his leg had steadily grown worse over the days and it left him with little ability to do more than lay down and sleep. When awake he stared across the sea as if expecting death to appear to him with an outstretched hand.

 Gerd had taken over easily enough, tucked Torgeir into the captain's quarters and spent both days and nights looking for either a miracle or their end.

 On the seventh day it came to them in the form of a ship thrice their size. No man aboard their own was fit to fight but still Gerd drew his steel and braced himself. The dark hull of the incoming vessel felt like an omen and he was flanked by Andrea and Koll, the only two who remained in good health- though weak from hunger they would die on their feet. Of that they were sure.

 A figure leaned over the edge of the ship above, their back was to the sun and so Gerd could not discern any features.           “Are you in need of assistance?” The voice was, clearly, not Nilfgardian and that alone was enough for the man on Gerd’s left to sag. Andrea looked to the Witcher, her eyes wide and hopeful.

     Please, let this be a mercy.  

 “Yes!” He called up. “We are!”

 The ship called itself a merchant’s vessel though a pirate’s den is what it looked. They had been pulled aboard with canvas and rope, the men of the ship quick to provide them with fresh water and food while their medic checked each refugee for wounds. If the crew were upset to have a witcher in their midst they did not voice it. Their captain was nowhere to be seen.

 “Oh dear.” The medic said, in his hands were the bandages that Gerd had re-applied to Torgeir’s leg on the third day of their voyage, made from scraps of a shirt found in the captain’s chest.. The odor once they were removed turned even the Witcher’s stomach. “I need a knife.” Gerd tensed but produced his own blade, edging closer to see what was going on.

 Torgeir was sweating, his skin deathly pale and feverish as he had been for the last day. In that moment though the jarl’s eyes were wide open- “Where’s Gerd?” It was slow and slurred but clear enough.

 “I’m here, Torgeir.” He sank to his knees and took one scarred hand in his own. With his other hand he brushed the tangled mess of the jarl’s hair back from his forehead. The infection was nasty, but it hadn’t spread far. He smiled though surely it was more of a grimace, “Just here.” It took all his strength not to snatch the medic by his throat when the knife began to cut away flesh. It took nothing at all to blame himself for the state of the wound. He was a witcher, he should have known better.

     You had nothing on hand to help. You did what you could.    He reminded himself. It could have been much worse, the beam that had splintered and slashed the jarl’s thigh had nearly taken his head instead.

 Green eyes rolled back and the man’s labored breathing evened.          “Witcher?” The medic hedged, “I’ve patched what I can but he will need someone to keep an eye on the wound. We’re still some ways away from the next port but we’ll find a proper healer there.”

 “I’ll look after him. Thank you…” he pushed himself to his feet. “Where is your captain?” The men pointed him across the deck to where a slight man was coiling rope, seemingly unconcerned with the new arrivals. He was dressed in a loose fitting shirt and a pair of garish calico pants.

 “Cap’n.”

 The supposed captain turned and Gerd’s first impression of the man was ‘pretty’. He had light brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was handsome in a plain sort of way, surely a charmer in any tavern he wished. The bear’s second impression was      Witcher.    Which couldn’t have been right.

 There was no such thing as a blue eyed Witcher.

 “Jerome Moreau.” The man-maybe witcher introduced himself as he passed the rope off to a deckhand. At the silence he continued, “Maybe we should speak somewhere private.”  Gerd followed him across deck, listening to the slow beat of his heart. The captain’s quarters were decently large and Gerd had the ability to put space between himself and ‘Jerome’ once the door was closed and the lantern lit.

 “As I said, I’m Jerome School of the Griffin.”

 He wasn’t sure       why     he snapped. Perhaps it was the time at sea, trying to hold together men on the brink of death while the only one who he could have turned to for help laid on a cot in pain. Perhaps it was how long it had been since he’d seen another of his kind. Perhaps he simply needed to hit something to keep his meager sanity. Perhaps, it was because there were no witchers with blue eyes.

