#weeping as the doctor shoves himself inside of you violently :(

[konigsblog]

imagine waking up chained to a metal table, with a doctor who wants to do all sorts of experiments on you... (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

As always, let me know what you think!

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Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Out of sight, out of mind (interlude)

I

They disappear one night the same way they appeared.

Without a word.

It feels like waking up after a long dream. The way the sunrays enter your little kitchen, splashing your space in golden light looks almost ethereal, no longer their figures staining your white walls, standing out of place in the middle of your living room.

It feels a lot like the mornings after some heavy rainstorm.

It’s over. You think, breathing heavy and tired.

The apartment is quiet and cold, foreign to you. It reminds you a little they way you feel in hospitals. Places without personality, places without any personal touch. Even when everything is in place; the blankets are neatly folded in the closet and your toothbrush is the only one in the bathroom (Toga surely took her time tiding everything up) but you cannot feel at ease in it.

Maybe you are no longer the same person that use to live alone in this place, because it doesn’t feel like you belong inside the four walls that began to close too tight around you now, and even when you know you should run to the next police station and ask for help and protection because you’ve been hostage in your own home for weeks, you can’t get yourself to do it. It feels like a betrayal, somehow. Even when they held you captive, even when they’ve threat you and berated you. Even when there is no guarantee they would not be back to end the job after what you did to Dabi, after what happen with Shigaraki.

He looked like he wanted to hurt you last time.

Sorrow soft and silent start to rise, your heart breaking slowly with realization, smothering you, drowning you gently as you stand alone in the middle of your home, because they will never be back.

He will never be back.

It’s fine…I’m…safe. I’m safe.

You feel the jarring stab of grief, your heart cracking open under the pressure and the loneliness you’ve been trying to keep under control all this time, so you let out a shaking sob, finally admitting to yourself the ugly truth.

This is more than a little crush.

More like falling in love.

And your sweetheart has red eyes like jewels and a starved need for ruin.

So, you curl in a corner of your couch, hugging a pillow that smells way too much like soap and leather, finally allowing yourself to cry because this is painful, the kind of infatuation that can get you killed, that can destroy your life and ruin you. Him never coming back is a gift made of grief and poison, but you’ll take it because you know this is what you get in exchange of an attachment like this for a man who does nothing but harbor resentment inside the dark pit that is his chest.

You cry your eyes out, you cry desperate and lonely, holding tight to the pillow that still smells like him, no longer trying to suppress the nasty wound his gaze carved into your heart the moment his eyes met yours.

You cry because you think he hates you, because he didn’t just decide to go. Shigaraki choose to run away from this just to spite you and your infatuation because he wanted to stab you back. Because that’s the kind of man he is, that’s the kind of man that you allowed to hold grip onto your heart.

So, you stay curled in the corner of your little couch, sobbing and weeping over the painful mess you’ve made, wishing for the kiss you didn’t get the chance to steal and swearing that if you ever see him again, you’ll squeeze that devious grin out of his sharp face with your bare hands because if he wanted to hurt you by leaving without a word, then he should be fucking proud.

_____________________

II

He wasn’t joking when he asked her if she could handle rough.

“Oh my god” she sobs, inked tears staining her cheeks.

She looks like a mess, but he prefers it that way. He favors that she’s different, a complete opposite with her heavy makeup and revealing clothes, her smudged lipstick painting her chin and her breasts bouncing heavy, scaping her torn little dress. A perfect depiction of ruined and lewd. 

She gags when he squeezes her neck hard, his index fingers curled as he yanks her body against the brick wall, too angry to care for his companion. No. He just wants to thrust into her as fast and rough as he can so he can get off the soon.

“Oh my-” she pants trying to hold herself against the wall, but he pulls her neck to him, pressing her back to his chest and then he yanks forward and bites her hard in the shoulder, his teeth leaving a purple mark on her skin.

“Shut up.” He grunts maddened when she sobs and squirms against his body, her smell entering his nostrils, making him gag instantly because he cannot stand the cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes, sweat and sex.

