#my 1+ cough got worse. chest hurts

[angryscreeching]

oh my god fighting for my life

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yokai Harem x Reader (I)

This is probably my longest running dysfunctional daydream scenario, so I thought I'd share it here.

As stereotypical as it gets, you've fallen into an old well and found yourself in feudal Japan. Almost immediately, you're attacked by a yokai that calls you by a name you don't recognize. He insists you possess the soul of an ancient priest that would capture demons under a binding contract. Something isn't right, however, so your life is spared until further clues come to light. With two men unwillingly bound to you, you begin to uncover this mess as more 'collection pieces' show up. They might prefer you to their previous owner.

TW: violence, monsters

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Character Guidebook]

You vigorously cough out whatever grass you seemed to have bit into when you hit the ground. Was all this vegetation here just one moment ago? As you get up and dust your knees you're brought back into focus by the loud buzzing of insects. You look above and involuntarily squint your eyes. You didn't expect to see a full, bright sky.

"What the hell?" is all you can mutter.

You and your university friends had planned a quick trip to the neighboring Tokyo, just to visit some trending local cafes and shop around. You somehow wandered into the suburbs and found a very obvious path to a large shrine that was visible from the bottom of the stairs. Now, what's more stereotypical than finding a shrine, approaching it with shy steps, dangling the old rope of the bell and humbly clapping your hands together for a quick prayer that gives you a fake sense of meaningfulness? Then again, you love a good cliché. So you did just that, and then whipped out your phone to snap some artsy photos of the place. In your search for the perfect angle, you spotted a wooden structure among some pillars and zoomed in to realize it's an old well.

Here's where you awkwardly tiptoed away from your friends. You couldn't possibly confess to them that you're one of those anime nerds, and that you immediately thought of a certain classic title, and that this could make a very good impromptu cosplay shoot. You could smell the nostalgia as you carefully swayed your way behind the pillars and under the shade of the tiled roof. You bent over carefully (apparently not carefully enough) to asses how deep the well was. Just as you were about to exclaim its shallowness, you felt the gravity pull you inwards. Within seconds your head made contact with the moist soil and you briefly blacked out as the rest of your body arrived in proper position.

Unpleasant, but you've had migraines worse than this. Though now you're wondering whether you might've damaged some important brain parts, given the sudden change of scenery. Or has your dysfunctional daydreaming finally caught up to you?

You laugh silently and test the walls around you, feeling for some contact point that you can use to pull yourself back out. You finally crawl out, but freeze with your elbows around the frame of the well, looking ahead.

There's no building around, just tall grass and what seems to be the beginning of a forest. You remember to blink, and each time you close your eyes you hope to see the shrine once again, to no avail.

"I thought I'm past the risk age for schizophrenia", you mumble in a humorous attempt. The situation is so absurd that you need to share it with an imaginary audience.

You muster up the courage to step out and onto the ground, with extra caution as if it could vanish at any moment. After brief consideration, you slap a bunch of weeds in front of you to test their consistency. The hard stems hurt your wrist and you nod. This is a little too intense to be just a hallucination.

Alright, so you got trapped in some sort of feudal anime remake. What now? You glance around, almost hoping to see some white haired man sleeping against a tree with an arrow stuck into the chest. You check your phone. No signal, but thankfully it still works. You have a battery and its charger, but the latter is probably useless. Unless this remake comes with electricity. You chuckle at the thought. Who knows, maybe it's one of those isekai otome games instead and some timeline inconsistency or loophole will provide you with an outlet.

After trying the well one last time without success, you decide to at least find another human being. Then you can get some grasp of your whereabouts and situation. You notice a patch of grass that's been bent to the ground, probably from frequent stomping. That's a start. You follow the hints of bipedal movement and hope for the best.

The improvised path slithers downhill and around the mass of trees, and you question whether the fields ahead might have traces of houses on them. You pick up your pace in anticipation.

A sharp swish of an unknown object causes you to flinch and halt, and before you can process it, a thin blade lays inches from your nose. You follow its length and find the source: a tall, horned (???) man with silver hair.

Ironically enough, he seems to be more shocked than you. His facial expression flips from focused anger to unbelievable confusion within seconds. His eyebrows are raised and his lips part.

"Ah!" you yell as the gears begin to turn. "Christ, you almost made me question my sanity!

Now let me tell you, this is some great cosplay. I was about to beg for my life. Hah! How the hell did you pull the whole transition? Is the well a tunnel? I hope I didn't accidentally break into some event."

The man returns his sword into its sheath, still in deep disbelief.

"You're not him, are you? But then again..."

"Huh? Him? I'm sorry, were you expecting someone? If you show me the way out I'll disappear in a moment." you turn around, prepared to be led to the exit. "Who're you cosplaying, anyways? I'm a big fan of historical dramas, but I don't recognize the character design."

"I don't understand what you're saying." the man tilts his head in utter surprise.

"Alright, I get the point" you force a laugh, slightly irritated by the persistence. "You're deep in your acting, I get that. Focus and all the jazz. But my friends are around the corner and I don't have signal, can you please skip the theatre and show me the exit?"

"The exit to...where? You're outside."

You sigh, loudly, and click your tongue. "Enough of this, please. Where's the shrine?"

"Ah, I get it. You're trying to confuse me." he pulls his sword back out. "I've had enough of your tricks. You're in an early stage, aren't you? Not strong enough to fight back. I can sense it."

Oh God, it's one of those maniacs, you think to yourself. You raise your arms as a peace offering and hope you won't be featured in the 5pm news with multiple stab wounds.

"Listen man, I really don't know what you're talking about. I'll leave quietly and won't bother you again, I promise."

You gulp and await a response, but the man's mouth opens and the words are replaced by a foreign, disembodied shriek. There's a rapidly approaching heavy shuffle that sounds like the trample of many limbs. You feel your leg being hooked into something and the ground turns around at a dizzying speed.

Something just grabbed you.

Given the movements of the lips, you're assuming that the mysterious cosplaying maniac is yelling something, but your ears are ringing and throbbing as the adrenalin begins to pump. You're being thrown around by something and you can feel the skin holding your leg together creaking and tearing with every jolt.

You manage to land your eyes on the creature. The teeth are unnaturally sharp and it seems to have many arms and legs arranged in a scattered order along the scaly body. It trashes around in such a fluid, dynamic way, that you doubt it could be the result of any machine. It's a living thing and currently attacking you for whatever reason.

Once the bizarre reality settles in, panic floods your body and you scream for help. If not the maniac, then some godly intervention. You did offer a small donation at the shrine, it has to count for something.

The spectacle doesn't last long, since the silver haired man doesn't hesitate to behead the creature. You can see that he wasn't making empty threats with his sword skills. You'd prefer, however, if you weren't the next one to go under his guillotine. Your body rolls over the dirt, limp from the shock.

You tilt yourself upwards pathetically and let out a groan once you attempt to use your leg to stand. You turn around and notice the aftermath of your little air ballet. There's a deep wound and thick, red blood is oozing out, scrambling to form a protective crust.

"You... really can't fight at all, can you? You weren't lying."

The man is now standing in front of you, the same amount of disbelief he had at the beginning.

"How the hell would I have fought that...that..." you choke and can feel tears forming in your eyes. "I don't understand what's happening. I just want to go back home. I don't know what's happening." you start sobbing and angrily rub your eyes, hoping to trigger some sort of way to wake up. But your eyelids burn and you feel awake. This was never a dream.

Your sudden meltdown startles the man and he awkwardly hovers his hands over you, unsure of how to handle this.

"Sorry, if I had known, I would've stopped it earlier. I genuinely thought you're..." he sighs. "I'm really sorry. You got hurt because of me."

"Can you please tell me where I am? I feel like I'm going crazy. It's year 202X and I was out with my friends and fell into a well. I've never seen a creature like that in my life. I somehow ended up here and I can't go back. Where the hell is this?"

"I... I don't understand what's happening either. I came here because I sensed he's back. I didn't expect to see... well... you." 

You scan his face. His frown is sincere. Which, truth be told, is even less helpful. You're back to square 0, it's getting dark and your ankle is trashed. 

You just want to sleep.

You stare at the ceiling, hands locked together over your chest. The improvised hay mattress isn't exactly comfortable, but it's certainly better than nothing. You sheepishly glance at the horned man. He's sitting by the window, idly looking outside with hooded eyes. He seems to be tired, too. 

"Try to get some rest", he'd told you earlier. Easier said than done. After the monster attack, he carried you on his back until you found an abandoned hut. His way of apologizing for letting you get mauled. As you walked, he narrated his reasoning to you. 

His name is Kiritsubo. When he was a child, a human dressed like an onmyouji took him in for training. Said to be the successor of Abe no Seimei himself, the man was feared throughout the country for his supernatural powers. Most of his strength, however, came from the collection of yokai he'd gathered to work for him. None of them had agreed to it, but no one knew how to break the bond subduing them. Eventually, the old man succumbed into his eternal slumber, yet the yokai were still not freed from the contract.

Some of them suggested he wasn't truly gone. Merely reincarnated. And today, he felt it for the first time. That's how he stumbled upon you. You appear to have part of his soul within you, whether you realize it or not. But if you truly have no knowledge of it, he doesn't have the heart to slaughter an innocent. 

"What about the rest?" you blurt out, quietly.

Kiritsubo turns to you, mildly startled.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the man owned 12 legendary yokai. Are you the only one left?"

"No." He frowns. "They most likely know about you already. Let's try to send you back to your world tomorrow, because they will not be as forgiving."

A shiver runs across your spine. This one is scary enough already. You pray you'll be home before you can meet any other beast.

"This is where I found you, so the well shouldn't be far." 

The silver haired man surveys the horizon and you limp forward. 

"I'll check the area, since you can't walk much."

As soon as he says that, he vanishes. You're left with the heavy buzz of afternoon cicadas. You might as well do your own search. Keep yourself preoccupied. The idea of leaving this behind fills you with excitement and you find enough strength to push ahead. 

A few minutes later, you hear a shuffle behind you. Could it be that Kiritsubo already found the well? Enthusiasm fills your chest and a burning heat spreads out. Although it speedily pools in your left shoulder, and you notice in horror that it wasn't enthusiasm taking over your body. A blade is sticking out of your shoulder, avoiding anything vital as some sort of mockery rather than omission. 

"Found you."

The voice is deep and foreign. You barely manage to tilt your head and meet the glowing red eyes of a black haired man. Dark horns are twisting menacingly from his crown and his expression is that of pure wrath. As fresh blood drips down your chin, you wonder if this is the next yokai in line to seek his revenge.

How will you get out of this?

[ronearoundblindly]

Safety Captain (1)

lifeguard!Steve Rogers x vacationer!Reader (see series)

Summary: A very sexy man shows up at a very unsexy moment during your vacation.

Warnings for mild language, other guests being as thirsty as Reader, and a vague injury/danger. WC 1945

Written for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' 300 follower celebration (I'm very late tho 🥲), using the prompts “it hurts when I ___” “then stop doing that” and pool/resort/hotel. There will be a few small parts to this with eventual smut; this is just the meet-cute sorta.

If you consider drowning a peaceful and relaxing experience, then your trip’s going splendidly.

Water hitting your lungs stings much worse than sunscreen in your eyes, but the shock makes you gasp anyway. Your skin feels pressure everywhere. You don’t know which way is up. The world is bright and blue and shimmering until an arm encircles and yanks you backward by your chest—your bare chest, you realize, since the cups on your bathing suit top flipped when you hit the the pool at such a steep angle.

Once at the surface, a gift and a curse greets you, garbled hum replaced by a solid slap of screaming, the blare of whistles. Light burns, water burns, air burns.

Oh yes, this is going swimmingly.

You struggle to get enough fresh hell anyway, coughing out water, air stinging worse. Your limbs contract to fight the pain, but the wall of muscle behind you is unyielding.

“Out of the way,” a deep voice shouts close to your ear. “Buck, make me some room. Get them back.”

He—whoever he is holding you so firmly and safely—moves you to the shallow end’s stairs with heaving strokes, and just when he releases your body to lift you out of the water, he quickly flicks the front of your suit back into place.

Bless you, kind sir. You’re in love…

…or maybe that’s the hypoxia.

Unceremoniously hauled to solid ground, you continue to sputter.

“It’s alright. I got ya. Breathe for me. That’s good.”

Your sunglasses are gone, so you squint up in his shadow to see nothing but a halo of dripping gold hair. Then your eyes adjust. You see him.

Suddenly, the world is bright and blue and shimmering again, all contained in the stare of your sweet savior.

When he smiles, well, you need even more air to recover.

You’re on your side until he’s sure all the water is out of you, until his hands help you sit up, looky-lous everywhere being herded farther off by two more lifeguards and some resort security.

“The boys…” you rasp out.

“Everyone’s okay,” he rushes, rubbing your back, warm and slick against your wet skin. “You don’t have to talk yet. Take it easy.”

You still feel compelled to explain.

“The—they were teasing him—“ you point to the chubbier kid in your group, the poor thing cowering by your lounge chair headquarters for the morning “—and I tried to stop them.”

“I know, shhh, I saw. Just breathe slowly.”

“Don’t like bullies,” you cough out anyway.

The lifeguard at your side grins from ear to ear, quickly interrupted by a girl shoving your sunglasses in his face.

“I found these,” she announces, elated. “I thought it was important since you were so brave, saving someone who fell in.”

You didn’t fall; you were pushed. There’s a difference.

The lifeguard’s smile turns tight, but he gestures for the girl to hand them over to their rightful owner. She continues to stare with huge, bambi eyes.

Politely, he takes them from her and clears of his throat.

“Thank you. Now step back please.”

Her disappointment is palpable before his blue gaze returns to you. As he asks if you’re ready to move, his palm lands on your lower back and stays there supportively.

The best you can do is shift your legs beneath each other and then hiss, “it hurts when I put weight on this leg. I think I twisted my ankle on the way down.”

“Then stop doing that,” he chuckles, swooping to get his arms under you and carry you to your lounger—the right one, immediately, as if he saw the boys fighting but knew exactly where you were before then, too.

The stout little thirteen-year-old who’d been picked on steps up to you with guilty eyes. He’s one of your charges today while the other adults all drink at the swim-up bar.

“I’m sorry they—“

“It’s fine,” you croak.

“—but they wouldn’t stop, and I told them to—“

“Hey, hey,” your lifeguard whispers, deflating the boy’s panic, “she’s gonna be okay. Just a little banged up, but we got the best of the best coming to help.”

Shamefully, the boy’s eyes turn down. “Sorry they called you a ‘bitch.’”

Great. Yeah. That needed to be repeated.

“Don’t worry about it. Can you go grab your cousin and—“ a brief wheeze overtakes you “—the girls and bring everyone back here so I know where you all are? Just a real quick check-in.”

He nods and runs off, almost plowing into a woman heading straight for you.

“Ah, your nurse has arrived.” The handsome, dripping wet man sitting with a hand still on your knee beams. “The best of the best, as promised.”

The older blonde lady purses her lips and rolls her eyes, ticking her head to the side. “Scoot, Steven. Let me have a look.”

He—Steven, apparently—rambles off what happened and what you mentioned hurt, standing out of the blonde’s way, but leaning over her shoulder, hovering while she manipulates your ankle.

“Thank you, darling.” She looks up pointedly. “I’ve got it from here,” she says, turning back to you. “I’m Sarah, dear. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

“I’m Steve,” your lifeguard interjects as he backs away. “Glad you’re alright, Miss…?”

You introduce yourself in return. “Thanks for…um…” You glance down and tug at the front of your swim suit, remembering that this man might have already seen and touched your breasts. “Thank you,” you finish weakly, voice hoarse.

Steve beams again before Sarah swats him away.

While she wraps your ankle and anchors a bag of ice to it, you scan the guard towers to realize all three of the guys on duty are ripped, but Steve is…well, he’s something else.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” you sigh aloud without realizing.

Sarah snorts, muttering, “he gets that a lot.”

You smile, thinking it’s probably no secret that the cute guy gets around. “Bit of a man whore, is he?” you joke.

The nurse looks up at you sternly. “I should hope not! I raised him better than that.”

Shit.

Your face drops, a harsh and painful swallow globs down your throat, and you…just objectified that poor man to his mother who he so sweetly called ‘the best of the best.’

Is drowning totally off the table, or can you revisit that?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I—I just meant—“

She squeezes your hand, putting you out of your misery.

“It’s fine, dear. He is handsome, and I suppose there’s no harm in looking.” She packs away the last of her gear only to catch Steve’s eye across the pool.

He waves in your direction.

Sarah chuckles but doesn’t wave back. You put a quick hand up and mouth ‘thank you’ even though he probably can’t see that part.

“Well,” the nurse adds, “seems you aren’t the only one looking.”

Having one foot twice the size of the other can work. You can make it work. You’ll just camp out on a beach towel farther up the shore, no problem. The whole party is together today, day three of seven, so the good news is that you aren’t responsible for anyone. Also, your foot is only that size due to bandaging and not because it’s that swollen. Still hurts though.

In addition to a wicked limp, you need a relatively hard surface to sit on or stand up from. You end up on the rim of damp sand, wriggling to get comfortable. You try laying on your side, propped up on a bent arm. You try your stomach. You’re about try your back, reaching for one of the kids’ towels to roll up as a pillow when you notice a group playing volleyball.

Must be fun to, like, walk and stuff.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You are lucky enough to be on this trip in the first place, your ticket paid for by all the parents combined (with the agreement you’ll help wrangle the younglings for periods while the moms and dads do adult activities). The ‘job’ is a wildly fair trade since the families only split so far was the pool yesterday.