 It was a laughably short fight. An      embarrassingly    short fight that Arnaghaf himself would have thrown Gerd from the highest mountain peak should he have witnessed it in his youth. Seven days at sea with limited water and only small bites of food to stop the hunger pains had done him no favors: against a man he would have been fine, perhaps even against two or three by sheer luck of size. But against a witcher? He hadn’t stood a chance. The Griffin-turned-pirate ducked his blow and tripped him backwards, before he could hit the floor a strong hand pushed against his chest and slammed him against the wall, pinned him there on the floor while the stranger watched him with those      blue    eyes. Jerome bared his teeth and Gerd found himself far too close to fangs unlike any he’d seen before, a feral snarl tore from the other’s chest like a beast. It was a sound that the bear could do without hearing ever again. But, just as quickly as the anger came, it left and the Griffin spoke softly,

 “I am not your enemy. Do not bring such strife onto my ship or I will not hesitate to feed you to the first kraken that threatens us. You and your men have been through a lot; I can see that.” Jerome shifted back on his heels and eased the pressure on Gerd’s chest. “If I cared about having another Witcher on board I would have left you to die. We Griffins are not quite as fickle as your lot.” he smiled as if sharing a joke. “Well, you are here, so tell me your name.”

 “Gerd.”

 “And your friend is Torgeir the Red then.” The Griffin moved away so that they were both sitting on the floor, Jerome with crossed legs and Gerd with legs akimbo from his fall. “Don’t worry, your safety on this ship is assured so long as I’m alive. We’ll reach a port in a week’s time, you’re welcome to go ashore and we won’t expect any payment for our help; though we’ll discuss other options later. For now, I think it best if you have a meal and rest. You can answer my questions once things have settled.” It was a very one sided conversation but Gerd had both too many questions to begin with and not near enough energy to ask them. If most of them were about the captain himself? Well,

 He was a strange thing, even for a witcher.

 Gerd was given a water skin for himself and Torgeir and the captain put them in a private room that was used to store trade cargo. It was empty for the next weeks, as had been explained to him by a young lad, and therefore made for a good place to rest. An extra cot had been dragged within. Torgeir’s fever broke after some hours and in the darkness Gerd watched him crawl from his heavy slumber. He hadn’t allowed him to get a word out before pressing the water skin to his lips.

 “Drink.” He urged and the skin was nearly empty by the time Torgeir pushed his hand away.

 “Where are we?” The room was black as pitch once the sun went down.          “A ship came through to help us. We’re a week from port. Your leg… we’ll get you medicine for it soon.”          “What?” Torgeir asked.          “Fucking thing got infected. They’ve got a decent healer on board though. Stitched it up fairly nice.”

 “Fucking great-” the red head pushed himself up and Gerd was quick to move closer and support him. “The others?”          “We lost Ragnar and Beorn. The others are having dinner and resting. No sign of Nilfgaard chasing us so far.” With his lover awake and clear eyed Gerd felt the weight of the last week and a half hit him in full force. His eyes drooped and he began to list to the side like a sinking ship.

 Torgeir shifted and pressed their shoulders together more firmly. “Come on, y’ bastard. Lay down.”          “Can’t.”          “You said we’re as safe as we can get. When’s the last time you slept?” Torgeir’s hand squeezed his thigh, kitten weak compared to what it should have been. When Gerd didn’t have an answer for him the jarl sighed. “Tha’s what I thought.” Gerd let himself be poked and prodded until he was reclined against the hull of the ship with rags and old feed bags piled behind him as a comfort. One leg stretched out in front of his while the other hung over the side of the cot, Torgeir laid between them. It was a familiar enough position even if the environment around them was not.  He had planned to meditate again, afraid that if he slept then he would not wake for quite some time,  but the moment that he had Torgeir’s weight against his chest his eyes closed and sleep dragged him under.

 He woke when light spilled across his face, feeling only half as rested as he should have and mortified that he hadn’t been able to fight off the slumber.