He cannot stand the smell of her hair, nor the shape of her body, or the height difference.

He cannot stand her lewd screaming.

So, he covers her mouth with his hand and shut his eyes tightly closed before resuming his brutal animalistic pacing, trying not to think in the salty flavor of her skin in his mouth. He just needs his release; it’s been a while since he gave himself to this kind of pleasure and for all things he’s ever done, he never fucked this angry before.

Tomura thinks he’s not particularly sexual on a daily basis. He doesn’t go walking around thinking about the next time he gets laid, not when he’s never been that interested in girls anyway, because he just…doesn’t like things nor people. So, his approach on sex is more like a task to be filled if anything else (like eating), rarely relying on another body since he doesn’t want to be touched at all. Now, of course he’s done it now and then, sometimes paying for it, sometimes a nightstand after some vodka in a seedy bar, but always quick to dispatch the person involved.

For Tomura, sex is about him wanting something and obtaining it the easiest way possible to just keep on with his life.

Or at least that’s how it was, but some reason he’s been feeling incredibly starved for it lately, and after being in a heck of a terrible mood and some heated lash out at his crew out of nowhere, he decided to pick his anger and put it somewhere else before killing one of his comrades.

Now, the woman is drooling all over his hand with all the choking, making him feel nauseous so he lets go of her and just digs his fingers on her hip keeping his index up, his long nails clawing at her skin, making her whine, squeezing him tight in reflex.

She tries to catch his wrist to move one of his hands to her breast, but he yanks away to pull her hair, growling a curse against her ear, swallowing hard.

This feels so wrong.

It’s not the right cup size.

It’s not the right smell.

It’s not the right height.

It’s not the right woman.

The mechanic friction is finally working its wonders because Tomura feels his low abdomen tighten before finally getting off.

No, he doesn’t see stars, nor grunts in feverish pleasure. He doesn’t taste her neck nor smiles when he cums. As soon as he releases, he shoves the woman as far away from him, removing the condom with disgust and decaying it (the thought of feeling her bare wet cunt against his naked skin revolving his guts).

He adjusts his clothes before throwing the woman some cash and just walks away, concluding that this was the most unsatisfying fuck in world’s history.

Tomura looks at his hands, feeling the sticky sensation of her saliva and her sweat, troubled because his face it’s super itchy but he feels so disgustingly dirty, that he doesn’t even need to smell them to know that her musky tacky perfume now lingers on his palms.

Maybe if I rub my hands, I can decay it away. He thinks, trying his hypothesis to no avail. ‘kay, that was pointless.

He manages to rub the fabric of his sleeve against his brow until the skin begins to show red dots of blood as he thinks seriously that he could kill for a hot shower, even when he’s not the cleanest guy around (he showers when he can. If he can’t do it, then he just doesn’t think about it), but he can’t stand the way the prostitute’s scent remains on him like a sin, and the thought is so ridiculous, because he’s done plenty of horrible disturbing shit in his life to now feel all guilty and nasty for a “less-than-mediocre” fuck.

So, he walks away, utterly unsatisfied. His anger dragging behind him, leaving a bloodied mess of chaos and longing for something far brighter than a rough fuck behind some lost alley, because he wants more than that. He wants the name, the body and the holy spirit that inhabits the girl with dangerous gaze and healer hands. He wants her violence, her anger and wild bravado, all for him to feaster and be consumed by it.

A violent delight that he can’t afford, not when he’s busy surviving until he finds the doctor or his master’s weapon, so he repeats himself that his infatuation, this sickness will disappear eventually, he just needs to get his priorities straight and focus.

He’ll do it, time will get everything in place again.

Cold creeps into him, the city lights filling the streets between car noises and people returning their homes. All of them busy minding their own lives, completely unaware of the hooded serial killer walking by, quietly sneaking into the fire escape of some old building.  