Is that…is one of the volleyball players waving at you?

You look over your shoulder, but there’s only the rest of your group, splashing and running through the surf. No one is facing you or the game.

As you turn back, starting to raise your hand, you see the golden glow of the player’s hair and think that sure resembles the lifeguard, Steve, from—

The guy waving at you gets hit, hard, by a spiked ball and stumbles back. Some commotion rumbles through the group, but you can’t hear specifics.

Shit, that is definitely Steve, son of Sarah, employee of the pool, jogging toward you. Are your tits covered?

You awkwardly pull yourself upright, shielding your eyes from the partially-overcast, bright sky, and smile.

“Hey,” Steve chirps, “thought that was you.” He is, again, in naught but board shorts and beauty.

“Yup, living the dream.”

He ignores your sarcasm and asks how your ankle feels (“meh”), if it’s messed with your plans so far (“had to bow out of zip lining this morning”), and if he might be welcome to sit with you for a while.

You blink a few times in shock behind dark sunglasses. “Won’t your friends…?”

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face, and drops down to the sand.

“I don’t see why not,” you say after he’s made himself comfortable.

When the littlest girl from your group comes shrieking over, bucket and scoop in her hands, you’re about to apologize for the interruption, but Steve immediately offers to help her build the castle of a lifetime.

He is sure to warn her to be careful around your foot.

This time, when you mouth ‘thank you,’ he sees it and returns another beaming grin.

Alright, perhaps vacation is looking up.

Steve is…very, very good at strategizing the sandcastle. After the first ‘tower’ goes up, the other kids get involved. Before you know it, the parents are all behind you gushing over how good your friend is with them.

"Handsome, too."

"Lots of energy."

"‘Bout your age, isn’t he?"

They aren’t quiet enough to not be heard which is clearly the point once the mother of bucket girl shouts out that Steve should join you all for dinner.

Oh, sweet holy—

“Not sure I wanna dive into your family time, ma’am,” he says politely, encouraging some water be brought up for the moat they’ve just dug.

“Then you should take our lovely girl here out. Show her more of the island.”

You glare daggers at the other woman who just chimed in.

“I can’t walk,” you bite out. “Where am I gonna go?”

Steve clears his throat to get your attention. “They line food trucks over on the west road until late, and…” his lip pinches to the side “…I can carry you.”

One of the dads darkly drawls, “like a fucking princess,” and you hear a sharp slap from his wife in annoyance.

Steve’s gaze remains locked on yours as the parents erupt in obvious innuendo.

“Could be fun,” he admits, only loud enough for you. “How about it? Getting hungry?”

All you manage is a nod before a bucket of water is tossed on Steve, and he chases the culprit down the beach and into the clear blue sea.

You’ll have to wait until the ‘monster’ is vanquished by the ecstatic children jumping to take down the big, strong man you, apparently, have a date with.

[Next Chapter]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Apologies that this isn't the whole dang thing. With how long everything has been taking me to write, I was afraid it wouldn't even be summer anymore, and if there is even a small chance that posting this will light a fire under me to finish, I am willing to try.

[issdisgrace]

Hi hello, would you mind writing sa male resder x Oscar piastri fluff? Like just something really tame, like cuddling in bed, or comforting him after a bad race, or taking care of him when sick, or maybe some angst? He gets jealous cause some guy is flirting with reader, but fluff would be really nice, hope this isn't too long 😭😭 thx

MY SICK BABY

WARNINGS: None

A/N: Sorry this took so long, have been neglecting my writing and basically all other aspects in my life. But I hope you like this none the less.

Oscar didn't get sick often. In fact, the last time he was sick was almost a year. But when he did get sick he wasn't just sick, he was sick.

So when Oscar started feeling ill Friday night, dread sunk its way into his stomach. He knew that this weekend would be hell for him and god was he right.

He woke up Saturday morning with a pounding headache and a stuffy nose. He took some meds to help with it before he went out to the track, which helped some. However, he still felt quite miserable and others could see it, but despite this he had managed to qualify pretty good. Anyway, it was later that night everything just got worse, and the coughing started. He felt like he was suffocating, his chest hurt, he couldn't sleep, so he ended up calling you.

You were really concerned when you got a call from Oscar at 1 in the morning. But as soon as he started talking it was clear why he was calling you. He was sick. You felt bad as you listened to him explain everything. You suggested a couple of things that would hopefully help, which he appreciated, and you ended up staying on the phone till he fell asleep.

Then Sunday came, and despite your suggestions and some meds he still felt and now looked like hell. But he pushed himself, ignoring everything his body and others were telling him. He was going to race today even if it killed him. When he got out on the track, he felt surprisingly good and raced his ass off getting p3. Then he came in and his adrenaline came down and he felt worse than he did before. He had just made it through podium before he yacked up the contents of his stomach. He was grateful that the team didn't force him to do media after and just sent back to his hotel.

He managed to get some rest, which did him some good but before he knew it he 8pm and he needed to head to the airport for his flight home. Oscar was happy to be going home, and that flight was only 2 hours, but god those 2 hours were the absolute worse in his life. The turbulence was god awful, everyone and everything was just to loud, he had a hard time keeping whatever was left in his stomach down, and his nose just kept running.

By the time the plane landed around 11pm, he was ready to just cuddle up in bed with you and sleep for the next 24 hours. Picking Oscar up from the airport, you asked questions about how he was feeling wanting to gauge what you needed to do to help him feel better. Oscar told you and you made a mental note of everything as you headed home.

Once you guys were home, you got Oscar into pajamas and then got him some cold medicine and some soup that you had made earlier. He happily had to the soup as it was his favorite chicken noodle. But he reluctantly took the cold medicine because it tasted god awful. But he took it like the good boy he is.

You then got him all tucked into bed with the tv playing some old detective show that Oscar liked to watch. Kissed him goodnight and told him if he needed you, you would be asleep in the guest bedroom. Oscar wished you stayed with him, but he knew you didn't want to get sick as well.

Anyway, it was around 6 am when Oscar woke up. He felt hot and ill and quickly got out of bed to throw up the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Having woken up early and hearing the shuffling, then the throwing up, you quickly rushed to Oscar. Siting on the floor beside him, rubbing his back trying to soothe him.

You sit with him rubbing his back until he done throwing up. After he’s done you carefully get him back into bed. Then go and get the thermometer to take his temperature. You take his temperature and it reads 101 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s not good but it’s not as bad as it could be.

You get him some more cold medicine and water. You make sure he drinks all the water and then get a cool damp wash cloth on his forehead. You turn then turn the tv which shut off probably sometime in night. You put on some cartoons. They’re easy and you don’t got to think or follow much. Perfect for someone that is sick.

You then get everything set up for Oscar so he can take care of himself while your gone at work for the day. You’re a little reluctant to leave Oscar but you knew you had to work. You told Oscar to keep you updated in how he was doing.

When you got home from work, you immediately went and checked Oscar and found him asleep, cartoons still playing on the tv. You smile to yourself as you leave and go make dinner. When you’re almost done with dinner you hear the soft footsteps of Oscar coming down the hallway, you look up and greet him. He definitely looks better than he did this morning. You ask him how he’s feeling and he was better like you expected.

This routine of getting him set up in the morning and going to work and coming home and checking on him and then making dinner goes on for a 9 days, until Oscar feels completely better.

Oscar is really appreciative of you taking care of him while he was sick and took you out to dinner at a nice place as a thank you. Despite your insistence that he didn’t need to, that you were his partner and that taking care of him when he was sick came with that. While you were out for dinner you started sneezing a lot.

And by the next morning you were sick and it was Oscar’s turn to take care of you while you were sick.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober 2024, Day 1, Mirror (Self)

Alright here we go again.

Technically a sneak peak of a bigger thing to come in the future that I'm repurposing, and the result of my final playthrough and readthrough before EoW dropped being Four Swords Adventures and that made me sad about Shadow Link again.

Note that this is for the Four Swords Adventures iteration of Shadow Link that might evolve into an LU Shadow, not Dark Link in either LOZ or LU, I have other plans for him.

This one shot was brought to you by Scars by The Crane Wives, Ribs by The Crane Wives, Ruin by The Amazing Devil and Two Minutes by The Amazing Devil because the author's playlist decided to be incredibly cheeky when they blacked out to write this like an ancient seers being cursed with visions and then called mad and hearing they've been put up for execution.

As always the nature of the relationship can be romantic or platonic, mostly due to the author's time constraints and further plans.

Anyway enjoy the reading!

It was cold.

The sort of cold after a wildfire, when everything's turned back to ash, the sort that left burned your vision white after the flames licked through your veins and left an ache in your bones. He shuddered, coughed black onto the stone floor, shaking with a muffled whimper.

It never got any easier, being dragged from the Dark World and into the Realm of Light, the goddesses' world itself revolting against an intruder, wanting the wound torn asunder into their oh so precious realm cauterized. To purge the intrusion and smite it where it stands.

Too bad for them (and for him), his master didn't particularly care about what the world wanted. Didn't particularly care that he hadn't grow accustomed to the pain or the cold, he had to stand up. There was work to be done.

(Shadow gritted his teeth, willed himself not to think about the prophecy of a golden haired princess- because whether he liked it or not, it was prophecy. As those with divinity running through their veins are wont to spill from their throats so carelessly- of violet eyes and a smile a third moonlight and hands holding a hammer.

It always hurt more, after one of the heroes liberated one of the maidens, or the jewels, the pain lingering for days afterwards and carving a home in his metaphorical bones. But just this once he'd take the cold bite of the Four Swords over the pain in the hole in his chest that Vio's betrayal had left, something that felt so much worse than every other time before.

Just this once he wished that maybe, just maybe, the hurt would be too much to bear, that he wouldn't wake up again-

Why? Why does it hurt so much but he's still here? He already knew the Light was uncompromising and unforgiving, but he thought them at least above curses.)

His ears twitched as soft, almost silent footsteps came up to his side. Someone crouching by his fallen form, setting a cautious hand over his own that Shadow couldn't help but draw away from with a hiss, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the world again, to your face, carefully blank as you guided him to lean against your side, a silver choker with a crimson gem winked mockingly at him, the shade closing his eyes and going boneless against your side.

Shadow was so, so tired.

He heard you quietly sigh, plucking his cap from his head and running your fingers through dark amethyst, smoke and mist made hair. "I told you so."

"Shut up." He grumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. One clawed hand curling against your free wrist, digging into the skin. Absentmindedly noting there were new scratches just above the metal.

It was routine by now, the warmth of your existence against his own a welcome balm, not quite of the Realm of Light where it's unpleasant, not too close to the Dark World where he felt like melting back into the embrace of the darkness, only to howl in agony at being dragged out.

Memories not quite his own bled into his mind all the time. How you'd shape ice into flowers for the princess in winter with nary a though, of blinking and from one second to the next you'd have whatever sword he had hostage if you though it was time for a break with a smile brighter than the sun.

His master had changed that though. It took months for you to stop trying to claw the collar out and to stop trying to fight Vaati.

(Funny how holding a mage's dragon as a bargaining chip is just as effective as kidnapping a ruler.)

Your gaze flicked to the polished obsidian of the Dark Mirror, to the gold, ornate frame. "The offer is still open, you know. Let me take the suffering from you."

"No." He scowled, leaning back to glare into your eyes, a hint of fangs poking out from a maw struggling to keep the shape of a human jaw, "You helped him. Helped them." Shadow spat, there is that hurt again.

You shrugged, a movement that's just slightly awkward as you flinch, "That I did." You confirmed simply, it almost made Shadow see red as he leaned away, knocking your hand from his head in the process, but if there's anything him and the heroes shared, was a lack of a desire to hurt you. It was a little grating to be honest, "Vio even offered to take me with him, to be honest."

"Then why didn't you leave?" He demanded.

Why did you stick around?

Your eyes shuttered, a hint of conflict in your pursed lips. Before you found your words, they come out softly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you why. You'll just have to find out yourself."

You tug your wrist from his grasp, and Shadow lets you go.

(Stubbornly pushing down on memories and emotions that arearen'tarenotanymore quite his.)

You stand and turn away, pushing the curtains away from your sight, you turn your tired eyes to Shadow with an emotion he can't put a name to. "Just keep it in mind that there's more than one way to end this. Nothing is truly inevitable."

Shadow watches you go. 'There's nothing that can be done. He tells himself, hand hesitating above the Dark Mirror, briefly, it curls into a fist. The hero's original self stares back at him.

'… Does he really believe that?'

He shakes his head, and focuses on willing the Dark Mirror to show him his counterpart.

His chest still hurts.

[cyber-dump-171]

Chapter 2: Do you believe?

The End is Near (Gravity Falls x Reader)

← Chapter 1 | Masterlist | Chapter 3 →

Word count: 5.5k.

WARNING: mentions of violence, blood, injuries, body horror, and animal mutation.

Note: sorry this took so long! had a few rough weeks and I'm nearing the end of my final year in uni, but it's all good! Thank you so much to everyone who left a like, reblog, or comment, it makes me so happy to see you're enjoying this fic!

══════════════════

Fiddleford's sudden cry stops you dead in your tracks. One foot in the air, covered in the creature's dark blood, hands clenched tightly into fists, unaware that your nails are digging painfully into your palms as you stare directly into the lantern's light like a deer caught in the headlights. 

His mouth moves, but you're too disoriented to pay attention to the worried string of words that leave his tongue. His eyebrows furrow, a hand reaching out in concern, but your vision swims as the adrenaline begins to subside, and your body screams at the injuries scarring your skin and muscles. “Fiddleford… When did you get here?”

Your ears buzz and pop painfully. However, as if a switch had been flipped, the forest around you suddenly returns to life instantly. In the distance, you can hear the rustling of branches, the crunching of leaves, and the hooting of night owls. Even the fog has lifted, allowing you to see beyond the clearing and further into the forest. Did the creature restrict your vision and hearing? No way. That should be impossible, right?

Your legs feel like jelly, the muscles burning in protest as they beg you to sit down. Unfortunately, as you step back from the mangled carcass, you land on your injured ankle, and combined with the sole of your shoe covered in the monster's slippery blood, your entire world is turned upside down as you land painfully on your back, the blades of grass nipping at your exposed skin.

“Sweet sarsaparilla! You alright!?” within seconds, Fiddleford's worried face comes into view, the moon framing his head beautifully, making him look like an angel. When did he get so pretty? You nod weakly and close your eyes, trying to rid yourself of the dizziness that makes it hard to breathe and even harder to swallow.

“M’fine,” your voice sounds so strange, hoarse, like you’ve got the worst cold in history. It sucks to breathe, worse to be alive right now, the pain on your ankle feels like fire, scorching the surrounding skin. ‘But it’ll pass… it always does.’ Lukewarm fingers suddenly but gently intertwine with yours as Fiddleford pulls you to sit up and you open your bleary eyes, dizzily watching the man rifle through his bag with determination.

“Hold steady, Sunflower. I’m gonna push down on ya neck, this might hurt,” he mutters as he slips on a pair of surgical gloves, the latex snapping close to his skin. You perk up when hearing the flower, was that supposed to be a nickname for you? An unfamiliar but not unwelcome heat swirls in your chest and your suspicion is confirmed when Fiddleford stares back, eyes wide at what has left his mouth, and that sweet blush is back on his cheeks.

A small smirk is plastered on your face, and for some strange reason, you feel giddy. “That’s a cute nickname… I quite like it. But, why sunflower?” you cough roughly and put a hand on his shoulder, watching him jump at the sound out of the corner of your eye. He carefully hides his face from you, stuttering as he whispers about you shutting up and “letting him do the medic's work.” You just chuckle in return.

You close your eyes again as you concentrate on listening to the now vibrant surroundings, taking your attention away from the pain. Soon, nimble fingers start poking and prodding at your neck, where you imagine a rather large purple bruise is beginning to form. You suck in a breath as he presses down on a particularly painful spot, and he quietly apologizes, muttering something about your thyroid gland.

“FIDDLEFORD!? WHERE ARE YOU!?” a voice suddenly shouts from beyond the nearby trees. As your eyes open, a flash of white light haphazardly cuts through the branches and foliage. Said man perks up at the mention of his name and leans away from your ear to shout his location, prompting a quizzical look from you in return. “Ah! Remember my college buddy? That’s him right there.”

As if summoned, the nearby bushes rustle harshly when a tall, broad man in a large tan trench coat steps through, leaves and twigs stuck in his fluffy brown hair. Your fingers involuntarily twitch; why do you have this sudden urge to run your hands through it? What is wrong with you today!? You zap the thought away, paying close attention to the new stranger who wipes away at the grime and debris caught in his clothing.

“Ah, there you are! The police are here, they’re asking for the new chief,” he explains rather breathlessly, lifting his head to finally face you both and offering a polite smile at you. “You must be her. I’m Dr. Stanford Pines, a pleasure to meet you,” you mumble your name to him, trying to ease the pain as much as possible.

He seems to understand your predicament, nodding before his attention is immediately enraptured by the beast’s carcass lying still on the ground. “I see, so this is what was causing all that ruckus,” he hums, crouching down near one of its twisted limbs as he digs through his coat pockets, pulling out a large burgundy notebook and fountain pen, and quickly jotting down a variety of notes at the speed of light.

His insatiable curiosity impresses you, especially when his attention is so focused on the macabre scene before him. But remembering Fiddleford's explanation during the car ride, you dismiss his behavior as the burning curiosity most scientists have. “Document all you want, but those notes won't see the light of day until we figure out what’s going on,” you warn, the pain in your throat slowly easing as you speak more clearly.