 Jerome was standing in the doorway, a white shirt half open across his chest and a look on his face that was far too soft. “Your crew demanded that I bring you something to break fast with. Andrea, I believe? She said that if you didn’t take it, I should send her in here in my place.” Again, that smile graced his lips. “I can leave it here and let you sleep.” It sounded good, to be able to close his eyes once more and sink into slumber. Perhaps to wake only when they were docked. He extended a hand instead.

 “I’ll take it.” They were hunted men for all he knew. They would need their strength.

 “Good,” as witchers they did not need to light an oil lantern and Jerome closed the door behind himself, some sunlight crept in from above. “While none here should voice any judgement, I would advise you to keep any overtly forward displays within this room or in my study should you need it. My men are good but they have loose lips in port, drunkards are not half as lovely.”

 Gerd was handed bread and a bowl of thin porridge. It was meager for a man his size and even more so for two. But, they were a week from port and The Hawksea, as the Griffin’s ship was called, had not been prepared for five more bodies on board. Particularly not those of warriors and witchers.

 “Thank you.” The words were rough.

 “Don’t mention it. I’ll be putting you to work before long. Lots of things to do here that could use a witcher’s strength.” Jerome sat on a crate, one leg pulled up to his chest with his arm draped over it. “Can’t have any freeloading going on, might start talk of mutiny.” His eyes crinkled at the edges as if he’d spent a lifetime laughing rather than fighting monsters. Maybe he had, with a face like that.

 “I thought you Griffins were supposed to be chivalrous bastards.” Gerd grunted.

 “Chivalrous? Yes. Bastard? Most certainly.” Those fangs were flashed at him again. “I was under the impression you bears were the loner sorts.”

 “We are.” Gerd didn’t miss the way Jerome’s eyes lingered on the redhead asleep on his chest. Caught even longer on the scarred arm wrapped around the human like a shield.

 The Griffin hummed, “I see.”

 The witcher left them alone with their breakfast and somewhere above them a man began to sing.

[kiriluvbot]

tender loving care

—

seroroki, sick fic, the second half

—

ten years after graduation, pro hero shoto’s agency

“sho? you in here?” pro hero creati’s gentle voice asks from somewhere across the room.

the sho in question is slumped at his desk, lights off, a blanket wrapped tightly around his grimy hero costume. he’s awake, but barely, and momo can see him shivering.

“‘m here.”

“are you okay?” she makes a move to flip on the light. “obviously you’re not okay. maybe—“

“don't turn on that light,” a severely uncomfortable shoto hisses, turning his head to look at her through shadowed eyes. his head is pounding, pressure building up at his temples. he’s pretty sure he’s about to throw up, so he lies (you know, like a fool) and says, “i’m fine.”

“did you find him? why’s it dark—oh, he’s in there?” mina ashido joins momo in the doorway, looking like she just came in from a rather busy patrol, covered in dust. “hey, shoto, what’s up with you? we thought you went home.”

“don’t feel like moving,” shoto groans and turns his forehead back into the flat of his desk. he thought about icing his hand and using it to cool his head, but he’s already so bitterly cold, and he’s too out of it to use his quirk how he wants to.

how heroic was it for shoto, one of the top ten heroes, to get so sick he literally couldn’t even use his quirk properly?

even the darkness makes his head hurt, his stomach twist.

“i think he’s sick,” momo murmurs.

“i am not sick,” shoto retorts.

“he’s definitely sick,” mina shakes her head. she turns to momo, lowering her voice. “i’ll get hanta on the phone.”

this catches his attention. “don’t. let him finish his patrol.”

mina gives him a scathing look, already pulling her phone out. “his patrol ends soon, anyway, so no harm done. you need to go home, sho. so unless you want one of us to take you…”

momo’s eyes widen. shoto curls into himself at the thought of moving at all, at the prospect of mina’s awful driving. “mina—“

“also,” she interrupts, tilting her head toward him. “he’ll be upset if we didn’t tell him his lover wasn’t doing well.” she pauses for dramatic effect. “am i wrong?”

shoto groans again, which makes his head hurt. mina smirks, exits into the hall to dial hanta.