_____________________

III

Internal medicine is one of those courses that drains every bit of life out of you. Arguably the hardest in a career full of hards, you now live under the constant threat of failure because this shit is a monster, and you know the statistics too well to not being aware that this course has the highest rate of reps in all the damn faculty.

So, you enter your uni mode; sugar-rush based diet and coffee like the world is ending to keep your brain functioning like is a nuclear reactor, sleeping four hours at nights and barely dreaming. Of course, it’s not just that class, is that you have three more besides that one, all of them of high difficulty for you to rejoice in your misery, so yeah. You live like a zombie.

I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich… You repeat to yourself every morning after showering, watching your body in front of the mirror, admiring the sharp angles and purple eyebags that already began to claim your face.

Oh, and the hair loss due to stress is just the cherry on top of the cake, really.

Yes, your brain is at the brim of collapse right now, but classes start again, and your friends are there to suffer with you and it makes you feel accompanied and secure. Is just another semester of tears, panic, pizza and everything that implies to be a twenty something student, so you are thankful nonetheless, because you don’t have the time to think about the other thing…

You don’t think about it.

You don’t really think about it.

You don’t even think about it.

And you don’t say the name either, you refuse because you’ll do anything to forget about him, anything to erase the memory of his dark figure like a shadow against your white kitchen, too clever and insolent for your own good.

But it’s okay, you don’t think of him, or his slender fingers taking the bishop to strike down your king, and the way his dry lips curve upward before some smartass remark. You don’t think of his lean body towering over you, touching yours in so many places but none at the same time.

No, you don’t think of him while awake, but sometimes he visits your dreams to terrify you with his cadaveric hands and his face hidden by his hair. Ready to strike you down, a hand extended in motion to decay you into oblivion.

Sometimes he hovers over you, kissing your neck while ravaging you, incredibly close and raw and intimate, his mouth snarling dirty words you’ll never dare to say out loud. Dreams where his warm chest press against your naked body and your lips sings lewd lullabies just for him, welcome him to feaster on your skin with your face nuzzling against his scarred cheek, covering your face with his silver hair.

Sometimes he just sits in your kitchen as the sunlight reflects over his milky locks. His hand holding his cheek over the table in serene expression, calling your name to play again as the black king spins between his delicate fingers.

___________________

IV

Tomura has a meeting with this new allied Twice found, like three days from now.

He’s not particularly excited about it, surely, it’s just another capo wannabe with grandeur delusions, but it could be worth it. Maybe he could get some money out of it since the league is completely broken after his sensei’s incarceration. They are in desperate need of a hideout, now more than ever since Kurogiri vanished and he’s sure the heroes must have captured him. (Thinking about this is pointless anyway because he doesn’t have the means to get him back)

Minding his own business, he walks with his hoodie on, passing between civilians like he’s one of them, completely invisible when he sees her.

It catches him by surprise. His heart stopping dead on its tracks, wide eyes and tight lips, uncertainty filling him all of the sudden, but he’s accustomed to make hiding spots out of nowhere, so he gets behind some store sign where he can watch her safely.

She stands outside a coffee shop, animatedly talking with some guy who wears the same clinic uniform that she has on. A school mate maybe? She’s an intern in a hospital so, they are probably on shift. Another doctor like her.

She looks tired and paler, but beautiful, nonetheless. The way her lips move give away she’s talking about something clinic, because her face has that firm expression she always does when she’s being professional.

She already looks like a doctor and God knows he’d gladly be sick every day of his life if she’s the one to treat him.

His feelings betray him. He was sure after a month she would be completely out of his system by now, this stupid illness already cured, but shit just doesn’t go away.  It pisses him off to no end because she’s not worth the aggravation. C’mon, she’s just another boring normal civilian, she doesn’t do anything important or interesting. She’s not remarkable in any way that serves him, because not even her quirk is truly useful. Not when it threatens to kill her every time she uses it.

And looking her objectively, she’s not even that pretty, but somehow, he’s torn between his desire to make her see him and get as far away from her he can.