Stanford doesn't look up from his notes, but you can spot a small grin. “Do not worry; my research and discoveries are for my eyes only,” he pronounces proudly, even slightly puffing out his chest. However, Fiddleford rolls his eyes and scoffs, muttering a playful “unfortunately” as he signals to his pockets, implying a lack of money. You chuckle softly. 

“Well now, looks like your neck’s holdin’ up alright, ‘cept for that bruise and temporary damage to your vocal cords. You feelin’ pain anywhere else ‘sides your ankle?” You’re about to point to the side of your torso, muscles still pulsating where the monster’s arm slammed into you when a loud thought crosses your mind: ‘You’ve bothered them enough, there’s no need to waste any more resources on you.’

You just shake your head, ignoring the searing pain that runs through a good chunk of your torso. This is nothing new, you've dealt with worse and you'll just push through when it gets unbearable, like always. Scanning you one last time for any other superficial injuries he might have missed due to the adrenaline, Fiddleford nods before moving quickly to your ankle, carefully gripping the limb to avoid causing more pain as he pulls your pant leg up to inspect the damage.

At the sight of the angry red marks cutting into your skin and oozing blood that has begun to coagulate, the man draws a rather loud breath, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to remove the tattered pieces of black leather that stubbornly cling to your calf and once belong to your shoe. 

“Thank the heavens, them cuts don’t seem too deep; no need for stitches. Your boot took most of the hit,” he comforts, rummaging through his bag as he takes out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls. Damn it, you liked those shoes too, you got them in a Christmas sale as a personal gift with your first paycheck. “But I reckon you best not be walkin’ too much, and get a tetanus shot once we’re done.”

Dabbing the cotton, the cold, wet material touches your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as Fiddleford delicately cleans the area around the injury. With a quiet warning, he pours the icy liquid directly onto the cuts, causing you to jerk back slightly as you feel the hydrogen bubbles burn through the edges of your injury. Soon the sizzling stops and the man wipes away the dirty residue with a handkerchief before expertly bandaging the wound and gently patting your knee.

“All done! You took it like a champ. With some rest and painkillers, that pain oughta clear right up,” Fiddleford stumbles to his feet, removing the surgical gloves with a snap! and tossing them haphazardly into his bag before extending a bare hand to you. You thank him under your breath, feeling rather warm inside as your fingers wrap around his palm, and in one strong tug, you stand up but, 

But as the sole of your tattered boot hits the ground, the world spins before your eyes, colors blurring, shapes moving like water as your legs lock, your body feeling like jelly, weak and wobbly, and without warning you stagger forward, your face slamming into the man's chest as your arms wrap limply around his torso, seeking stability. With your skin so close to Fiddleford's, you can feel his heart beating a mile an hour.

He yelps in surprise, his hands flailing around your body, unable to process what's happening or where to put them. “M’sorry, I feel like I have no control of my body,” your raspy voice is muffled, your nose buried deep in his green shirt where you inhale his earthy scent, a soothing yet intense mix of honey, lavender, and rosemary. And though you would like to stay buried there forever, this man is going to have a heart attack if you don't move soon.

And so your trembling palms loosen their grip on his shirt, creeping up to his shoulders before you push against them, lifting your body and coming face to face with reddened cheeks and crooked glasses. “I-It’s all g-good; it’s real… um… n-normal for someone to feel a bit… ah, s-shook up after somethin’ like that,” Fiddleford stumbles with his words, his eyes looking everywhere but at you.

You nod, eyes lidded, as the exhaustion of the night's events finally begins to take its stubborn toll on your body, but you push it away, knowing full well that you won't be able to sleep until the morning, or even the afternoon. Work comes first, and with the two injured boys telling you that a beast brutally murdered their friend, and its carcass lying a few feet away from you, it's going to be rather a fun night.

“Thank you, Fiddleford. You’re very sweet… I owe you a coffee,” you pat him affectionately on the right cheek before walking away, allowing the poor man to catch his breath as he immediately ducks down and hurriedly shoves his materials and trash into his bag, not caring if the products get wrinkled or crushed.

Meanwhile, your attention is drawn to the other man, Stanford, who is so engrossed in his research that he didn't seem to notice the commotion next to him. Or at least turned a blind eye to it. You wobble your way over to him, putting little force on your injury as you crane your neck to look at the yellowed page.

You're impressed by the craftsmanship, watching quietly as skilled and calloused fingers write in cursive, detailing the properties of the creature's skin and bones, adding the worryingly pale appearance of the monster and a burning question: “What even is this thing?”. He then rapidly focuses on the incomplete sketch that takes up a good part of the page, streaks of black ink filling in the blanks of what the monster may have looked like, as you destroyed its face, only leaving a crater with mushed insides.

You crouch down beside him, the movement finally alerting him to your presence. His head immediately jumps up, his eyes widening and his mouth agape as he slams the journal shut, hiding it behind his back under his trenchcoat. His surprise is then replaced by a look of annoyance on his face, and his lips tighten, shoving his hands harshly into his pockets.

“Weren't you ever taught that it's rude to poke around people's personal belongings?” He huffs, lowering his face. You simply shrug your shoulders, undisturbed by his actions and words. “Well, you are documenting my crime scene, so I think I have some right to be nosey,” you fire back.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, and while you can't detect any malice in his actions, you also don’t get a hint of playfulness either. He's put a barrier between you, and you can't really blame him. But oh well, now that the damage has been done, you're going to add insult to injury by poking your nose into his business. “I get that you're a scientist, but what is it that fascinates you about this thing?” 

You reach out and touch the body lightly; it's cold as ice, and you're even more certain that whatever this thing is resembles a bat. Its skin is soft, wrinkled, and quite elastic, and it's covered in a very thin layer of spiky hair, almost invisible to the eye. Its claws are stained a strong, deep yellow, with dirt, moss, and grime accumulated under the protective plate. 

Closer inspection of the body reveals that it appears to have no exposed reproductive system and, bizarrely, the appearance of the boy it was trying to emulate earlier has now disappeared, leaving behind an eerily milky skin with dark protruding veins. How in God’s name are you going to explain this creature to the families of the victims?

Next to you, Stanford perks up at your words, his body almost vibrating with the emotion of being able to pour out a sea of scientific theories and words to a stranger who may share the same interest. Sudden bright eyes look at you, and he reminds you of an eager child. “Ah! Well, to answer your question, I must ask one back. Tell me, do you believe in the supernatural?”

… Did you hear that right? You turn around, hoping that this is his way of bluffing or breaking the ice, but as you focus on his expression, noticing his furrowed eyebrows and sharp eyes, you realize he’s dead serious. You stare at him back, bewildered. “Huh?” Stanford is about to repeat the question when you lift a hand, cutting him off and your mouth falls slightly open.

Somebody was murdered, two boys were injured and this man is trying to tell you that this monster is a cryptid? What? That this creature falls in the same category as ghosts and vampires? You definitely hit your head too hard when you fell.

Look, it's not an unusual question. Thanks to the rise of horror films and TV shows, your colleagues have dragged you into several conversations about the same subject. And, to be honest, you have a firm opinion on the matter: they don't exist. You believe that aliens are real. Maybe they don't look like gray or green people, but humans can't be the only living organisms in the universe.

But things like ghosts, Mothman, and werewolves? Yeah, that stuff felt more like attention-grabbing ploys that could only provide fantastical stories and a conveniently blurry photo rather than real and concrete evidence of their existence. Besides, so many scientists and experts keep saying and proving that such creatures can't exist, no matter how much “mediums” claim they do.

Fucking hell, you and your close friend and college roommate, Paula, used to get play a game on Halloween, drinking every time a psychic came on TV and did something stupid or ridiculous to prove the existence of ghosts or poltergeists. You would end up blacked out, sprawled on the floor, giggling like idiots as the clock struck midnight.

Stanford gives a quizzical look yet his eyes are still twinkling, his hands shifting impatiently inside his pockets as you’re attempting to formulate a response, that’s not an insult, when the nearby bushes begin to shift. Leaves and twigs crunch under the pressure of someone's shoe, which causes you and Stanford to immediately move away from the sound, scurrying to stand up as you draw the taser that was still attached to your belt.

"Who's there?" your voice is strong, the hoarseness in your tone from the injury still fresh, but the pain is almost gone now, only pulsing slightly. The leaves are shaking violently and you can feel Stanford taking a step back, almost hiding behind you, using you as a shield, but he’s clutching something tightly in his left hand. His legs are slightly apart, his eyebrows furrowed as he assumes a fighting stance. Fiddleford is close behind, but far enough away that if anything dangerous jumps out, he can run away without too much trouble.

Seconds feel like minutes as your stomach twists into knots and your heart pounds against your chest. Sometime during the commotion, the lamp is shut off, plunging your surroundings into complete darkness. You silently pray to yourself that this isn't another one of nature's freaks, avenging its fallen sibling and taking your head back as a trophy. But as the branches clear and a beam of light cuts through, a short, chubby man with curly hair and sunglasses steps forward.

The man whistles a cheerful tune, bobbing his head to the beat as he struts nonchalantly, but stops when he sees the three of you standing in the dark. The four of you stare at each other, your eyes squinting and your bodies frozen in poses of attack or surprise. 

Great, now a complete stranger has stumbled upon this bizarre crime scene; you're already worried about how relaxed and composed both Stanford and Fiddleford were at the sight of the monster’s corpse, and now you’re adding someone else to the mix. But as your eyes adjust to the powerful beam of the flashlight and you take a closer look at the new man, you notice his clothing, a rather plain police uniform and a forest ranger hat.

This must be one of the officers looking for you. Maybe he's a future colleague of yours.

“Ah, Officer Blubs, glad you could find us. " Your suspicions are confirmed as Stanford clears his throat and relaxes his pose. He quickly stores away whatever weapon he was holding inside his trench coat and shoves his hands back into his pockets. Behind you, Fiddleford breathes a sigh of relief as his shoulders slump and the wrinkle that had furrowed his forehead disappears. 

The man, addressed as Blubs, playfully tips his hat to the scientist in a silent greeting, before turning his eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses (an odd fashion choice to wear at night), to focus on your figure. As if a light bulb had gone off in his head, he digs in his pockets and produces a crumpled Polaroid photograph, which he holds up to your face.

The cold air billows harshly as it ruffles your already-tangled hair and while your face doesn’t show it, you’re ready to fall asleep standing up if this man doesn’t hurry it up. An awkward pause placates the air before it’s interrupted by a deep laugh rumbles from within the chest of Blubs. “Well damn! If it isn’t my new boss! You got one hell of a welcome, didn’t ya?” 

He puts a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing the muscle as a sign of friendship. From the way his grip is rather loose and the playful grin on his mouth, you can tell that there's an easy, almost effortless quality to him as if he's never in a hurry to be anywhere. You hope he'll put his back into his work if he's going to operate alongside you.

Yet you push the thought away as a small smile breaks through your tired expression, an unknown weight that has been plaguing your mind easing away. “You’re damn right… we should start right away if we want to catch some much-needed sleep," you immediately go into work mode, but not before returning his gesture. You give the man your name and he asks you to call him by his first name, Daryl.

You nod, turn to the other two, and quickly point your thumb toward the makeshift exit. “Alright, get back to your house and lock the doors, we’ll phone you later to go to the station and take your statements,” you catch a glimpse of Stanford opening his mouth, probably wanting to stay and continue examining the creature, but he's promptly stopped by Fiddleford, who starts to drag him away.

“Thank ya, Sunflower. Give me a holler if that injury’s still botherin’ ya. We’ll be seein’ ya,” He waves his hand shyly but insistently, giving you a sweet smile before rapidly walking away, a confused scientist following close behind. As the figures of the two men become smaller and smaller, you turn to Blubs, who idly prods the creature's body with his foot, completely unfazed by the abomination.

“Daryl, radio the others and tell them to bring a body bag. The sooner we get this thing down to a lab, the better,” you instruct, letting out a tired sigh, mentally preparing yourself for the piles of paperwork you'll be filling out in the next few hours. The deputy perks up, and a hand shoots up to embarrassingly scratch his neck. Oh God, what now?

“My bad. Forgot to tell you that is just you and me, boss lady.”

… What?

══════════════════

You want to die. It’s been sixteen hours since you and Daryl somehow managed to drag the creature's body from four miles deep in the woods, stuff it in the tiny trunk of the police car, and drag your ass back to the dinky little station to start delivering bad news, sending the two kids to the hospital and trying to piece together what happened.

You were able to grab your briefcase, a pair of shoes, and a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries from your car so you could at least get a quick makeover and not look like you hadn't been mauled by a bear during interrogations. But as your eyes darted to your own vehicle, neatly parked right in front of the A-shaped house, a pit of shame welled up deep in your stomach for just leaving it there.

“Don't worry, Sunflower. We'll take care of it!” it was Fiddleford, who had just opened one of the windows of the house when observing your worry after passing by. The sweet man even offered to drive it to your house and you were two seconds away from grabbing his collar and kissing him senseless, but hey, have some class, you just met the guy. So, you simply shout a warm gratitude, before scurrying to the passenger’s side.

As the small police car speeds down the dirt road, Daryl fills you in on what happened while you were fighting the monster, but not before making sure the other two teenagers are not paying attention. Fortunately, they were both fast asleep, the exhaustion of the day's events having taken its toll on their minds. 

You felt a pang of sadness as you observed the two of them holding each other tightly, their hands and fingers wrapped tightly around one another, their faces troubled as their dreams are unable to soothe their worries. 

You also commented loudly on Dylan's missing tourniquet, wondering if the device had unraveled on its own, but your new associate noted that as soon as Stanford heard the commotion and opened the door, he immediately took the boy in and properly bandaged his injury.

You make a mental note of thanking the eccentric scientist when you see him next time.

As the car picks up speed and signs of civilization begin to appear, Daryl continues in a grave voice. “The other kid didn’t make it… died about four minutes after his friends called 911. We have at least three other missing cases and the boys at Roadkill County already found the body of Tabitha Roberts,” you sigh, scrubbing furiously at your face to remove some of the dirt stains. If you're getting help from another jurisdiction, the situation is dire.

“What do we tell ’em, boss lady?” is the heavy and burning question that hangs in the air. The uncomfortable one, especially when so many important details are clouded by uncertainty and so little evidence. But as the engine roars louder and a street of quaint suburban homes comes into view, you thank yourself for having gathered enough information about some of the conflicts that plague this sleepy town.

“We hypothesize that the creature that murdered your son was a mutated being,” is what you told everyone who took a seat in your new and bare office. Now clean after a hasty shower at the station, you presented the possible theory behind the inexplicable monster you had fought mere hours before.

You saw a variety of facial expressions after hearing this sentence: shock, confusion, anger, and one man was ready to curse you until you took a thick folder from your briefcase and quickly spread a variety of photographs and papers with graphs or testimonies written on them across the surface of the mahogany desk. You drew the following picture:

In 1963, just outside the small town of Gravity Falls, the Northwest family built a factory to mass-produce mud flaps. Soon after it opened, however, several townspeople began to complain that the river that ran alongside the building was polluted, adding that the water looked greenish or gray, and smelled of rotten food and burnt rubber.

Three years later, more complaints were received, this time about the appearance of deformed animals with two heads, having four eyes, or making strange noises such as screams wandering near the factory. To make matters worse, one of the workers was attacked by a deer with deformed hooves whose skin fell off easily, revealing that its muscles had turned completely white.

Soon after, a group of scientists from West Coast Tech University conducted a series of tests that confirmed the lake was contaminated with mercury and other chemicals that came from the factory. The report added that the mutations in the animals were not instantaneous, but were genetic mutations that came from generations of animals drinking water from the contaminated river.

People petitioned the county and the government to close the factory and clean up the river. However, to this day, the Northwest factory continues to operate and the contamination has spread, so the beast may be the result of generations of mutations.

Many of the victims' family members held onto the papers shakily, staring intently at the pictures of the mutated animals or the numbers showing the percentage of chemicals found in a sample of water taken from the river. You kept reminding them that this was only a hypothesis at the moment, a theory with no proof, but that you and Daryl were working to find out what was going on.

Most of them were upset but convinced by what you had told them. Others were more reluctant to believe, but couldn't refute much because they lacked vital information or were too emotionally drained to argue. They simply told you not to forget their loved ones... you replied, a sliver of emotion breaking through, that they would never be forgotten.

They seemed satisfied with that answer, as you awkwardly returned their hugs... you don't think you'll ever really get used to tokens of affection.

As the people left the precinct, you began to worry. About the panic, the fear-mongering, the speeches about hell, the devil, and divine redemption. Worse still, those idiots who call themselves paranormal hunters, who put themselves in danger by sneaking into the woods late at night, only to have their faces plastered on missing persons posters when they fall off cliffs or are mauled by wild animals.

“Eh, don’t sweat it. The information doesn’t spread too far, hell, this town’s been experiencing so much weird shit since centuries ago yet everyone’s accustomed to it. Believe me, once the eulogies pass and the bodies are buried… they’ll quickly forget about it. They always do… Well, welcome to the team, (Y/N)!”

This was what Roadkill County's Chief of Police, Harlan Farley, told you before he gave you a firm pat on the back and left the station with a few of his deputies. You, on the other hand, were left speechless, his words repeating in your head like a broken record as Daryl forced you to take a break and eat something.

So you find yourself sluggishly seated in a weathered booth at Greasy's Diner, an odd-looking eatery that seems to be a staple of the "Gravity Falls experience", as your co-worker puts it. Your calloused and bruised finger gently circles the rim of the worn ceramic mug, your weary gaze lost in the ripples of the now cold and cheap-tasting coffee, brain empty yet filled with incoherent thoughts.