“when did you start feeling bad?” momo asks him mildly, crossing the office. she moves his discarded boots out of the way, hangs his coat on the rack, observes the state he’s in.

shoto’s eyes are shut tight. he should probably be making a move for the trashcan soon with the way his stomach is twisting and turning like this. he should also probably answer honestly, because momo could generally always see through anyone’s bullshit.

“...last night.”

“last night?” she squeaks, obviously surprised. “why did you come to work today?”

“wasn’t bad til just a bit ago. probably just a—a common bug. just gimme a bit, i’ll be—“

momo comes up behind him, careful and kind as she rubs his back. “you didn’t tell hanta you were feeling bad?”

he doesn’t respond.

“oh, shoto,” she mutters, half to herself. “you push yourself too far. it’s okay to take a break when you need one. you’ve been telling that to us for over ten years now, you know.”

then she gets a grunt in response, followed by his most miserable moan yet. shoto pulls back from the desk, already reaching for the trashcan. his cheeks burn, feverish and embarrassed. if only momo could turn around or something—

too late.

his throat burns. how long has it been since shoto has been sick this badly? momo rubs his back through it all, respectfully quiet. it’s awful.

then the door opens, and yellow hallway light pours in, spotlighting shoto in all his sickly glory as he kneels on the ground, clutching that stupid trashcan like his life depends on it. it’s awful.

please go away, shoto thinks. please let me wither away and die here in peace.

pro hero cellophane stands in the entrance in all his 6’2 glory, decked in the crisp black, yellow, and white of his costume. he isn’t looking yet, and if shoto didn’t want to crawl into a hole at this exact moment, he’d take this opportunity to admire hanta, with his spidery limbs and thin waist. that costume does wonders for his figure; shoto should tell him that, shoto has told him that, but—

it’s been thirteen years. shoto will never tire of admiring hanta. shamelessly or secretly.

now shoto considers telling him to go away. he’s exposed and embarrassed himself enough already in front of momo, and now—

it’s been thirteen years, and pro heroes shoto and cellophane have seen it all, yet shoto is still cripplingly embarrassed to be found crumpled on the floor in such a state.

“he’s in here? oh—“ hanta pushes the door open even further, turning his focus to the state of his lover, as mina so kindly described him. “shoto, there you are,” he says, voice horrendously soft.

“he’s—“ momo frowns at the multicolored head dipped into the trashcan. “well, he’s not doing well. i think he has a fever.”

hanta is on the floor next to them in the blink of an eye, hair slicked back from his helmet. his hand finds shoto’s neck, feeling for the heat of his fever. the touch is generally a comforting gesture, but shoto nearly flinches away from it. sero looks a little distraught, like he’s never seen a sick person before.

let me be sick in peace, dear god.

it’s at this moment shoto seriously considers melting into the floor. he hasn’t been sick since middle school, probably. this is so embarrassing, he thinks bitterly. throwing up in front of your boyfriend and your best friend, unable to even stop yourself. he groans again.

“when did this start?” hanta asks no one in particular.

“i’m fine,” shoto mumbles, hating the taste in his mouth. what he would give to be at home, hidden under seventeen blankets with no light in sight.

“he’s not fine,” mina cuts in from the doorway. “hanta, please take him home. we’ll cover for you for the rest of the day, alright, sho? no worries.”

ah, mina. ever the natural leader. shoto appreciates the concern, even if he desperately hadn’t wanted to get caught whining around in his office. it’s minor, really, nothing big, he tells himself. you guys don’t need to be worried about me. you have jobs to do, and i’m just getting in the way. that thought leaves a familiar burn in the back of his throat.

“and as long as you need after that,” momo reassures him.

he vomits again. everything is horrible.

hanta sends a distressed look at momo, then at mina. a look that says what the hell can i do for him? he takes over rubbing shoto’s back as momo stands with a pitying look at her friend on the floor. she only hopes shoto isn’t too embarrassed (he is); she hopes he knows it’s okay to take a break, to go home and heal (he doesn’t, not really, not even after all this time).

after mina gives hanta a short run down on what he should do when he gets shoto home, both women bid hanta a silent good luck, then a quiet get well soon, alright? to shoto. then they're gone, and it’s only them left in the darkness of his office.