Searing jealousy pierces him, hate raw and jarring dripping from between his ribs when the man leans over and whisper something that makes her laugh and for a moment, he seriously thinks he’s going to kill him right there, no quirk needed because he would just love to gut him out in plain view for her to see what he thinks of her stupid friend.

He hates the man, but he hates her more because she dares to laugh, she dares to enjoy life and people meanwhile he crawls hungry and cold between ruined places.

Like sensing his glare, she suddenly turns her head with her eyes directed to the spot where he hides, her expression changing from joyful to confused in seconds, making him laugh because even when he’s sure she cannot see him, she knows he’s there and it feels like she’s tied to him somehow.

Her face gives away disappoint when she fails to catch him and the thought of her grieving after he left delights him, but he’s sworn to let her behind, so he rejoices for a moment in this little victory of his pettiness over her charms, before turning away from her, fully believing that this is the last time he thinks of her.

Chapter 13

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Hey lovely readers! since English is not my native language and writing Shigaraki is kinda hard because he changes and grows, and because he usually says many things about himself, but then he goes and do completely different things (like when he says he hates everything, but CLEARLY he’s fond of twice and stuff like that) so much in manga, it would be lovely to know what you think of this! I think it’s the only way to be better at something really, So, any questions, comments and concerns, please feel free to comment!

[louiseleblancdiggory]

“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” Prompt Rowaelin because I like to hurt myself and others

I was going to give this a sad ending, I really was, but pregnancy has always been something that hit very close to home, so I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hope the angsty middle makes up for it! Enjoy.

Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse; miscarriage; infertility 

Safe Haven

--

Aelin sat on her bed, staring at the marble floor.

She had been like that for minutes or maybe for hours, she didn’t really care.

She only half heard her husband’s footsteps approaching. She only half noticed him kneeling in front of her. She half felt him grabbing her hands in his. She was only taken out of her stupor when his pine green eyes came into view, looking at her with so much love and adoration she wanted to tear him apart. She was ruining their lives, their dreams. How dare he still look at her as if she was the perfect woman for him.

“Fireheart.” He said softly, and something inside of Aelin broke. All the emotions she had been holding for the last hours came crushing down on her, and she couldn’t control the ripping sobs breaking through her body.

Aelin’s heart was fucking breaking, her dream life going from a burning flame to nothing more than ashes. “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart, Ro.”

Rowan sat on the bed, pulling her to his lap. She held his shirt with clenched fists, her face buried on the crook of his neck while she cried. He was hugging her so tightly, dropping kisses on the crown of her head.

“I am so sorry, Rowan.” Her voice came pained, the words almost drowned by the sobs and whimpers. “I’m so sorry, Ro. I am so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Aelin.” His voice was full of pain. Pain for his wife’s suffering, pain for how broken she looked right now. “Aelin, love—“

He tried to soothe her, but she just kept repeating the same thing over and over again. She was crying and she was screaming and sometimes he didn’t know if what was coming out of her were words or moans of pain. He could feel her body shaking, shaking even harder when she couldn’t control the sobs.

“Three years, Ro.” She weeped. “Three years and we never even had a chance because of me.”

Aelin and Rowan had gotten married young. She was only twenty two and he was only twenty seven when they officially became husband and wife. They had been married for ten years now and, three years ago Aelin had decided she wanted a baby. In the first year and a half, it was an afterthought. If she got pregnant , good. If she didn’t, they could try again next month. But months passed and Aelin still wasn’t pregnant, and it started weighting on her. She tried to hide from Rowan, but he realized how sad she got whenever her period arrived. He knew the devastation on her face when another pregnancy test came negative. It was even worse when the tests came positive only for her to miscarriage weeks later.

It had taken them there years to go to a doctor.

Rowan had been internally praying that the problem would somehow be him, that Aelin wouldn’t need to hear that her body couldn’t support a pregnancy. He prayed that it would be him because he knew his wife. He knew she would feel as if she was taking something from him, as if somehow it was her fault and she was a bad person for it.