You desperately need a long, uninterrupted nap.

You shrink further into your coat as you feel the shameless stares of customers and passers-by whispering about the new police chief. You've gotten used to the harsh and rude words thrown your way; it's not just part of your job, it's been a constant in your life for some time. Fortunately, you're far away from them now. But that doesn't mean you enjoy the feeling of being watched like a bacterium under a stethoscope.

Your sharp ears catch the unsavory words of a woman sitting in the booth behind you, commenting that you look sick and unhealthy. Her friends point out the bruises and cuts on your face, the way you wobble slightly when you walk, and stare uncomfortably at the back of your head. You don’t have a single moment of peace, do you?

Too tired to care, you push the mug further into the linoleum table, careful not to spill a drop as you unceremoniously rest your head on the unhygienic and cold surface. Your eyes are drooping, your meal is taking far too long, so you might as well have a quick power nap to regain some energy before eating a hearty, possibly cholesterol-laden meal and heading back to work.

Your muscles begin to relax, the mundane life and casual conversation of those around you acting as a lullaby as unseen hands gently pull you into your dreams. But the momentary relief is snatched away as something light jumps right next to you and... meows?

Your bleary eyes open, and in between the tears of sleep, you find yourself face-to-face with a cat. When did it get in? You didn't see it when you came into the diner. You examine the cat: its thick, fluffy coat is a beautiful shade of butterscotch, with highlights of white and lighter yellow and orange tones. There's a large patch of black fur on the crown of his head, which almost makes it look like he's wearing a hat. What's bizarre about him, though, are his eyes. The irises are completely white, making his black and thin pupils stand out even more. Is it a characteristic of the town that its animals look strange?

Annoyed by your curious yet sleepy gaze, the cat's eyes squint and it raises a paw in anger, clawing at your arm as it meows again. Is he asking you to pet him? No, it's actually demanding that you do it. You slowly reach out, afraid the cat will strike and claw at your skin, but when your palm lands on its head and it doesn't move, you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Hello, buddy. What are you doing here?” you coo softly, fingers gently scratching the cat's skull in a circular motion. As if in response, the feline meows back, head tilted to the side as if searching for your fingers, imploring you to scratch a particular spot. You laugh softly, obeying the cat's wishes as your nails rake through the fur, which is covered with a very thin layer of dirt and dust.

It almost feels like therapy, the stress of the earlier hours melting away as you hear his purr from deep within his chest as he closes his eyes and relaxes. It's so cute, you think, wondering why your mother never really wanted a pet. You would have loved to have one around the house, maybe now that you're independent you could adopt one. Although, with how busy you are at work, you feel bad about leaving it alone for most of the day.

The cat's head suddenly leaves your hand and a pang of disappointment runs through your body, hoping that the creature will return so that you can continue to chase that feeling of softness. But you're surprised when the cat slips into your lap and begins to walk awkwardly in circles, its body bumping against the table before settling comfortably on your thighs, its tail curled inwards and its head tucked neatly against your belt. 

The cat lets out a deep sigh from his small and pink nose as if releasing all the stress that has built up over the week, and seconds later his eerie yet adorable eyes close, the warmth of your body and your pets lulling him into a deep sleep.

You chuckle, finding his position and actions adorable.

“What’s so funny?”

It was Stanford.

══════════════════

Tag list:

@rotknox @devotee-of-bill @some-beans @dummybunnby

[nerd-at-sea5]

i have a cold atm. so uh. yellowjackets when they’re sick headcanons!

jackie - will go to school if she’s coughing/sneezing a little, but the moment it gets worse than that she’s in the office asking to be taken home. does make a big deal out of it and is kinda dramatic. is aggressively helpful whenever any of her friends are sick (meds, reading articles, getting homework, telling jokes, whatever she can do to be helpful)

shauna - dislikes being sick to the point that jackie has called her mom for her to pick her up multiple times bc shauna refuses to acknowledge it. will contact teachers at 6am letting them know she’s missing school and asking for the work. hates taking care of other people when they’re sick. will sit outside jackie’s room reading to her but won’t go inside

nat - fucking hates being sick bc she feels pathetic/useless whenever she is. normally when she’s sick she goes 1-2 days ignoring it, then lottie makes her stay over and takes care of her. nat also rarely gets sick. like she’s gone years without having to stay home from school, however when she’s sick, she’s sick. is really good at taking care of people but she only does it to people she really likes (lottie, van, laura lee and akilah)

lottie - has never gotten sick in her life. likes to joke that her brain is fucked enough so her body just decided to never mess with her. is one of the most caring people when someone’s sick. she makes nat stay at her house until she’s better, she’ll bring matzah ball soup to shauna (she did accidentally give shauna salmonella once bc she fucked up making it but it’s fine), gossips with jackie, will binge movies with van, catch tai up on homework, read books to laura lee - she’s the best person to ever be sick around.

van - is a lot like nat except they don’t succumb to it after 3 days. they’ll just keep going till they physically cannot anymore. tai once forced them to stay at her house bc van threw up twice during practice and nat had to drag them to the locker room. will literally only be around tai and nat when they’re sick because they hate it so much. (they’re dysphoria skyrockets when they’re sick) nat and van once got sick together and they just watched movies for 38 hours straight until lottie showed up and made them take medicine

tai - the moment she thinks she’s even a little sick she takes medicine, contacts her teachers and coaches and then sleeps until she’s fine again. refuses to be sick for more than a day so she never is. envy’s lottie for never getting sick, will not be around any sick person aside from van. she’ll just drop off someone’s homework for them and that’s it. the only person she tolerates around her when she’s sick is her mom bc she’ll sing to tai and tai is ok with her mom taking care of her (no one else. ever)

laura lee - just burrows under blankets until she’s better, when she’s sick it almost always means throwing up sick and since she’s the oldest her parents will stay home with her (if they can’t they have the second oldest) she just gets quiet and sad and a lot of the time lottie and nat go to her house to cheer her up (it’s the only time her parents don’t judge nat). (in the case of my nb laura lee hc - i think their dysphoria also gets worse when they’re sick, bc they’re whole body hurts and they’re hyper aware of their chest)

misty - freaks out and thinks it’s WAY worse than it actually is, had taken herself to the ER for a head cold before (she was fine). normally will just hangout with her mom and listen to show tunes until she’s better

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 16)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 | ao3

Lucas checks his compass again, but the needle still points north, barely jostling from his biking

“Got anything weird in yours yet?” He calls over his shoulder to where Dustin is biking behind him.

“Negative!”

Lucas looks back at the road. It’s empty with no car in sight. But he doesn’t want to twist his wheel the wrong way and splat his face against the asphalt.

His nose twinges again in reminder. Mike hadn’t punched him that hard to break it. Just hard enough that it had hurt all the way to this morning.

Lucas grips the handlebars tighter. If only Mike wasn’t so obsessed with Eleven, then he wouldn’t had punched Lucas in the face for no reason. Then maybe Mike would have been with Lucas and Dustin to see Will through that wall portal. Maybe Will would have finally come home and be not-dead.

But Mike isn’t with them. Lucas hasn’t seen him since the Wheeler house went kaput with the lights nearly exploding. Dustin had told him that he had seen Mike biking off on his own earlier and wanted to follow him.

Lucas had said no. Mike’s definitely going to find the weirdo. Who cares about her being gone when Will’s somewhere in the Upside Down?

(“And Eddie.” Dustin adds, sitting on his bed. He’d ended up sleeping over with Lucas when Mrs. Wheeler had ushered them out.

“Yeah, him too.” Lucas agrees before frowning, “Do we still have any idea who this Eddie guy even is?”

“Nope, but I know it’s not Eddie Tremblay!”)

Anyway, Mike isn’t coming back in forever. Lucas will make sure he doesn’t unless Mike gets over his stupid crush and apologizes for jeopardizing the rescue mission.

“Lucas!” Dustin yells again.

“You got something?” Lucas brakes, looking over to see Dustin had also stopped.

“Son of a bitch- No, I dropped the compass!” Dustin swears as he leans haphazardly towards the ground, reaching for the fallen object. Lucas rolls his eyes.

He looks around the street again, catching a couple posters on a nearby telephone pole. Lucas barely holds back a mourning heart when he sees Will’s missing poster, now already wrinkled and a chunk of the paper ripped off.

Will’s not dead. He reminds himself. He’s somewhere fighting demogorgons.

His gaze trails up, not really reading the other poster next to Will’s picture. But Lucas does another take.

“Dustin.” He inches closer to the pole so he can get a better look.

“Don’t worry, my compass is fine!”

“Dustin.”

“What is it?” Dustin pedals up to Lucas’ side, following his gaze.

It’s another missing poster, but it doesn’t have Will’s photo. It’s another boy, much older than them, with unruly dark hair as he grins at the camera. Printed underneath is Eddie Munson, along with a list of his important features.

Lucas sucks in a breath. He turns to Dustin, who’s wide-eyed expression stares back at him.

“You don’t think..?”

Lucas nods quickly, “There’s no other way.”

They both stare at the poster for another minute. And then they start biking again.

—

Will huffs, feeling his chest squeeze itself. Another cough starts bubbling up, but he holds it in as long as he can. He concentrates on breathing and not tripping over his feet or his bike.

Well, it’s not really his bike. Will is pretty sure that he left it on the road when the demogorgon got him. But when he had snuck back into Mike’s garage, he was awestruck to find the same one. Even down to the chipping red paint above the wheels.

He did not have time to dwell though. Will had grabbed a coil of jump rope and hurried out before any more monsters appeared.

After returning back to the current base, Will whisper-yells triumphantly, “Told you I would get it!”

Sitting on an ancient couch in the garage, Eddie gives him a shaky thumbs-up. He looks ten times worse than he did earlier with sweat and dirt sticking on his jaunt face. Even the sheets Eddie is bundled up in still makes him smaller.

Will turns and gently places the bike on the ground by the handlebars, positioning the rear to face the wagon. Then, with the salvaged rope he had found earlier, Will ties both ends to the bike and the wagon’s handle.

It takes another minute of stuffing the wagon with more blankets but Will steps back and admires his creation. Simple but perfect.

Will goes over to Eddie and pulls on his hand to stand up. Eddie does so, much slower than last time. The older boy is careful not to lean too much on Will, but he lets Eddie to do so anyway. Even though the wagon is barely five steps away, Eddie is panting like he’s just outrun the demogorgon.

“Easy, easy!” Will cries out as Eddie just flops his entire body into the wagon. Eddie doesn’t even emit a single sound. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

The wagon is too small for Eddie’s whole body. But after some adjustments of tucking his limbs into the space, Eddie seems to fit in better.

“You okay?” Will softly taps on Eddie’s bad ankle. Even after the cleaning it and changing the bandages, he’s not sure if it’s healing properly. The bleeding has stopped but the wound is oozing some pus. It’s also smelling bad but Will hopes it’s because of the dried blood and stuff.

Eddie moans and snuggles into the blankets around him.

Will pats Eddie on the head in comfort. “If you have to throw up, don’t swallow it. Just puke if you have to.”

Eddie snorts quietly, his eyes already closing.

Will quickly debates about keeping the spear on himself or not. He passes it over to Eddie who takes it without a word.

Will picks up the bike, pulls on the rope again to test the strength, and climbs on the seat. He stares out into the dark and desolate Maple Street.

He sucks in a shaky breath. In. Out. Ignores the ticklish sensation in his throat that’s more and more present.

Will pumps his legs on the pedals. His calves immediately spike up with the familiar burns and he welcomes it.

The bike descents down the low slope of the garage and into the street. The wagon bumps slightly but Eddie barely makes a groan.

Will stops for a moment, already winded from the effort. He looks over at Eddie, still curled up and shivering and barely holding the remaining spear. His injured leg dangles over the wagon, the shoe almost scraping the ground.

The sight almost makes Will mad. Not at Eddie, of course. But just at the circumstances of it all.

It feels like the stuff happening to them should only hurt Will, not Eddie. Eddie shouldn’t have escaped the demogorgon’s bite of death and gotten so sick that he can barely walk and eat.

It should have been Will.

Will wipes a hand under his nose and takes another deep breath.

Then he starts pedalling again.

Hopefully in the next hour, he would reach the hospital by then.

-

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @hellion-child @steves-strapcollection @sidekick-hero @penny00dreadful @hbyrde36 @mmmmwaffles94 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @dontdrinkmylavalamp @bookbinderbitch @gutterflower77 @soaringornithopter @angeldreamsoffanfic @panicatthediaz @renaissan-vvitch @manda-panda-monium @newtstabber @little-trash-ghost @niniel-karenine @tinyplanet95 @chaosgremlinmunson

[meraki24601]

Would you be opened to writing a whump prompt for me? I'm writing a story about a Whumpee returning after having been missing for 4 months. 

If so: Could you write the scene in which caretaker (who looks for missing Whumpee every single night) stumbles across a very sick Whumpee (it's been raining, probably pneumonia) and sorry I don't know if this is too much for you but anywhoo

Caretaker takes Whumpee to their home, Whumpee who is just so feverish but caretaker can tell that Whumpee is different, the way they flinch at slight touch

Maybe during caretaking, caretaker decides that they don't care about Whumpee's flinching, and they just hug them. Whumpee is so painfully touch-starved they just start crying in caretaker's arms.

This is a bonus but only if you have time to do it or even care: caretaker's mother is a doctor, she comes down as soon as the door opens, and helps somehow

thanks if so!

For some reason, I didn't get a notification when you sent this. I found it, though! Hope you like it.

---*-***-*---

4 Months

I spent day 1 of the search stuck in the police station. The moment Whumpee didn't make it home, I made the call, but they had to wait to put in the report. I answered questions and gave evidence for hours. Their last known whereabouts were just outside the grocery store we always go to. 

On day 3, they found video evidence of Whumpee getting in Whumper's car. Their hands were tied behind their back. Whumper looked up at the camera and smiled before closing the car door. They sent out new wanted alerts within 5 minutes of finding it. 

Day 7, the police sent out search parties. They had a satellite picture of Whumpee tied to a fence just outside a town two states over. They… didn't look good. By the time they arrived at the scene, all they could find was a bloody smear. 

Day 30 came and passed. There were two more sightings. Each one was worse than the last. The FBI got involved. 

On day 61, the FBI told me they were closing the case. They had received an image of Whumpee lying dead on the ground. They couldn't find the body or Whumper. They were going to keep a file open on Whumper, but Whumpee was officially considered dead. It was a lie, though. There's no way Whumper actually killed Whumpee. 

Day 78, I moved back in with my mother. I didn't want her to disappear like Whumpee had. That same day, she opened a package in the mail containing a finger. The police didn't believe me. The package disappeared before I could turn it in. After that, I couldn't help but worry every time she left for her nursing shift at the hospital. 

Day 94, my mother held me as I cried. It was their birthday. I refuse to give up. Whumpee is still alive. I will find them, with or without the police's help.

Day 122, four months on the dot since Whumpee disappeared, I found them tied to a tree in the forest behind my mother's house. Technically, Bunny, my mom's Doberman, found them after pulling her leash out of my hands. When I caught up with her, she’d dropped her favorite ball in Whumpee's hand and was whining softly.

I froze, looking at the person I had been searching for over the past 4 months. They were soaked to the bone and covered in dirt and leaves, seemingly having been left outside through the rain storm that had just passed maybe an hour earlier. For a moment, I couldn't tell if they were dead or alive. 

A deep cough that made my own chest hurt echoed through the trees. Whumpee's hand, with one finger missing, shifted slightly to roll Bunny's ball back toward her. The dog grabbed the ball, bouncing around her found friend with reckless abandon. The soft sob that pushed its way from my throat caught Bunny's attention, and she ran back to me; the ball in her mouth displaying a dark, bloody handprint. 

Bunny dashed back toward the house in fear as I screamed Whumpee's name. They didn't respond. I crashed to my knees on the muddy forest floor in front of Whumpee. They barely had the strength left to lift their head, but they still flinched as I reached for them. 

"Don't." Whumpee's voice was hoarse as they pushed one single word at me. Their eyes were unfocused, and each breath rattled on its way in. Their whole body shivered despite the humidity after the summer rain. 

"You're safe, Whumpee. It's me." I whispered, "I'm going to cut the ropes. Just hold still for a minute longer."

Whumpee's eyes were huge as I shifted closer. When I reached out to comfort them by patting their leg, a strangled cry broke through the silence that had fallen over the forest. Whumpee pulled against the ropes already cutting into their skin. Their struggles didn't last for long. What energy they had left them as their face turned even paler. They were able to tilt their head just enough that when they threw up a mixture of stomach acid and blood dripped on the ground next to them. 

I took advantage of their distraction and quickly cut the ropes, catching Whumpee as they nearly fell into the small puddle of bile. They pulled away from my grip. I hushed them and shifted them carefully into my arms. They were light… so light in my arms. Their heart beat quickly against my chest, but even as I stood, I could feel it start to slow. 

"Mom! I need help. Get the kit!" I screamed at the top of my lungs as I sprinted back to the house. The windows to her room were open, and a twitching curtain told me she had heard me. She had probably started watching the moment Bunny came back without me. 

The back door was already open. The chairs around the table had been pushed back against the wall, a plastic tablecloth we had bought for a picnic was spread out neatly on the table with the large first aid kit open at the head, and mom was scrubbing her hands in the sink. "Lay them down carefully on the table. Did you check for injuries?" My mother asked with her work face on. 

"They're bleeding! Of course they're hurt!" I couldn't help but yell back as I spread the shaking Whumpee on the kitchen table. How many meals have we shared at this table? Game nights before my father passed away, and we suddenly didn't have enough time?