“can you stand?” hanta asks quietly as shoto starts to lean up.

“so embarrassing,” shoto mumbles, trying not to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. his hero suit is too warm, too tight. the floor hurts his knees. his feet are cold. “‘m sorry, hanta.”

“what? what are you apologizing for?” hanta doesn’t take his hand away from shoto’s back. “you don’t have to apologize, sho. i came to take care of you, okay?”

just like you always do for me, hanta thinks.

the sweetness and reassurance laced in hanta’s voice makes shoto hurt even worse. his eyes sting. why is it so hard to accept a helping hand? from your boyfriend no less?

shoto frowns and hanta watches his brows furrow, his lips purse. then his shoulders begin to shake. shoto’s crying, which makes him feel even worse.

“hate being sick,” he whispers as tears track down his cheeks. “so gross. so embarrassing.” he turns toward hanta, on his way to being completely distraught. “wanna go home, hanta.”

it’s a horrible sight, to see someone you love so out of control, so sick they can barely stand, so feverish they can’t see straight. it’s horrible because it feels like there’s nothing you can do, and hanta sighs, because he can’t take his pain away. he pitches both hands up, pushes shoto’s hair away from his forehead, and plants a ghost of a kiss there. his skin is scalding, slick with sweat.

shoto lets out half a sob.

“i’ll take you home, sho. i’ll take you home and fix you up and you’ll be better in no time at all, okay?” he whispers hurriedly, holding multicolored locks back away from shoto’s face.

a few more tears fall as shoto tries to nod. nodding makes the pounding in his head worse.

hanta scoops him up like he weighs nothing at all and carries him straight out of the building.

—

half an hour later, in shoto and hanta’s home

getting shoto off the floor had been easy enough, despite him because six feet of solid muscle and jelly-like limbs that refused to work properly. getting him out the door went smooth, as did getting him into the car and down the road. hanta had stolen a stray trashcan and gave it to shoto for him to hold on to in the passenger seat. just in case.

the entire ride home, shoto had only stared straight ahead at the road, unseeing. he didn’t throw up again, thankfully.

once hanta had gotten him into their house, he started running cold water for a bath, then got to work attempting to remove shoto’s hero costume.

that was hard, because shoto was horribly feverish at this point, like the car ride just allowed the heat to build, and he was insisting he could do it all himself then stumbling as soon as he stood up, trying to get hanta to turn around or leave the room.

“you don’t have to totally strip. it’s not a regular bath, silly.”

“don’t want you to see me like this.”

shoto is hopelessly defiant in this state.

“i promise you there's nothing to be worried about,” hanta insists. “i’m mostly here just to make sure you don’t pass out in the tub.”

shoto has the audacity to pout.

“you really think me seeing you in boxers is that bad?”

no response. being sick has made shoto both unnecessarily shy and even more stubborn than usual.

hanta lifts a brow at shoto’s indignant silence. “shoto, i hate to break it to you but i’ve seen your ass before. several times.”

shoto looks properly scandalized at that.

“why’d you have to say it like that?” he whines, head falling back.

hanta tries not to laugh. “come on, angel. let me help you.”

shoto flushes all the way down his chest at hanta calling him angel, like he’s seventeen and yearning all over again.

now he’s out of his costume and shivering and refusing to get into the bath.

“sho, the cold is gonna help draw out the heat from your fever. your quirk isn’t really stable right now,” hanta gestures to the tub. “so this is the next best option. you gotta do it.”

shoto stares at the tub with pure disdain, arms wrapped around himself. then he glances back at hanta, heterochromic eyes muted and heavy. and finally, finally, unfreezes from his spot and climbs into the tub.

hanta helps him, little by little, one dip at a time. it’s not super deep, but shoto has to submerge at least up to his chest for a bit in order for this cold bath to be worth it.

generally, shoto is hardly ever bothered by cold, but he’s having issues self regulating right now. obviously, or else this bath wouldn't have even been considered. his skin breaks out in goosebumps.

hanta feels awful. he sits on the edge of the tub, holding shoto’s quivering hand and dipping his free hand into the water, dragging it over shoto’s neck and forehead. he’s cheeks are blisteringly red.