When the doctor sat in front of them and looked directly into Aelin, Rowan’s heart stopped. And when the doctor asked if she had been physically or sexually abused when younger, his world fell.

Rowan knew of her years with Arobynn before Gavriel took her in. He knew how he used to beat her to a pulp since she was eight, and how that went on until she was fourteen. She had gone to therapy, had crawled out of the hole Arobynn had shoved her for six years. She was happy now, and believed Arobynn was long in the past.

“Sometimes, physical or sexual abuse can cause infertility. You are not completely infertile, Mrs. Whitethorn, but unfortunately your chances of conceiving are very slim. We can look for some treatments, if you’d like, and that might make your chances more significant. I am so very sorry.” The doctor had said, and Rowan could hear his wife breaking inside.

“I hate him.” Aelin lamented against his chest, and Rowan didn’t have to ask who she was referring to. “I hate him, Ro. He ruined my fucking life. And now I’m ruining yours.”

“Your life is not ruined, Ace.” Rowan murmured against her hair. His hand started going up and down her back, and her sobs started becoming less violent. She was still crying, but now there was a considerable less amount of tears. “And neither is mine.”

“You always wanted to be a dad.” She raised her face. Rowan cleaned her soaked cheeks with his thumb, cupping her face.

“And I can still be, Ace. We can adopt as many kids as you want, if that’s what you wish. We can try to get you pregnant for the rest of our lives, do all the treatments possible, if that’s what you wish. We can do both if it will make you happy.” He said softly, and she stopped crying. Her turquoise golden eyes were puffy and red rimmed, and she closed them when Rowan leaned forward to give her a lovingly kiss. “My life could never be ruined with you in it, Aelin. Yes, I do want to be a father someday, but if it ended up being only you, me and Fleetfoot, I would live and die as the happiest man ever.”

She nodded but then smiled sadly, her eyes watering again. Her voice was so low and broken that it physically hurt Rowan to see his fierce wife like this. “I wanted to get pregnant, you know? I wanted the big belly and the discomfort. I wanted the excitement and anxiety before an ultrasound. I wanted to stay nights awake with you trying to pick a name. I wanted the baby shower, and all that pregnancy shit.” A single sob broke from her and Rowan felt a tear sliding down his cheek. He could take everything, but Aelin being heartbroken hurt him so deeply he felt as if the world was crashing down on him. “I wanted it so bad.”

“I’m so sorry, fireheart.” He hugged her again, breathing in her scent.

They just held onto each other for hours. They watched the sunset from their windows, and then silently watched as each star started appearing on the sky. Despite all sadness, Rowan always felt good and safe when holding Aelin. She was his safe haven, the beacon he had been looking for his whole life and now that he had found, he would never go away.

“Ro.” Her voice was raspy and quiet.

“Yes, my love?” He was brushing her hair with his fingers, making soothing circles on her back.

“The adoption. Can we… Can we look into it?” Her voice was a little louder, a little more hopeful.

“Of course we can.” He tightened his arms around her, his heart beating faster. He had been serious about being completely fine with the prospect of being only him and Ace, but the thought of having kids with her always made his stomach turn.

“And if I wanted to try the treatments anyways? Keep trying to get pregnant even if we adopted?”

“Then we would do just that. And you can do whatever you want, Ace. If you want to adopt a kid and try to get pregnant anyways, we would do it until there were two little kids running around our house. We can do it all together.”

She raised her head and smiled, and damn him if it wasn’t like feeling the sun upon your skin after years inside a cave. Aelin’s smile was his life line, and he would do anything to keep her smiling.

He grinned, leaning forward to kiss her. His mouth moved slowly against her warm and soft lips. “Together, fireheart.”

Her smile widened, and although Rowan didn’t fool himself into thinking that she was already completely happy, a weight lifted from his chest when he felt her smiling mouth against his. “To whatever end, Ro.”

“To whatever end, Ace.”