"I wasn't asking if they were hurt, Caretaker. I was asking how and where." Mother's hands, shrouded in gloves, waved me back. "You need to step out for a minute. Change into clean clothes, wash your hands, and get me water and the softest wash rags you can find. It's going to be alright. Take a moment to calm down. I need you focused and ready to help."

I couldn't leave the kitchen fast enough. Every part of my body yearned to burst back in there and demand answers I knew couldn't be answered yet. So, I did as I was told. Water sloshed out of the bucket as I stumbled back toward Whumpee, but I couldn't find it in myself to care. 

My mother's soothing voice brought me to a stop just outside the kitchen door. "There you go. You're safe now. Take a deep breath in and now out. That's alright, that's alright. You did a good job. Steady now. I'm going to turn you on your side just a bit so I can see your back, okay?"

A deep, scream broke off into a fit of barely supported coughing. I opened the door. 

Whumpee had shifted, their body pulling against my mother's hands as they tried to curl up into a tight ball. The moment they saw me, however, those weak struggles turned into something almost primal. A thin sheen of sweat now covered their body. Mom barely managed to keep Whumpee from slipping off the table. 

All at once, all of the strength dripped out of their body. With eyes half-hooded, Whumpee watched carefully as I approached. I could hear their strained whisper, tainted with tight coughs, "It's not real. It's not real. It's not real." Their body stiffened. Not a good sign. 

"I am real, Whumpee." I sighed. They flinched away from the sound of my voice, eyes popping and searching for the source. My mom's fingers prodded at an open wound and caused them to gasp which threw them into another coughing fit. 

"Most of the older injuries have been treated. Not by me, by someone else." My mother's voice cut through the steadily building fog in my mind. "Malnourished, dehydrated, severe blood loss, gashes and bruises covering their chest. I also expect they have a rather serious case of pneumonia. Coughing, confusion, fever, nausea, and seeming chest pain outside of the visible injuries. 

"I need to be able to check their back before I feel comfortable enough to move them to the hospital. Can you help me turn them over?"

Each time I approach or make as if to touch Whumpee, they whisper in panicked tones as they flinch away, pushing their body as far away from me as they can in their weakened state. Over and over. My mother cautioned me to move slowly, but nothing seemed to help. I still wasn't completely confident they knew who I actually was. Each flinch stretched Whumpee's closing wounds. 

Finally, I'd had enough dancing around it. Whumpee cried out and tried to escape as I slid my arms under them and started to lift them up so they rested against my chest. 

Whumpee's struggles grew harder, fighting to free themselves, but I whispered comforting words in their ear. As my mother checked on their back, Whumpee began to ease up, I could feel their fever as they eventually started to cling to me instead of pushing away. Tears stained my shirt as my mother finished her task and stepped out of the room to call the hospital and the police. 

"I tried so hard to find you. I want you to know I never gave up." After my quiet declaration, Whumpee went limp in my arms. As they slept, I made myself a promise. I would never lose someone like this again. 

[crystalsnow95z]

Part 2 to Namjoon with the flu. Part 1 here

J-hope didn't know when he fell asleep, but the sound of Namjoon gagging in the bathroom wakes him. Sh*t.. When did I fall asleep?

He groggily runs towards the bathroom, stumbling on the way. "Namjoon-ah.."

"Hoseok, make it stop..it hurts.." Namjoon whimpers as coughs up more bile into the toliet. His muscles ached as they tightened, burning painfully.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that, I wish I could.." J-hope apologizes softly, pulling Namjoon's bangs out of his face, unsure on if they were wet with sick or sweat. "We'll have to wash you up Joonie.."

Namjoon goes to reply, but another burp comes out instead, another round of sick spilling out into the bowl.

"Shh, don't try to talk, Namjoonie, it's okay.." J-hope rubs his hand across Namjoon's back, trying to comfort him. "Just let it out.." He could feel Namjoon trembling underneath his fingertips. His heart sank, ignoring the urge to cry. I need to stay positive for Namjoon..

Namjoon continued to heave until nothing was left, leaving him panting. Finally...

He leans against J-hope, struggling to catch his breath, each one being painful, sending pain in his abdomen. "I hate..this.." Namjoon's voice comes out raspy his throat left raw.

J-hope wraps his arm around Namjoon, using the other arm to try to rub some of his leader's pain away. "I know, I know.. Do you think you can drink some warm water? It'll help your throat. It doesn't have to be now. Just focus on your breathing.."

Namjoon closes his eyes, taking deep breaths until his heart slows. "I can try..." He speaks in a raspy whisper.

"Let's get you back to bed first." J-Hope doubted that Namjoon could walk. Not with how badly he was shaking. "I need you to hold onto my neck okay? I'll carry you."

"No.. no carrying..i..I can walk.." Namjoon tries to stand, but his legs don't hold his weight crashing hard back into J-hope's lap.

J-hope bites bite a yelp when Namjoon lands on him. "Namjoon-ah, please.. you're too weak right now, let me help you."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry.." Namjoon apologies rubbing where he fell on J-hope, tears threatening to fall.

"It's okay, you just surprised me. It didn't really hurt." J-hope lies, feeling the bruise on his thigh forming. "Just let me help you.. I'll move nice and slow so I don't shake you. Okay?"

Namjoon gives in, fearful of hurting him again. J-hope shakily makes it to his feet, Namjoon clinging to him for dear life as he coughs. "It's okay. I got you.. we'll move nice and slow.."

I really wish I worked out more.. he's heavier than I thought..

J-hope felt out of breath after carrying the muscular rapper, but he felt proud that he was able to manage. "We're at the bed, Joon. You gotta let go."

"Dizzy..." Namjoon murmurs, still clinging to J-hope. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the green hazy outline of J-hope's chest burned behind his eye lids, making him feel sick in the pit of his stomach.

J-hope sits on the bed, cradling Namjoon close. "This might be more than I can handle Namjoonie.. I think we need a hospital.."

"No, no..I want to stay with you.." Namjoon whines, pressing his throbbing head into J-hope's chest. "I'll be okay..I'm okay.." He forces himself to sit up a little, trying to open his eyes to look at J-hope tears sparkling in them.

"Joonie, please don't cry.. Alright, alright.. I'll keep trying, but if you get any worse, we're going.. okay?"

Namjoon gives the tiniest of nods, letting go of J-hope. "I'm okay.."

"You aren't okay baby, you're burning up,you can't walk without being dizzy, you can't eat, and you aren't acting like yourself.." J-hope took a deep breath to try to calm his frazzled nerves, pouring out another dosage of medicine. "Here, you need to take this Joon. Please try."

Namjoon picks up his head, trembling with effort. J-hope puts his hand on the back of his neck to steady him, tilting the cup for Namjoon’s lips. Namjoon manages to drink it, J-Hope quickly looking for the water bottle. "Here, drink baby."

Namjoon takes a few swallows, the room temperature water giving him some relief to his raw throat, but his stomach had the opposite reaction, already feeling his stomach cramping up again. "No more.." He croaks,wrapping his arm around his stomach.

"Are you going to be sick Namjoon?" J-hope starts scanning the room for a trash can, finding it at the side of the bed.

"No.." Namjoon whimpers. "It just hurts.."

"Then come here, Namjoonie.." J-hope pulls Namjoon close, rubbing his hand over his rippling belly. "You better not get sick on me..you know I'll puke too.."

Namjoon shakes his head, feeling comfort in the warmth of his fellow 94liner, his gentle touch putting him to sleep.

J-hope waits a few minutes waiting for Namjoon’s snoring before planning his escape. I need to do something about his fever.. I'm overheating just by touching him..

He wipes the sweat from his own brow before silently going into the kitchen, getting a bowl and a hand towel. J-hope's stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten yet.

I'll eat when Namjoon's cooled down..

After filling the bowl with lukewarm water, he returns to Namjoon's room. "Namjoon-ah?" J-Hope whispered when he saw Namjoon curled up in a tight ball underneath the blanket relieved when he got no reply, gently unburying his sickly friend.

Namjoon groans in complaint, but his eyes stay closed, J-hope slowly pushing his shirt up to gently wipe the sweat from his body. "I know, but I gotta cool you down.." He whispers as he continues, until he's gotten every part he could reach without making the boy move.

Namjoon shivers when J-hope lays the wet cloth at the base of his neck, eyes fluttering.

"Shh..it's okay.." J-hope whispers, humming softly as he gently caresses Namjoon's side until he starts snoring again.

J-hope's stomach growls again. "I'll be back soon.."

J-hope was only gone long enough to cook up some rice, eating as quickly as he could, but he still wasn't fast enough.

Namjoon jolts up in a panic, the water that he drank spewing out of him. The memory of his dream still lingered, leaving him shaking from both fear and the fever that still raged over his body. "Hoba.." he tried to speak, but his voice was gone, only a whisper and cough. "Hos..." Namjoon's voice is cut off by another bout of coughing.

J-hope rushes into the room when he hears him, eyes widening when he sees the sick soaking Namjoon’s shirt and his blanket. "Ah, Joonie.."

"Hobi..I'm sorry.." Namjoon apologies, but his voice doesn't reach J-hope's ears, hardly coming out louder than a breathy whisper. He tries to strip out of his shirt himself but J-hope quickly moves to help him.

"Careful, you'll get it in your hair.." j-hope warns, grimacing when he notices he's too late, his own stomach churning with nausea."You need a bath, baby.."

"I..I'm feeling a little better..I think I'll be able to walk if you help." Namjoon forces the words out feeling as if he were screaming, but it still came out soft.

"You sure? I don't want you falling." J-hope is still reluctant even after Namjoon nods, making him stand for a few seconds to be sure he was steady before walking towards the bathroom, sitting him underneath the sink. "Stay here for a moment, let me get the water ready."

Namjoon's only response is a cough, unable to get his voice to come. He watched J-hope continuously adjust the water until he'd satisfied with the temperature.

"Good, good.." J-hope smiles when he sees Namjoon is still sitting up where he left him, but the smile fades when he looks into his glossy eyes, not fully focused on him. "Come on, let's get these sweats off.." he gently lifts Namjoon, feeling his tremble with effort to help him, sliding them off. "There we go.. now into the tub baby."

J-hope helps Namjoon into the half filled tub. "Can you tilt your head back?"

Namjoon tries but as soon as he does a wave of vertigo hits, J-hope having to catch him before he falls backwards. "Woah, no. No we won't do that. It's okay, it's okay.." He holds Namjoon upright.

I think I'm gonna be sick..

Namjoon whimpers, unable to get the words out, a wet burp escaping, his mouth filling with a mix of bile and saliva, swallowing it down

"Oh no, Joon.." J-hope leans him against the tub, keeping one hand on his chest as he desperately reaches for the trashcan on the other side of the toliet. "I almost got it, please just wait another moment Namjoon-ah.." He gets it just in time for another round of sick to come, Namjoon gagging up the water.

J-hope couldn't hold back his tears any longer. He felt them welling up and tumbling down his cheeks. Right when he thinks he's made progress, he goes right back to being a trembling mess unable to hold anything down.

The sick feeling left as quickly as it came, Namjoon pushing the trashcan away. "I'm okay.." He tries to speak again, but his voice was too scratchy and hoarse, not sounding like a language at all, just sound. Namjoon heard J-hope's tears hit the water.

I made him cry.. this is too much for him to handle.. but I refused to let him get outside help..

Namjoon felt worse now than he did before. He wanted to tell J-hope that'd he go to a hospital if that's what would stop his tears. Namjoon reaches for J-hope stroking his hair with his trembling wet hand. Don't cry Hope, I'm sorry.. I'm sorry..

J-hope looks up at Namjoon, motioning for him not to cry the same way they would for Army crying in the crowd, continuing to run his hand through J-hope's hair.

J-hope smiles through the tears."Are you comforting me now? You're cute Joon..I'm sorry. I'm okay now.." J-hope sniffles, wiping the tears away. "Let's continue your bath.. I bet you're freezing.."

[mugiwara-no-toshokan]

Thrice Prophesized

CisFem Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Summary: Strap in for an isekai that doesn't involve Earth! Reader is a knight from a different world, yanked into the Grandline Metro AU against her will. Follow her as she learns about the world, the One Piece, and the Straw Hat Pirates - specifically a one-eyed green-haired "demonic" swordsman.

CW: In-Universe levels of violence, amnesia, romance, reader gets some good bad-ass moments, but shouldn't feel Overpowered if I did my job well, surprisingly no smut in this one loves, but it's book 1 of 2.

18 + only please -- 59k words - Completed - Read on Wattpad if you want or Ao3 \o/

-:-

Chapter 1: What's My Name Again?

“Heeeeeeey! Luffy!” Usopp yelled as he was coming down from the crow’s nest on the Thousand Sunny. “Luffy! There’s a person floating on a barrel!” He pointed after he was sure he had his captain’s attention. “I saw her cough so she’s still alive!”

Luffy leans over the rail and puts his hand over his eyes, scanning in the direction Usopp pointed until he saw the same thing, or enough of the same thing to know he was looking at it.

“I got it!” Luffy’s arm stretched out across the sea, and he flinches a bit. “Oh. She grabbed my hand! Chopper!”

The commotion had been enough to get the attention of the rest of the crew, as Chopper came up from the boys’ room, Sanji came out of the kitchen. Nami and Robin were coming down from the garden, while Brook, Jinbe and Franky came from the helm.

“Careful Luffy! If she’s hurt a rough landing won’t be good!” Chopper explains as Luffy’s arm begins to return.

“Eh?!” Luffy’s arm twists before he can reply to Chopper, and the person he’s reeling in slams into him.

The two go head over heels a couple of times before Luffy is pinned to the grass, his arm twisted behind his back. A woman has him pinned down, her legs over his, his arm in her grip, and a broken and jagged piece of wood in her hand. Her long hair was plastered against her from the sea water, and fierce focused eyes were fixed on Luffy.

As soon as she seemed to register him, she released her grip and dropped the jagged piece of wood.

“My… apologies.” She took a deep breath and shifted off of him, sitting on the grass. “You saved me, and I reacted poorly.”

Luffy smiles. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not like you were going to hurt our captain with a piece of wood.” Robin muses.

The extra voice causes the woman to look around and take in the crew. Her brows knit at the sight of Jinbe and Franky, and she pales when she notices Brook.

“You’re bleeding.” Chopper says, coming over to her.

“I -.” She freezes for a moment, before relaxing. “You’re a… forest spirit?”

“Eh?”

“Chopper’s our doctor.” Luffy explains.

She seems to process this information for a moment before peeling her shirt off. There’s a moment’s commotion before everyone sees the state she’s in.

There’s extra binding over the bra she’s still wearing, but her clothes, or lack thereof, are hardly noticed, even by Sanji. Bruises and small cuts litter her body, the deeper cut on her arm that Chopper noticed is hardly the worst injury among them.

“I am in need of a doctor.” She admits, holding the sopping shirt against her chest. “I am in your care, Dr. Chopper.”

She bows completely to the ground, having already been on her knees.

“Ah! Don’t do that, you could hurt yourself worse.” Chopper grows larger and gently picks up the surprised woman. “It’s okay, I’m just going to take you to the sick bay so I can tend to you.” He explains as he carries her off the deck and up through the kitchen.

“Oh, we didn’t -.” Nami starts but is interrupted by Usopp.

“MARINES!” Usopp yells pointing out across the water. He lowers his goggles and gets a better look. “Oh no… Luffy it’s your grandfather’s ship!”

“I’ll prepare a Coup de Burst!” Franky announces.

“Nami!” Jinbe yells and the navigator nods as the two head to the helm.

“The rest of us will keep the cannonballs at bay until we can take off.” Zoro says, putting Wado Ichimonji between his teeth.

“I’ll let Chopper know we’re going to burst,” Usopp says, taking off as the rest of the crew keeps their eyes to the sky.

Cutting through the kitchen, Usopp enters the sick bay and freezes in his tracks.

Chopper is on his butt, small sized again, looking in shock at the woman that he had brought in. A few feet off the bed she’s frozen in place, literally incased in ice that has taken over a section of the room, there’s a peaceful look on her face.

“What happened?!” Usopp looks back and forth from the frozen woman to Chopper.

“Aaaaahhh! Usopp! I don’t know!” Chopper’s surprise is shattered by Usopp’s question, and the small reindeer starts to panic. “I set her down to get my stuff and then it started to feel cold, and when I turned to look at her, she was coming off the bed and just – just froze in the air!”

“M-maybe she’s a devil fruit user.”

“M-maybe?”

“… Wait, Chopper, look! Is she healing?”

“EH?!” Chopper grows bigger to get a better look and gasps. “She is!”

“Oh that’s- OOF!” Usopp’s statement is cut short, and he and Chopper are tossed back as the Sunny bursts forward.

. . . . . . . .

The cold biting winds didn’t bother you. This was your country, and you took pride in that. Protecting the Archduke and the northern border of the kingdom was a great honor, and being one of the Winternight Knights was an even greater honor.

The ancient magic of the family flowed through your veins. Not only did its defensive capabilities keep you safe, but the offense capacity of the bloodline’s magic was second to none. It needed to be, in order to keep winter from consuming the world.

But you could feel the cold pulling away from you. You were too far from the Duchy, too far from the Archduke – too far away from winter to be able to call on your powers. But you shouldn’t be able to be too far away. The size of the world shouldn’t be big enough. You wouldn’t be able to travel fast enough.

Where were you?

Who are you?