“after this, you can get into something comfortable,” hanta promises him. “i’ll make you soup and tea, if you want. you can finally get some rest.”

shoto’s eyes are closed, brows furrowed as he tries not to complain about the cold. hanta only flicked on one light in their bathroom, because surely both would’ve been too bright. he’s just glad shoto hasn't thrown up again. hanta isn’t sure how well he could handle that.

he very nearly called his mother when they stumbled into the house and shoto tried to collapse on the couch and not get back up. he’s doing his best here.

shoto squeezes sero’s hand when he brushes some water over the back of his neck, wetting the ends of two toned hair a little by accident. he doesn’t say much at all in the tub, just sits and takes it as the cold works to draw out his fever. maybe him not saying anything ridiculous is a sign that his delirium is starting to ebb, along with his initial fever.

i wonder if he remembers taking care of me in the dorms all those years ago. shoto todoroki, always reaching out a hand for others but refusing to accept a helping hand in return.

even despite being stupidly in love for twelve and a half years, shoto has a hard time asking for or accepting help from hanta. from anyone at all, really, but especially hanta.

it’s taken a lot of time and devotion, but it works. they’ve torn down a lot of walls and defenses together.

hanta smiles fondly at the memory of tiny shoto and tiny hanta holding hands for the first time. oh, how far they’ve come. the panic in tiny hanta’s chest, the pinkness of tiny shoto’s cheeks.

“too bad you're sick,” hanta starts, teasing, “i can't kiss you until you’re better.”

shoto peeks a gray eye at him. he looks exhausted. he pulls his free out of the water and reaches up, dancing his fingers over hanta’s cheek, like he’s trying to be sweet. then he splashes him with all the strength he can muster.

sero gasps outright before bursting into a fit of laughter. that water really is cold.

“wish you’d kiss me anyway,” shoto grumbles, still peeking as hanta tries wiping away specks of water from his face. “we live in the same house, so you’ll prolly get sick, too, han.”

he’s already talking a little smoother. that's progress.

hanta grins. “think so?” he takes shoto’s hand again, brings it up to his lips. “you gonna make me take an ice bath if i catch a fever, too?”

“just out of spite.”

“whatever makes you feel better.” then hanta kisses his hand once, twice for good measure. “come on, let’s get you dried off.”

—

shoto is now bundled with his favorite blanket on the couch, a warm cup of tea cradled in his hands. he’s got the most outrageous red and green christmas pajama pants on, covered in little trees. he’s also wearing one of hanta’s hoodies.

and by hanta’s hoodies, that is to say, pro hero cellophane merch. it’s huge, even on shoto. it’s black with yellow markings that mimic hanta’s costume, cellophane written in hanta’s own handwriting across the back. shoto has the hood pulled over his head. his eyes are fixed on the tv, where he’s put on totoro.

he’s already doing ten times better. now he just needs to eat and rest.

hanta rounds the couch with a bowl of steaming soup. shoto looks up at him with pure wonder in his eyes, lips parted like he might’ve just been about to fall asleep. hanta takes the half empty cup from his grasp and replaces it with the bowl.

then hanta folds his long legs up underneath him and sits next to shoto.

“thank you, han,” shoto murmurs, blowing the steam away.

hanta glances at him, at the light returning to his eyes. red and white hair peek out of the hood. his chest tightens just a bit, like he’s sixteen all over again. “you don’t need to thank me, angel.”

shoto falls asleep immediately after finishing his soup. hanta lets him collapse onto his lap; hanta lets his fingers dip into soft two toned locks; hanta lets his heart soar.

i’d steal all the stars in the sky for you. that’s how much i love you. i’ll never tire of loving you.

—

sappy right? i suck at writing angst.

anyway, here’s the rest of the fic :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718771