Tags:

@abookishfreak @faerie-queen-fireheart @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jlinez @courtofjurdan @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ladywitchling @maastrash @morganofthewildfire @queen-of-glass 

[marshmallow--3]

Imagine - Jacob Frye suffering from a werewolf curse.

Frye Cottage, Surrey, October 1873

Softly, you're roused by the ambient sounds of the forest encompassing the house: owls hooting, tree branches rapping on the windows, fierce winds howling into the night.

You couldn't say what time it is. You doubt you could even hazard a guess. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness consuming the room, rendering any attempt to read the clock a fruitless endeavour.

A brief glance at the window confirms that dawn is yet to break.

Perfect.

Sitting upright in bed, you fumble in the dark for a moment until your hands happen upon the knob belonging to the drawer of the nightstand. With only a trickle of moonbeams lending you the faculty of sight, you open the drawer, reach for the only object inside, and strike a match.

You hold it by your face, tilting the matchstick downward and watching as the flame dances and swells. Using the light the match provides, you ignite the oil lamp atop the nightstand, extinguishing the match with a shake of your hand as the room is bathed in a warm, amber glow.

The cottage, for all intents and purposes, is without ornament - and rightly so. The single-storey cabin may be the only building for several miles, as per your intentions. The interior is functional, pragmatic, an open-plan room comprised of a bed tucked away in a corner and a kitchenette. A chimney and burning stove looks across from your sleeping area, supplementary to a table and two chairs.

A Welsh dresser is half-filled with plates and mugs, its cupboards and drawers stowing bits of food and medical goods - bandages, a needle and thread, a bottle of gin, though you're yet to use any of it, thank the Lord.

A wolf howls in the distance, prompting you to take a peek outside from behind the curtains. The full moon is fading, you note, compelling you to rise and begin your preparations for the long day ahead.

After making the bed, you cross the room and burn wood at the stove, boiling herbal tea in a cast-iron kettle. You fix some cold cuts of bread, cheese and meat, managing to eat a little yourself while saving a second portion.

A short time later, a figure comes stumbling in through the door, slamming it shut. You're hesitant to look up, knowing from previous months the heart-wrenching sight that awaits.

A creature paces with convulsing legs, looking ready to collapse at any moment. It bears the form of a man, but the mental state of a wolf. A blanket is draped around its heaving shoulders, its naked, hairy body shivering violently. Brown hair is thoroughly dishevelled, small sticks and leaves clinging to the strands. Sickly pale skin gleams wet with sweat, dirt markings littering its face. Wild, glassy eyes frantically dart around the room.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you rise from your seat as slowly as possible, yearning to draw the weeping man into your bosom.

He's still an animal, you have to remind yourself, though it does little to patch your broken heart.

You avoid prolonged eye contact, letting your eyes look past him instead of lingering on him.

"Jacob," you murmur, your voice soft and quiet so as not to alarm him further.

Taking a miniscule step forward, you approach him gingerly, repeating your internal mantra of stay calm. You shrink your body and repeat his name while observing his body language, keeping an eye out for any signs of injury.

He's panicked, hysterical, gripping his head and yowling, those wide eyes reminiscent of an animal caught in a trap.

You hold your hand out palm down, and croon, "Jacob, it's okay. I'm going to help you."

By now you've crossed the room, though a good distance remains between you. His back stiffens, the air shifting around him, his nose crinkling as he picks up the Scent. He visibly calms somewhat, blinking as his eyes soften to their usual melliferous hazel.

Watching him stagger towards you, you take a few final steps towards him, catching him as he falls into you, the blanket falling from his shoulders as his arms crush you into a tight hug. You remember to hold your breath, to remain perfectly still as he buries his nose in the dip of your shoulder.

He inhales sharply, memories of his human life flashing behind his eyelids. Merry laughter rings in his head like a bell, faces of loved ones appearing and overlaying one another at the speed of lightning.

In verifying the Scent, his arms loosen around you, his breathing heavy against your skin.