Your foot lands on water. It’s warm, and clear. There’s a well-manicured man looking at you, sitting at a well-manicured table, on a well-manicured lawn. Wherever this place is, it’s clean to a point that makes you uncomfortable. The man’s hairstyle isn’t right for the kingdom, his hair is pulled up into an odd sort of tower bun, and as you look closer there’s something around his head, separating him from the world around him entirely.

“The Empty Throne shall crumble to dust, and the terrible curse of this world will be undone. The seas will swell in bounty and the ruler of the shadows will be brought to burn into the light of the Sun.” The words spill from your lips, but you don’t know that you’re saying them.

Light pours from you and you cannot even see the strange man and his strange clothes, though you can hear him screaming for guards. You repeat your words again, and again, rising higher and higher into the air.

Further from the water, further from winter.

But where are you?

Who are you?

“She prophesized the fall of the Empty Throne! Capture her!”

“Did you see that pillar of light?”

“How dare such blasphemy be uttered in the Red Line!”

“Capture her! What if she knows more? What if she knows where the One Piece is!?”

“What do you mean the light’s reverting devil fruit users? I don’t care for your excuses, get the Hero of the Marines here then! He doesn’t use a devil fruit, he can capture her!”

“Look out!”

“Is that ice?”

“She can’t have that devil fruit ability, Kuzan’s still alive!”

“She’s not turning into ice, she’s creating it – is it a new Paramecia type?”

“Don’t get distracted, stop her!”

“Don’t kill her, the power of prophecy must be contained!”

“She’s getting away!”

“Prepare the ships, Garp will need to pursue her!”

The voices fade as the comforting cold of your home country moves you forward through the air. The power is immense, beyond any application you had known it capable of prior. As though it carries a will of its own, you feel no more in control of your rampage as you did of the words that fell from your lips earlier.

You had no desire to be caught, so you had no concern for the damage you were causing. This land was not Winternight, and you had no loyalty to it. In order to figure out what was going on you needed to be free, and these people were already ready to slap you in irons. The choice was easy.

The immense power propelling you away was also draining your reserves at an alarming rate. Nothing was around you but vast open ocean. You’d only seen the ocean once before now, but you knew that this had to be it.

As your strength faded your memories faded. Falling through the air you wondered idly why you had decided to run away? Why were you in need of freedom? You had come from somewhere, but what was it called again?

Where are you?

Who are you?

. . . . . . .

Heaving in a breath you sit up in bed. It feels like you had just pulled yourself up from the bottom of the ocean and you’re panting trying to pull air into your lungs. A strange sensation tickles at you, and you look over, locking eyes with a small deer-like creature standing on two legs, and wearing a hat.

It’s looking at you in surprise as much as you’re looking at it.

“… Are you-.”

“AAAAHHHH!” You scream at the noise and scramble out of the bed, as you head out one door you can hear the small creature screaming and heading out the other door.

You come out onto the deck of a ship, and bright warm sun overhead. You skitter off to the right, only vaguely aware that you’re wearing something like night clothes, and run down a set of steps onto –

“-grass?” Your mind breaks for a second and you look around at your surroundings again. There are doors, stairs, two trees, a bench wrapped around the mast and railings on either side of you that look out into the endless ocean.

That itchy feeling pulls at you, and you look over to see a skeleton in a suit with puffy hair come down the stairs across from you. He appears to be drinking tea. He turns to look at you and speaks and you scream again, causing him to scream as well. You dart across the way and go through a door, slamming it closed behind you.

You mean to catch your breath, and gather your wits, but a heavy and oppressive air sinks into you. For the first time since you woke up you feel like you might just die.

Turning toward the feeling, you press your back to the door, eyes focused on the blade leveled at you. The man holding it has the aura of a demon, even if his appearance is certainly human. You don’t notice much else about him, except that his one good eye could melt your bones to dust if you weren’t careful.

“Stop. Screaming.” He growls, pulling the sword away from you and sheathing it. You notice there’s three swords at his waist, and the air in the room shifts back to normal as though he hadn’t just been glaring at you like that.

“I… uh. Sorry.” You manage in confusion.

He grunts, walking to you and opening the door, walking back out onto the grass and leaving the door open. You follow behind him, ready to ask him questions when there’s suddenly several people on the deck, surrounding you.

You’ve moved before you know why and you’ve pulled one of the demon-man’s swords free, holding it up in front of you and making sure your back is to a wall and not another door.

“Oi! Marimo, how could you let her do that?” A blonde man in a suit with a cigarette in his mouth was yelling in your direction, but not at you.

You look over to the demon-man and see surprise scrawled on his face before it turns to irritation.

“Give that back!” He snarls, and your body moves automatically as he reaches for you. Moving the hilt out of the path of his hand and stepping back you pivot, and tense the muscles in your legs, jumping much higher than you expected and landing half-way up the stairs next to the mast.

You can’t stop the look of surprise on your own face as you look one way and then the other, standing defensively on the stairs with the sword still in hand.

Your new vantage point, and the space between you and everyone else gave you a chance to take in the people around you more completely. There was a young boy in a straw hat with an impressive scar on his chest who seemed to be dressed like a farm hand. Two women were near the blonde man that had shouted earlier, one of them wearing a bra for a top and the other with her shirt tied in a knot just under her chest. Something about their manner of dress seemed wrong to you, but you couldn’t remember why.

The little deer creature was back, hiding behind a man with curly hair and a fisherman’s hat. He wore pants and suspenders, but no shirt, and looked like some sort of foreign appraiser. The animated Skeleton was standing next to two more people who looked just as impossible. One of them appeared to be a large fish man with white streaks in his black hair, and the other looked only vaguely human, his aqua-blue hair and a metal nose the least strange things about him.

“Shi-shi-shi-shi, Zoro, how’d she steal your sword?” The farm boy laughs, and something about his demeanor makes you feel at ease.

“I think she’s wondering the same thing, Captain.” Zoro says evenly, and you realize his eye has been fixed on you this entire time. You might’ve kept the sword earlier, but you couldn’t match the focus that was staring you down right now.

Not in your current state of confusion, at least.

“W-Where am I?” You ask finally, still hiding behind a sword that’s only yours because the demon-man hasn’t decided to take it back yet.

“You’re on our ship, the Thousand Sunny.” The young girl wearing the bikini top answers you, her orange hair framing a disarming smile on her face.

“B-But where are we? I can’t feel… can’t… what. I can’t feel what?” You shake your head; you’re forgetting something, and you only know that you’ve forgotten it. “What am I forgetting?”

Realization dawns on you as you try to run through what you do know, and you pale.

“Who am I?”

“Amnesia?” the blonde man in the suit questions.

“I… I’m…” Your legs buckle and your knees hit the stairs hard. You barely steady yourself before you nearly topple onto the sword on accident. Holding onto the rail with one hand you turn the hilt of the sword back to the demon-man. You were in no condition to defend yourself and being armed would only make things harder for you. “Done… I’m done. I don’t know who I am, where I am, or who is friend and foe. To fight in this state is dishonorable.”

The green-haired demon-man grabs the hilt and carefully takes it back from you.

“Will you let us help you?” He asks, his voice is almost as sharp as the sword.

“I pointed your own sword at you, why would you help me?”

He just looks at you in silence for a long moment. It feels like the entire crew is holding its breath waiting for you to answer the original question.

“… Yes. I have nothing else, please help me.” You say, sinking back against the stairs.

[anon911andbuddie]

Hi I was wondering if you where still taking prompts if so I had an idea for a Eddie and Buck one where it’s after the lawsuit and Bucky is back working but everyone is avoiding him and when they get a call they leave him behind to clean. All the stress gets to him and one day while everyone is out on a call Bucky had another embolism. He calls 9-1-1 and another house saves him and the 118 comes back to blood on the floor and two fire fighters waiting to tell them what happened.

This one is long overdue. It has been started in my drafts for a long time. And I finally got to finish it. Hope you guys enjoy it.

-Scarlet 📕

Content warnings: Blood, coughing, struggling to breathe, panic, fear, passing out, intubation, pulmonary embolism, ambulances, hospitals, pain, guilt, anger.

Away Team

Buck looked around the empty station and felt the pain in his chest get worse. The call had the full crew out. As the pain persisted Buck realized it wasn't the usual ache that came with working these days. No, this was a different but familiar pain. It hurt, and he felt a cough in his throat, even deep in his chest. He reached up to where his radio should be and remembered he didn't have his radio on him. Why would he? It was just another way for them to yell at him. So he grabbed his phone, and as stupid as it made him feel, he dialed 911. Coughing as he did. He did his best to explain between choking coughs and gasping breaths. He somehow managed to get his location out as he dropped to his knees in the vacant truck bay. He looked down and frowned. He'd just cleaned that floor, and now it had blood on it. Bobby was going to be so pissed. Buck could hear the dispatcher's voice through his speaker, but he was no longer able to understand her. He blacked out.

His consciousness returned with a sudden jolt. The coughing made his chest burn, and something was in his throat. It all hurt. A firm hand stopped him from pulling at the tube in his throat. 

"Easy, Buckley," an unfamiliar voice told him. "You're having a hard enough time already. No need to make it worse." How did they know his name? Where was he? Buck looked around and realized he was in an ambulance. He looked up to see a paramedic he didn't really know. The confusion must have been clear on his face because the paramedic sighed but smiled. 

"You called 911, do you remember?" He thought about it, and he remembered what had happened. He nodded as much as he could. 

"Okay, that's good," the paramedic smiled. "I'm Mel. I work with the 122."

Buck nodded again in acknowledgment.

"I have to ask, Buckley," Mel said. "Dispatch said you told her it was an embolism. You have one before?" 

Buck nodded. 

"You on blood thinners?"

He nodded again. 

"You take your meds today?"

Buck tried to remember if he did. He half shrugged, an action that didn't help his sore and exhausted body. 

"Okay," Mel nodded as she began to check his vitals again. "That is honestly more than I figured I'd get with the tube in. Just relax now, Buckley. We'll be at the hospital soon."

"You seeing this, Bobby?" Chim asked as they neared the station and saw a fire engine that didn't belong to their house in front of the bay's open doors. 

"Yeah," Bobby said as he eyes the truck as they got closer. 

"What the hell is the 122 doing here?" Eddie asked as they pulled in beside the engine. 

"Let's find out," Bobby said as he got out and approached the pair of firefighters that were blocking them from pulling into the station.

"Captain Nash?" One of the men asked.

"That's me," Bobby looked between the men. 

"Is that blood?" Eddie asked as he joined them. He looked around the empty bay. "Wait, where's-"

"Buckley will hopefully be at Good Samaritan by now," the second firefighter said.

"What happened?" Bobby asked, his heart rate picking up as he took it all in. There were discarded gloves and blood on the floor. 

"We were going to ask you the same thing," the first said.

"Who are you?" Chim asked.

"Morris and Jameson from the 122." The one named Jameson said.

"What happened to Buck?" Bobby asked.

"He called 911," Morris said bluntly. "Never had a call to another station before. Our captain said it never really happens.

"Why? Is he alright?" Eddie asked.

"He was coughing up blood," Jameson answered, gesturing to the spots on the floor. “Heard something about an embolism.”

"That can't be right," Eddie said. "He is on blood thinners." 

Morris eyed Eddie skeptically. "Diaz, is it? That's why we're here to talk to Captain Nash. Our captain has a few concerns."

"Where is your captain?" Chim asked. 

"He decided it best to go with Buckley," Jameson told him. “Said the guy sued the department once already and that he wanted to make sure he didn't have any reason to do it again. Best care and all that." 

"He dropped the suit," Hen said. 

Jameson shrugged. "They said that, but we're still confused on how an embolism risk is not only on duty but alone. That seems a bit-"

"He isn't working calls. That is why he was here," Bobby said. "A sort of light duty."

"So you're a man down on calls?"

"For now," Bobby said. 

"Riiight," Morris said. "Might be for a lot longer now."

"So he had another embolism?" Bobby tried to get the conversation back to how Buck is now. 

"It was what dispatch said he managed to say," Jameson answered. "She wasn't sure because sounded like the guy was coughing up a lung, and from how we found him, I believe it. The guy was collapsed on the ground struggling to breathe and coughing up blood. So seemed right to the medics. They got a tube in, we loaded him up and got him out of here."

"Oh, Buckaroo," Hen said as she shook her head. She reached over and gave Eddie's shoulder a squeeze. He'd gone quiet and a bit pale as they listened to them talk. 

"But honestly, we're a bit confused because Deluca used to talk about how close you guys are, but your own guy had to call for us? How does that even happen?"

"It is a long story," Bobby sighed. 

"We got until the boss calls us out, and I'm sure the chief will want to hear." With that, Bobby took the two firefighters to his office.

"You okay?" Hen asked Eddie.

"He is on the blood thinners. How could this happen?" Eddie asked, his eyes glued to the blood splatters on the ground. 

"Well, meds can fail," Hen said.

"But they usually don't-"

"He couldn't remember if he took them," they all looked up to see another member of the 122 come through the doors.

"What?" Eddie asked. 

"Or at least that was what I could figure out with just yes and no questions in the rig," she said. "He might be on them, but he had to have missed more than just one dose for this to happen." She gestured to the mess on the ground.

"He was awake? Is he okay?" Eddie asked. 

"He was conscious and as okay as someone can be with a tube shoved down his throat, though I guess his sister said he'd had a trach before, so I guess he has had worse."

"Maddie is there?" Chim said as he pulled out his phone. 

"If that is his sister, then she was on her way last I heard from my captain."

"But is he-" 

"As fun as this game of 20 questions is, where are Morris and Jameson?"

"In talking to our captain," Hen said.

"Can you take me to them?" The medic asked. 

"Sure, he'll be glad to hear Buck was awake." Hen said as she leads her toward Bobby's office. 

Chim pulled his phone from his ear. "Maddie's not answering."

Eddie rubbed at his face and looked down at the blood again. "Why wouldn't he call us?" 

"You're seriously asking that?" Chim said, causing Eddie to look up at him.

"What the hell does that mean?" Eddie said. 

"I mean, if you haven't noticed, this whole situation is a disaster. I thought that scene at the store was bad, but been more than a bit frosty around here since he came back."

"Don't you put this all on me. That’s-" Eddie said, a sharp edge to his tone.

"I'm not. I just-" Chimney started. 

"This is on all of us," Bobby said as he approached them. "But mostly me. I should have been keeping a closer eye on him." They all watched as the 122 went back to their vehicles and left. 

"Can we go see him?" Eddie asked. 

"After we get this place cleaned up."

Buck woke up to the sound of harsh whispers.

"No, this is all your fault. You had one job, to keep your team safe, including my brother. You don't get to pick and choose who on your team you care about. You are their captain, his captain-"

"Mads," Buck managed to call out. His voice sounded off to his own ears, and his throat felt like someone sandpapered it. But at least the tube was out. 

"Hey, take it easy. Your vocal cords took a bit of a beating," Maddie said as she rushed back to his side and held up a styrofoam cup with a straw. He took a drink, and it helped soothe his throat a bit, but not much. He looked up at the door and saw Bobby standing in it. Buck forced himself not to flinch but must have failed when he felt his sister squeeze his hand. 

"This is what I didn't want to happen," Maddie glared at Bobby. "You-"

"I know this is my fault," Bobby said. "I know I failed Buck. I figured he'd be fine at the station, that he-"

"He is sitting right here," Buck grumbled.

"I know, and I am so sorry Buck," Bobby said. "This should never have happened I-"

"If the 122 hadn't read you the riot act, would you even be here?" Maddie asked.

"Of course, he is still a part of the team, still one of us." Bobby nodded.

"Got a funny way of showing it," Maddie huffed.

"Maddie," Buck cautioned. 

"No, Evan," Maddie held his hand between hers. "They treated you terribly. You dropped the suit and did everything they asked, and they still let this happen."

"They didn't make me miss my meds," Buck admitted.

"About that, Buck, when did you stop taking them?" Bobby asked.

"I didn't intentionally do it. I just ran out and couldn't get to the pharmacy because I had to work."

"You should have told me. I would have-" Bobby started to say.

"Don't," Maddie cut him off. "Do not make him feel bad about this. You assigned his shifts. You assigned him every chore in the book. He could have died, and you guys would have come back and found him dead in the station. The one you are supposed to be in command of."

"I know, and that is something I have to live with,” the captain admitted, “Knowing how close we were to losing Buck, and it was absolutely preventable. If we had just paid more attention."

"Damn right you should have," Maddie said, glaring at him. 

"I know, and you can't possibly know how sorry I am." Bobby turned to look at Buck and took a few steps closer. "If you want to transfer out, I would understand, we all would, and I know nothing can change what we did, but I promise if you come back things will be better."

"Why would I transfer? What house would want the guy that sued his boss and the department?" Buck said, his face reflecting his depressive state. 

"Well, the 122 was quick to call us out. One of the old 118 crew had told them about us, and what they saw didn't mesh with that idea, and they had a lot of questions. You made quite an impression on them. I'm sure you could-"

"You promise if I come back that everyone won't hate me, and I will get to do more than grunt work, right?" Buck asked. 

"I assure you most of the team has already changed their tune," Bobby said.

"I don't know,” Buck said, his doubts clear in his tone. “Eddie was so pissed before-"

"I'm sure if Eddie was still angry he wouldn't be out in the waiting room,” Bobby informed him, “the others too."

"Unless he came to yell at him some more," Maddie grumbled.

"If his reaction when we got back to the station was anything to go by,” Bobby said to try and assure them, “I doubt he'll do much yelling, but only Eddie can really answer that."

"So you are really sure they don't hate me?" Buck asked.

"We don't hate you, Buckaroo," Hen replied. They all looked up to see Hen, Chim, and Eddie at the door. 

"Right," Buck said, not really believing her. 

"Buck," Hen started but was stopped by Eddie.

"You might not believe us now, and that's on us," Eddie said as he moved closer to Buck's bed. "And if we have to earn that back, we will.”

Buck looked up at his sister. “Is this really happening? I’m not dead, right?”

“They’re lucky you aren’t dead, or your lawsuit would look trivial compared to the hell I would have raised,” Maddie admitted without hesitation. “And as tempting as doing it anyway seems and as much as I’d love to see these 3 sweat it, I won’t do that to you.” She squeezed her brother’s hand. “You’ve been through enough.”

“I just want to go back to normal,” Buck said. 

“Evan…” Maddie started.

“We can’t go back, can’t change what is done,” Bobby admitted. “Believe me. I wish I could. But we can do better going forward.”

“And we will,” Eddie stated.

“All of us,” Hen added.

“Yeah, what they said,” Chim nodded. 

Maddie shook her head but asked, “And you’ll make sure he gets back on his feet and stays that way?”

“Of course,” Bobby agreed.

“You swear you’ll actually have his back this time?” Maddie looked at Eddie.

“On my life,” Eddie answered. 

“I will hold you to that, Diaz,” Maddie told him.

“Maddie, please, I just-” Buck started.

“I’m not going to be sorry about holding them accountable, Evan. You wouldn’t be here if they did their jobs. I’m not going to stand here and listen to them make empty promises. They don’t get to try and save their own asses just because another crew called them out.”

“We won't make the same mistake again,” Bobby assured her. 

“I’ll make sure they don’t.” They turned to see Athena standing in the doorway.  

"Good," Maddie says. She did still trust Athena.

"I just want to go back to work," Buck says.

"And you will after you're cleared for duty," Bobby says.

"But they will not be standing in your way this time," Athena says. “Their superiors have assured me.”

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that even I got a call from the fire chief and the captain of the 122. And they will be keeping an eye on things. And so will I."

Buck groans and drops back against the pillows. 

"Evan," Maddie says. "It means they are taking this as seriously as it should be. This sort of thing should never have happened." She glares at her brother's team. "The chief probably just wants to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"And it won't,” Bobby insists. “We'll take whatever punishments the department sees fit. If that's having to put up with inspections and even an investigation, that's fine. We'll do it."

"Technically, I don't think we broke any written rules," Chim points out. Earning a glare from Maddie. "But it was still wrong," he adds. "Hen and I should have stepped in when you came back." 

"We should have been checking in with you on how you were feeling and how the meds were going," Hen adds. "We're the medics on the team. Everyone's well-being is supposed to be even more important to us. And we botched that."

"We never wanted this to happen," Chim says. "No one wants you to suffer."

Buck huffs, but it turns into a cough. 

Eddie is at his side before he can even get a breath in.

"Slow breaths, as deep as you can without it hurting," Eddie tells him. He goes to put a hand on Buck's back, but the younger man flinches. And Eddie pulls away like he was burned. Maddie rubs her brother's back instead. 

"Thank you for the update, but Evan needs his rest," Maddie says sternly. Shutting down any further conversation. "Athena, you are welcome to stay, but I must ask the rest of you to leave."

"Understandable," Bobby acquiesces. "Let us know when you're feeling better, Buck. Then we can discuss your schedule." Buck nods. Bobby turns to the team. "Let's go." He can tell Eddie wants to fight him in this. "We can discuss this later."

Once back at the station, Eddie stares at the now clean spot that was the only hint that Buck had ever been in trouble. 

"Eddie," Bobby starts. "You need to give him time. Maybe we both need to start by telling him why we've been so hard on him. I know you hate seeing him hurting as much as we all do, but Maddie is right. We owe him an explanation. We owe it to him to fix this. To be better. I'm going to go call the chief. We may be in for a tough few weeks, but it's…well, it's deserved. We made this mess. I made this mess. Now it's time to face the consequences." He gave Eddie a pat on the shoulder before heading to his office. 

Bobby was right. They needed to fix it. And Eddie had a good idea of where to start. If Buck was still in the hospital in the morning, Eddie was going to bring Christopher to see him. If he was back home, then he and Christopher would bring him breakfast. Either way, starting tomorrow morning, Buck would have Christopher back. It may take Buck longer to let Eddie back in, but this would be a start. A peace offering. Yeah, that was a good plan. But first, he needed to call Carla and endure whatever lecture he was about to get. She has been Buck's friend longer than Eddie was. She would not be happy about what happened, but he was sure she would help him. She would help for Christopher's and Buck’s sake. She cares for them both. Eddie might have to work to get back in her good graces now too, but maybe a few added paid days off might help. Maybe. Either way, he had a plan.

[f4ngf4g]

Top Surgery Diary: Day 1

My dad mentioned that I should write about my experience with top surgery & that it might help other people, so I decided I'd do a little diary on here. It's going to get long. I'm chronically ill with pain & fatigue, and here's my overall top surgery experience:

I had it done yesterday, on the 20th, and at the last second decided to opt in for nipple grafts after seeing my surgeons results. I know personally I would look online, at google images, and see results i really did not like the look of, and so I decided I would never choose nipple grafts. After seeing the results from my surgeon specifically, I changed my mind. The point of me telling you this is to always always always look for results from YOUR surgeon before making up your mind about anything.

When I went in, I got changed into the surgical gown & the surgeon came in and marked up my chest. After that I had an IV put in. My anesthesia team came in and introduced themselves one by one, and then my dad was allowed back & picked up all of my belongings. Then the anesthesia team gave me a relaxer, my father left, and I literally do not remember anything else after that point, until waking up in the recovery center.

When I was just waking up in the recovery center, my pain was around an 8 out of 10. Personally, I believe this is because my mental walls weren't really up yet, as the more and more I became conscious the better it got. I'd say it's now like a 3-4. Dull ache. Sometimes the incisions have a burning or tingling sensation, maybe around a 7/10 on the pain scale for me. It usually only happens when I've moved "wrong" (I'm still trying to figure out my limitations, of course.)

It's important to note that the effects of anesthesia last longer than you think. After I went home, I basically slept all day and woke up only to pee or eat or take medicine. The anesthesia made it really hard to open my eyes after waking up, as if there was gunk behind my eyelids. I had the urge to pee a lot, even though not a lot would come out, but my dad said that was normal after an IV. Also, people say that your throat hurts due to the breathing tube they have to put in when you're under. When I first woke up, it didn't hurt at all - the pain gradually got worse through the day though. I'm glad I had cough drops on hand.

The emotional side of things can be rough. I woke up once extremely frustrated by how packed up I was - post op binder squeezing me, hoodie on top of that, and a mastectomy pillow on top of that. I had to sit in the bathroom with the hoodie off (hiding from my cat) and just try to breathe and calm down. It did pass and I went back to sleep.

At one point, the tightness of my chest and the post-op binder and all of the emotions going on was extremely overwhelming. I had a good cry, drank a milkshake, and laid down and just tried to breathe again. You'll never expect how good breathing feels - i know a lot of trans men get used to breathing from their stomachs as to not mess up binding. Breathing with my chest feels so nice, it doesn't feel bad on the incisions, it doesn't feel like a burn or a stretch. It almost makes the pain subside a bit. Focusing on breathing is a big one I'll recommend to anyone during recovery.

Honestly, it doesn't really feel real that I've had top surgery yet. I don't get to remove the post op binder until the 28th, so I haven't seen the results at all. I keep feeling like my boobs are just under the binder, waiting to pop out and surprise me, and because of that I don't want to get my hopes up. It's definitely weird.

I will add that, with emotions all over the place and having not actually seen the results yet, I've felt a lot of regret about getting the surgery (but I don't actually regret it, I am just in pain with a lot of weird sensations and "nothing" to show for it. I assume that this "regret" of mine is actually just frustration & pain wearing a mask)

I've not had any difficulties sitting up from a laying position, but wiping after using the bathroom has been surprisingly hard. Thankfully I bought an extended reach wiping tool, though I only really need to use it for a #2. I have a lot more mobility in my arms than I expected to have, but again, I'm still trying to find my limits.

My biggest worry was the drains. I am a very feel-based and texture-based person, so I was super concerned how it would feel to have tubes inside of me and sticking out - but so far, I literally cannot feel it at all. It's honestly kind of wicked cool to see the drains in action, but then again, I am not a squeamish person.

I did have a weird moment when I was sort of half awake, where I had some phantom-boob sensations. It was strange, but not upsetting or unnerving. It's only happened the once so far.

And that's my day one experience with top surgery. I'll keep this updated as I feel the need to. I'm happy to answer any questions as well

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 1 - THE CREATOR - IRA II

masterpost

Days pass, weeks perhaps. I don’t know. The cell is dark, and I’m unable to see or hear the guard change. I’m numb and cold all over and don't even know why. Not even my creation, beating hotly against my jaw, manages to warm my body. What’s worse, her comforting presence, that once gave me strength, weakens me now instead, leaving my head lethargic and full of fog.

My arm hurts, my forearm constricted by a soft material where I got punctured. It stings when I flex it, pulsing at the loss of blood. My scrapped knees ache at the contact with the floor. I could stand, if I wasn’t so tired, but the chains are too short for me to lay down, so I’m forced to remain kneeling.

Blinding light comes with a young woman, skin dark just like mine, who feeds me and changes the bandages in my arm and hands. The cadence of her voice is familiar, known, soft vocals and words I know I should be able to understand. It sounds like home, like hot dirt under my feet and the faraway voices of the dark market, like towering mountains and the saltiness of the breeze.

It isn’t comforting. Instead, it spikes fear in my chest.

On the days when my head is less foggy, I look around the cell as she works on me. Dried mud and blood cake the otherwise pristine white flooring where my clothes touch it, even after she tries to clean it. It is a futile task, with my dirty and torn week-old clothes still stuck to my skin.

Some days I try to move around, even if it means crawling in the unknown darkness that feels infinite without a light, the walls out of reach, my body suspended in the void. But everything just hurts too much. I’m out of strength.

I can barely remember how I got here.

My head burns, yet my chest remains frozen. I dream of home, of the outskirts, of my athir and Hamza. The burned dark mud, the sun above our heads. We are doing nothing. We don’t need to flee or fight for food. We don’t need to hide from the imitators' golden capes.

But that’s not really home, because that peace never existed. It’s not real, just a mirage.

Still, I wish to stay and live in my dream.

I miss the sun. Not the sun exactly, but the light and its warmth. It’s dark in here, and the light the woman brings with her is cold and unfamiliar. There’s no sky, no infinite horizon to lose my gaze in, no endless sea to trail with my eyes as poison comes off it.

It’s still raining on the surface. I think. There’s a repetitive sound, drop after drop hitting the floor. The only thing that breaks the silence beyond the rattling of the chains and the rasping of my uneven breaths. A leak, perhaps?

When light appears, I glance at where the sound is coming from.

Not a leak, but blood. Craning my neck to find its origin sends painful jolts down my spine, but I don’t mind them. The manacles at my wrists have cut into my skin, and blood slowly falls from the metal into the floor. If I could reach those drops, if I could touch my scarred left hand to the new blood, I could create. But my hands are too far away, chained up over my head and back.

And, I remind myself, I am too weak.

I don’t remember hurting myself with the chains, but I do remember the nightmares. I trash around and wake up dizzy. Sometimes I’m not even sure I awake, the darkness of the sea swallowing me until I'm nothing.

In my dreams, everything ends. Before this—I know there was a before, I remember a before—I see us, weak. Me more than Hamza, Níniam more than me. The headaches, the fever and the coughing, sometimes wet with blood. Worse with every step, every breath. The other inhabitants of the outskirts, also sick, or getting sick. The struggle to breath on the worst days, our desperate panting filling the stale air of what we called our home.

I remember, but it feels like it happened to another. I’m not sure if I’m too weak to cough, or if what they’ve been giving me is a medicine of some kind. I can't tell if the salty aftertaste in my mouth is from the nightmares where I drown or what she makes me drink.

It’s been an eternity since I was certain of anything.

I know I call, at least. When the fog clears just enough and the numbness is deep enough to mistake for strength. I sing. To Ila. Again and again and again. My voice is rough and broken, but I don’t stop. If I focus, I can bring a little light to the cell. Weak, orange; warm and familiar. It’s enough to see the crooked slope of my nose if I unfocus my eyes. 

Even then, I don’t open my eyes often.

Calling, like this, is best done with our eyes blind to the world. What it has to show us can’t compare with what can’t be shown. What really matters is what Ila lets us see when we close them, a kaleidoscope of light beating in tune with the island and with our hearts.

I ask her for my athir and Hamza’s, but there’s still only silence, and darkness.

Do I get better? I can’t tell. My head is full of cotton, like it’s floating, even though I know it rests against my chest. There are no pillows. Every time I awake, I know more things through the fog in my thoughts. I thread them together, more cohesive than before. I can, with difficulty, think consciously.

Before this, I was running, and it was raining.

The cough comes back, gentler now.

Before this, a creation dissolved in my grip when I got captured.

I focus on getting better.

Before this, there was a room filled with people when my blood was stolen.

Little by little I come back.

They haven’t stolen more from me.

I don’t stop my calling.

I am in a cell. I was captured. A khithi woman comes to heal and feed me twice a day. She has drugged me with a salty substance. The imitators have me but haven’t done anything about it. Yet.

The rain has stopped in the surface, but the dripping in the cell keeps going uninterrupted. The young woman has tried to dress my wrists, but to do that she’d have to release my arms, so she doesn’t. The light she brings with her is an oil lamp, a rarity I’ve only seen on ships leaving the island before.

She always leaves it outside the cell and takes it with her when she leaves. As a precaution, I suppose, though I don’t know what I’d do with it at all.

Obviously, they don’t use imitations for light around me. It would be stupid to award me with such a chance, so the world stays silent around me, the void only filled by my own creation. 

I don’t try starting a conversation, and she doesn’t either. She limits herself to announce what she’ll tend to next and to coax me to eat, and then she leaves. I swallow the food unenthused even if I should be grateful for it. I’ve never had so many complete meals so close to each other and with such frequency, but the food feels like lead in my stomach.

On my most lucid days, I see her sneaking glances at my left ear, but she hasn't taken my creation away yet. I’m not sure why. She's khithi too, but she's an imitator so it probably doesn't mean much to her anymore in spite of her golden eyes.

Sometimes I hear her talk to the guards. Their voices are distant and in gair, but I know they are talking about me. They use that word, "fatir". Creator. It’s the only word I manage to decipher most of the time before falling back unconscious, exhausted from the effort. 

It's harder to stay alert without the drug they've now taken away. My head is still muddled and heavy on my shoulders, and my whole body hurts. Still, I feel my strength returning and the numbness start to fade away.

I’m able to stay awake for more than a few minutes, of standing more or less straight instead of hanging from the chains like a rag, and of observing the cell. My skin is stark against the whiteness of the room, pale like the moon or the skin of an énna when they die—the sterile color broken by the marks past prisoners made, and the trail my blood leaves after falling from my arm to the floor.

Lately, this is how I occupy my time. I listen to the rhythmical sound—I feel how the drops fall to the floor: first on my skin, warm still, then as they pass into the cold metal and then as they drop, their fall fast and yet never ending as I focus on it. And then they are on the floor. I imagine myself touching them, feeling the power that runs through my veins on my hand, hearing in my mind the old chants and rituals.

I took it for granted before, this connection, between my heart and the earth, the island, the Iria and somewhere deep in the mountains, the Core. Dormant, alive, and sick.

Now, the energy is only a memory, as is everything. It feels like I’ve been here for months, but realistically I know it’s been a few days at the most. Never ending, yes, but they haven’t been enough for my new wounds to heal.

I clench my bandaged hand, but it’s in vain. The woman knows how to do her job, and apparently, she understands pretty well how we creators work. More than I expected, for she makes sure my arms stay out of reach of my face, too. She’s probably one of the few non-creator khithi that knows this much, and I want to feel betrayed, but I can’t.

We do what we must to survive.

Right now, I simply wait for them to make a decision on what to do with me. I debate the options in my head in an attempt to entertain myself, but I can’t come up with anything. If they wanted me for aldamus I would be in the imitators’ workshops, not here, in a cell the gods know where under the palace. They haven’t taken more blood away, so either the profane experiments they conducted have proven my blood is useless—which wouldn’t surprise me—or they’ve realized that my body’s too weak to go through a heavy blood loss.

In both cases, it's a problem of their own creation. Everything wrong with the island is: the dying Core, our sickness... all caused by their arrival on the island and their eagerness to play with the gods' gifts that never belonged to them.

I rattle the chains and try to move my shoulders when their stiffness turns to pain from the uncomfortable position my arms are kept in, but more than alleviate the pain, it strengthens it. Sighing, I look at the ceiling, sleepy. The food is late today, the wick of the lamp they have started to leave outside permanently almost out. The delay does give me more time to think, at least. I need a plan of action, but everything I can come up with is rash, ridiculous or unrealistic.

Hamza would be so much better at being a prisoner than I am. He has the patience and cunning it’d take to form a successful escape plan, even in these circumstances. Qualities I certainly do not have. The one thing I’ve ever been better at than him is creating, which hasn’t been very useful for me since I was captured.

But then again, I’d never needed to be all those things he is because I had him to take care of me. I always did.

My heart clenches. I miss him. And Níniam.

I hope he’s okay.

I yank the chains in frustration—nothing happens, like the last hundreds of times. The guards don’t even come to check on me, because they know I’m not a threat, not even to myself. They can’t keep me in here forever, at the very least. They’ll have to get me out eventually. If I were in better shape, I could try and escape, but that’s out of the question. My creation, hanging from my left ear, is no more than a useless weight.

At least it reminds me of home.

Tiredness turns into boringness. There’s no sunlight, so I can’t tell the pass of time with sureness. Only the wick of the lamp, my regular feeding times and the visits from the golden eyed girl help bring the semblance of a routine.

I’m not used to this inactivity, much less staying still in the same position for hours, spending days without talking. My muscles ache with the desire of movement, of running across roofs until my legs give out, of climbing the ruins on the outskirts, sometimes for pleasure, most days to escape from guards and imitators.

As the hours creep by, I feel more and more awake, and this leaves me time to think. I use it to calm myself, telling me that Níniam and Hamza are safe on the outskirts. Worried about me, sure, but safe. At the very least, they can be sure I’m still alive, as I know they still are: their heartbeats echoing in my creation and my own heart.

The lamp’s light mutes my surroundings, the white turning warmer, the shadows of the little metal door on the floor moving with the rhythm of the flame in time with the sound of my blood hitting the floor.

I’m bored. And, to make matters worse, the woman is late, again. She’s later every day.

She’s started to fidget when she finds me awake. I’ve taken to looking at her, unashamedly. Her dark skin, her equally dark hair, coiled and thick, forming a halo around her head and flowing over her shoulders. She wears imitator white with gold thread on the high collar of her tight sleeveless tunic, and the golden cape tied around her waist instead of her chest.

There’s dried blood stuck to the soles of her boots.

And there’s also the question of her golden eyes, reminiscent of a time when khithi ruled our island and Ila was still alive. I thought the last of them was now an unimportant member on the Council, an old woman Hamza complains about often. But apparently there’s another one, an imitator with khithi blood on her shoes, taking care of a chained creator.

Hamza would have a field day with the information. To me, it’s bitter. It’s been more than a century since the creator hunt started, since we transformed into rats in the eyes of the énna, when before we were treated almost as demigods. Because, apparently, just like rats and illness on the continent, we are the bearers of the Core’s sickness. 

Because we are only good for what can be made from our blood.

Blood that’s permanently stuck to her boots.

And yet, she’s also let me keep my creation.

So I try not to overdo my unsubtle scrutiny, seeing as it makes her so uncomfortable she has started to procrastinate feeding me. I really don’t want to give her sufficient reason for her little act of decency to be over.

I look at her, and keep quiet, even if I have questions. I don’t allow myself to voice them.

That would be a terrible idea. It would disturb our little truce too much.

Also, if I were to talk to her, it would most likely be insulting and unkind.

A sudden coughing fit takes me out of my thoughts, leaving my throat sore. My stomach growls. Now I’m not only bored, I’m also hungry. I don’t know much gair, only some insults and the like, some orders and titles. I reason with myself that I shouldn't do it, just for a fraction of a second, but at this point, my rashness wins over prudence.

The girl isn’t here, and I don’t owe anything to the guards that insist on ignoring me.

I will be the most annoying prisoner they’ve ever had.

Loudly clearing my throat for dramatic effect, even if it stings my throat, I shout what I think is a greeting in gair in the hopes the guards will understand me, if they even hear me.

“Hello?” The oil lamp hisses as the wick runs out. “Little pawns?” Silence. “I’m hungry,” I stop, waiting for a reaction to my ilan. They might not understand me, but it’s annoying to have someone shouting in the background constantly. I’m also sure that, like me, they've learned a few insults in ilan in their years as jailers. “Yo, assholes!” There’s a distant shuffling of clothing. I let my smirk be plain in my voice. “At this rate, I’ll bleed out before someone comes. It would be a tragedy if something happened to me, like, I don’t know, starving to death. It’s awful, I’ve seen it, you know?” The little flame has moved onto the excess oil at the bottom of the lamp. “Do you know what’s awful, too? My mood when I’m bored. And hungry. I’m sure you've noticed. Hunger does do a number on you. You become weak, and your ribs start to stick out as your body consumes itself, and then—”

I don’t stop. The light dies in front of me and the dripping continues, but an annoyed groan joins the sound, closer than expected. It only takes a couple of more minutes, after I’ve gone into describing with as much detail as I can remember what a starved corpse looks like, when a bang rattles the metal door.

“Shut up!” The voice is deep. It startles me, not the interruption, that I expected, but the language. It’s not gair, it’s ilan. The man takes a deep breath, and I can imagine him rubbing his face with his hand. I smirk, making people lose their cool is my specialty. “Just—shut up. Áine will be here in a second.”

“Áine? Do you mean the girl?” Of course he means the girl.

“We are not supposed to talk to you.”

“Little late for that, don’t ya think?” Silence. I try again. “I was unaware the khadae’s pawns were well versed in the old tongues. Do they make you learn them to shoot back insults at your prisoners? Oh wait, no, you are not supposed to talk to them.” I shift in place, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. “You don’t have an accent… do they now let we outskirt scum join the imitators? I thought the arbitrary arrests were to locate creators, not start a half blood guard.”

“Enough.” He doesn’t shout, but his voice is hard. He's moved in front of the metallic door, where a light from down the corridor just manages to reach him. I swallow in surprise and squirm, uncomfortable now. I might have said too much. Shocker.

“You are aldamu.”

They receive the same name as the hybrid abominations imitators do with creator blood. Not an imitation by virtue of containing our blood, but not a creation by the flaw of not being made by one of us. And just like them, they are rare. They weren’t, before, when the énna first arrived to the island, but they are now. There are khithi, not many, and plenty of énna, and then most of the citizens, merchants and laborers, descendants of what once were aldamu. Their blood is far too diluted now to be considered anything.

But aldamu, they certainly are something. His énna parent must be someone powerful enough to have him be an imitator.

I wonder what happened to his khithi parent.

The man analyzes me, and I return the favor. His skin is dark, which gave him away. Not like mine, but way darker than anyone you’d find in the city. It’s even darker in the shadow. He has curly black hair, short on the sides, and an imitator’s golden cape around his chest.

His tunic is dark blue, which is odd. He’s not wearing any imitations on him.

His hands are fisted. I can’t see the color of his eyes, but his glare is easy enough to note.

He is about to talk when we both hear hurried steps coming towards us. The aldamu turns, and I think I see Áine’s thick and curly hair, and her darker skin. She’s not bringing any food. She looks at us, first me in between the bars, then him. I can’t see her face, partially hidden by the white walls, but her body seems to square up.

After a quick exchange of words in gair, the aldamu opens my cell’s door, but not before sending her way a quick complaint. I look back and forth between them when she answers him, folding her arms. The young man snorts, and I look at them, confused, until he takes a step forward, and I remember I’m tied down in an imitator cell, with one of them inside, opening my chains. There’s no dried blood on his boots, at least.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw in pain when my arms fall, stretching the muscles of my shoulders and back all too suddenly after not moving them in days. He picks me up, and I find myself too confounded to resist.

And just as I get used to the new discovered lightness in my arms, he ties me up again, now in shackles behind my back. He tightens them too much, on purpose, if I had to guess. I walk out of habit, the aldamu yanking me here and there every time my legs stumble from lack of inactivity. I realize I’m still barefoot, then, of my once white tunic now broken and soiled with dirt, my pants stiff from the mud and the dried blood in them.

We are met with a bunch of imitators at the door, all of them énna, all of them with blood on their boots. I notice their imitations hanging from their pure white tunics, but before I can even begin thinking of a plan, I’m met with the point of a spear and what I suppose is a warning to behave. I hasten to cover my creation with my short hair as much as I can, lowering my head. Brain addled, I swallow, nauseous and disoriented. Everything is going by too quickly, my brain still thinking to the slow rhythm of my life in the cell.

The guard with the spear, a blond guy, moves behind me, two of his partners replacing the aldamu, each on one of my sides, grabbing my arms with too much force. When one of them tightens their grip on my bandages, the pain almost makes me fall to the floor. I cough, choke, harsh and loud, throat on fire. The imitators don’t even react. They don't even wait for me to stop to start dragging me through a labyrinth made of tunnels until we emerge into the surface, the sunlight blinding me as it bounces on the white marble walls. I’m shoved, and I find myself walking through Iria’s palace.

Everything is too white and too bright, covered with gold. At least the floor is made of a darker stone. I focus on it and on clearing my thoughts. I try to revise the conversation between the aldamu and Áine, who is still following us. They might have mentioned the shahin, but I’m not entirely sure. In any case, whatever I decide to do next is going to be crucial.

For a second, I think of making a run for it, but they are too many, I'm still weak, and the sheer force of the imitations hanging on the walls and on their necks makes my head spin. I don't even have a way to orient myself on the palace. My only option is to behave. I hope I’m capable of that if my life depends on it.

Only, I'm unsure if I'd sacrifice my faith to survive if it came to it.

It’s the only thing I have to my name. My faith and my family. 

My heart twists at the thought as two huge wooden doors with golden details open in front of us. Salt and heat hit my nostrils as we walk into a tiny chamber, supported by columns directly carved into the rock of the cliff where the palace stands. I want, in spite of myself, to admire the room, but I fall face first to the floor. 

Well, I’m shoved, really, the sound of my knees hitting the rock followed by those of the chains being tied to the floor behind me, pushing me upright. I try to straighten up as much as I can without kneeling down, but the chain is not long enough for me to stand, and sitting on the floor with my arms tied back is too vulnerable of a position.

Knees on the floor in front of me, I lean backwards and raise my head, expecting to meet the cold look of the shahin, but I only see an empty throne carved in stone with an equally empty dais. I blink, and turn as much as I can to my sides. The room is flanked by soldiers and imitators, standing next to the openings on the outer walls, dark, that look into the cliffs and the sea. The contrast of the rock against the rest of the palace is almost painful. Ironic.

A hand forces my head down, hair falling over my eyes. A soldier announces the entrance of the shahin, the princes, and the imitator chief. I don’t see them walking to the platform where the throne is, coming out of the wall in the back of the chamber, but I do hear their steps and, most of all, I feel their eyes on me. I know what they see, how they see me: scum from this cursed island, weak and dirty. What my blood can do my one redemption—or rather, what they can do with it—what makes me worthy of their presence.

Leather black boots pass through my field of vision only to disappear again. The guard grasps my hair and forces me to look up into the shahin's eyes, standing right in front of me. Too green, they go through me an instant before I realize a terrible mistake.

My creation is no longer hidden by my hair.

tag list: @my-cursed-prince @on-noon

[fang-and-feather]

by  @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady

Day 1 - Bodyguard AU

Angsty - Warnings for blood and injury

Worth Protecting

Ikemen Vampire - Napoleon x OC (Amy)

How do you actually make a short AU? I'm not sure, my plans for most of these were too big to finish even one in time, so what I am posting are only scenes from the middle or end of bigger plans.

Why do I always finish everything so late? (nearly midnight where I live, and until I finished editing the post it was already past that) it is always a bad time to post things...

AO3 Link / IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

Napoleon never felt much like a vampire. Of course he had already died once and lived over a century after that, but only for not needing blood to survive he already felt more human.

That illusion of humanity was shattered when he got deeply wounded during a bodyguard job. The loss of blood and the scent it left in the air were making him thirsty. The taste of his own blood did nothing to quench his desire. Instead, it burned his throat, making it worse. And it got worse when Amy ran up to him with a first-aid kit.

“That’s why I told you I didn’t need a bodyguard.” Her angry tone didn’t match the worry in her eyes.

But Napoleon’s attention strayed from them to her neck. The urge to bite her was almost unbearable. Before he could control it, Napoleon found himself grabbing her by the arms and pulling her into the hotel bed with him.

He would wonder, later, how they had gotten inside without anyone realizing he was bleeding.

“Napoleon?” She asked, with surprise and hesitation.

He had to resort to every shred of self control to stop himself. His hold on her tightened, but Amy didn’t even flinch, looking him in the eyes instead.

“What are you saying, nunuche?” Napoleon forced himself to laugh, but his voice came out weak. “I saved your life... like I was supposed to.”

“I know. I probably wouldn’t be alive if you weren’t here. But I don’t like the idea of people getting hurt because of me. Just look at you!”

“This is nothing.” Napoleon coughed up blood, his mind becoming dizzy. His hold on Amy relaxing enough for her to pull away and return to trying to stop the bleeding.

“Just because you’re alive doesn’t mean it’s nothing. I’m sure even a vampire can die from blood loss, and you aren’t even fully one.”

Her hands and voice trembled, but, Napoleon would remember later, Amy seemed to know what she was doing, with surprising calm and precision.

But Napoleon was losing the remains of control he had recovered earlier. He could barely think straight.

Nails scratched at the sheets and fangs bit on his own lip in a last attempt at keeping hold of his sanity. Of his humanity. Napoleon was afraid of the monster he could become if he gave in to his instinct.

And it was Amy, the person he was bound to protect. It was his duty, but not only that. At some point, she had become someone he wanted to protect for who she was and what she meant for him. Because at some point she had come to mean more to him than a simple charge.

“Amy… leave…” he managed to whisper.

Amy shook her head, and even with his vision getting unfocused, Napoleon could see the glint of tears in her eyes.

“I’m not leaving you here to die. You’re telling me that because you’re afraid you’ll bite me. But if it is because of your job, you don’t need to hold back. If that’s what it will take to save you, think of this as an exchange. I will save you and you keep guarding me.”

Amy adjusted her body on the bed, fully leaning over him, and Napoleon reached out to her. She caught his hand in hers, pressing both to his chest.

“What if… I kill you?”

“You won’t. You’re my bodyguard. You would never let something bad happen to me, even if you have to protect me from yourself.” She crossed the distance between them to kiss his forehead. “I trust you, and I always will.”

Napoleon gave up. Silently apologizing to her, he kissed her neck before sinking his fangs into the soft flesh, getting his first taste of blood. It was warm, sweet, and intoxicating, unlike anything he expected. Intoxicating enough for him to lose himself in it.

When Napoleon came back to his sense, Amy had gone limp into his arms. She was weak, but alive. They both were.

Hugging her to his chest, Napoleon closed his eyes, sighing. He didn’t need any proof to know he had fully become a vampire after that, something he had always feared.

But if it was his way of continuing to protect Amy, he wouldn’t regret it. And he would make sure she was never put through a similar situation ever again. That he would swear to her when she woke up.

Because Napoleon couldn’t deny he loved her anymore, and he felt like this was a love worth guarding.

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

[mentallyillastrophelfreak]

my story pt.1

I used to have no friends at all cause I was always quiet and just watched. Now, the elders would ask me who I'm usually with or shouldn't I be with my friends that day – I either break down when I'm unwell, or just smile sheepishly knowing that I don't have any.

People would tell me that if I tried to open up more then maybe I wouldn't feel so lonely. I did try, though, once. It didn't go well. But then, I decided to try again. I said hi daily to anyone, or I try to smile even the slightest at people who actually acknowledge me. Then I tried starting a conversation with this guy who was feminine, but not gay.

Next thing I knew, I had friends. I connected with people. I enjoyed my time with them and looked forward to meeting up with them. It was nice. And I was always there to comfort them because they have crappy self esteem and have mental issues. I was their mom and therapist friend. It was nice. All was well.

Until I got sick, but I still went to school. I was so tired and I kept coughing and sniffling a lot. I was so tired that I couldn't talk to anyone, and even if I tried, it's so hard to even talk. I made an excuse to my feminine guy friend that I'm sick and that I won't be able to hang out with them properly for a while. He barely glanced at me or acknowledged me. It was fine. It's just probably my head messing with me.

The only person who ever forced a mutter out of me or even a half smile was the boy sitting next to me. I really loved him, like really loved him, but he was with someone else so I'm hopeless. He liked to annoy me and by doing that, it forces a smile out of me. But then again, I was barely talking.

Three days later, I was still sick. But I had improved cause I was actually smiling without any reason again. Until that afternoon my mood shifted and I lashed out on my friend by yelling at him to stop being a...you know. Then I made him cry. I. Made. Him. Cry. I was so freaking ashamed of myself and I tried to apologized but he didn't accept it. I hated myself so much that I went on complete silent and I didn't participate on my next class. The pain of my own words cut into every part of my body so deeply, especially my head. My head felt like it was being banged by a rock. Plus, our lesson was about self-consciousness. I hated the world and myself.

Then after that period, the boy beside me decided to annoy me again. I was staring outside, frowning, and you know what he did? He stared at me for a long time, then mirrored what I was doing; then when I looked away to look down on my hand, which I was writing on, he did the same. I noticed everything and I couldn't help but look at him, smile like a fool, and think "I love you so much dammit."

Until I noticed that I had difficulty breathing. I started rubbing on my chest cause it hurt and my breathing picked up. The boy noticed and asked if what was wrong. I told him I couldn't breathe and forced me to drink water. But it was getting worse. My head was racing with so many things I couldn't think properly. Then the pain was getting unbearable that tears started filling my eyes, and the boy had to call on our adviser, cause, gosh, I was crying.

They took both my arms, then I started hyperventilating. I gasped for breath as tears streamed down my eyes and all I could think of is holding on to the boy with me. They took me to the school clinic and was cold, stiff and numb all over. Before the boy left, I looked at him one last time and thought, 'im so glad that it's you who saw this.'

When I was alone, I left the clinic without anyone knowing then went back to the classroom. My mom found me and made me took a pill before she had to leave. I started crying again, and the boy listened to me ramble about random stuff. And this girl who's always quiet, was the only one who helped me too. And you know those other friends I talked to? Barely cared. Ignored me.

Then I start to wonder, 'was I just the second option?'