The Scent comforts his wolf form, he'd once explained. It's a blend of your smell and his, a product of your... prior carnal union, so to speak, serving as a catalyst that completes the reconstruction of his brain.

You continue to shush him, now free to move your hand and stroke his damp hair, pacifying him until the shaking subsides.

Lifting his head, he meets your gaze and wets his lips in an attempt to speak.

"Hi."

You cup his face, tears forming in your eyes at the humanity present in his face, at the way his eyes gleam in recognising you.

"Hi." Your response comes with lumps in your throat.

He chuckles to break the ice, immediately wincing and breaking out in a fit of coughing. Prying yourself from his embrace, you help him hobble over to the table and take a seat. Working swiftly, you pour a cup of the tea, retrieving the laudanum from a drawer in the dresser and setting it down in front of him.

He tests his coordination for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist and wiggling his fingers before trusting himself with handling a cup of hot liquid. He blows the drink before sipping, swallowing quickly to avoid the bitter taste.

His speech is slow, hesitant. "Is that, the same, same stuff as last time?"

You nod. He grimaces.

"Doesn't work."

"It's the highest dose the doctor will prescribe me." It took little effort convincing the physician that the pills were for you - dramatising your menstrual pain is far preferable to telling the truth. "Please, take it. Something is better than nothing."

Jacob glances up at you, taking in the sight of your eyes glossy with tears, your forehead creased with concern, your brows angled upwards as you plead.

Agreeing silently, he takes the tablet and swallows it down with the bitter brew, spluttering as the taste lingers on his taste buds. You rub his back to help him keep it down, drawing his attention to the plate of food; perhaps it could cover the horrid taste.

He takes stock of the plate's contents, sniffing tentatively. The cuts of meat smells appetising at the very least, and he almost reaches for it before his head swims with intrusive images of sleeping deer, the sound of snarling wolves surrounding him as though they're present in the room. Nausea rises from his stomach, he heaves and retches before pushing the plate away with a forceful shove.

"I need to lie down."

He staggers in standing up, knocking cutlery to the ground with a clatter. He grits his teeth, distributing a little too much of his weight onto you as you help him limp towards the bed.

Every step is pure agony for him; although you haven't experienced his curse, you can imagine the torture he must go through - his skeleton changing shape, his organs moving position, his flesh and muscles being torn to shreds by his own claws.

All that, and probably far more that your imagination simply cannot comprehend, three nights a month.

He doesn't peel the duvet back to clamber into bed, instead laying himself on top of the bedclothes. And judging from the heat radiating from his body, you can understand why.

You get a proper look at his face for the first time: his skin is off-colour and boiling hot to the touch, and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. Sweat trickles down his forehead, red welts marring his skin. You dab his forehead with a cold, wet towel, conscious of the pressure you apply.

He grunts, a fresh wave of throbbing spasms coursing through his jerking body.

"Shhh, Jacob, you're okay. You're alright."

It's silly, but... Despite all of the ways you help him, you feel helpless, wishing you could do more to take his pain away for good. Watching on as he pants and yells, his body convulsing like a seizure, you find yourself singing a lullaby, stroking his cheek in hopes of pacifying him even a little.

"I love you," Jacob manages to wheeze when your song comes to an end.

"I love you too, my darling man."

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @aikeia @yourchepazworld @iceboundstar @the-purple-rook @unprofessional-bard @witch-of-letters @disneymarina @thero0ks @assassins-and-hidden-blades @ass-sass-sin-o @ladye11e @deviousspleen

[beerecordings]

Between Two Houses

Part 16 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

My taglist is a separate post so let me know if you would like to be added or removed. Wow guys I am so damn happy to be posting again :) Let’s do this!!

They’ve all made choices. Jameson, for his part, has had a lot of choices made for him. Maybe even some of the choices he will make are already made for him. He doesn’t know. This is all so much. He thinks he’d like to choose for himself, but he might not get a chance. There’s an itching at the back of his head.

Jameson trembles.

Jameson trembles.

Jameson trembles.

He doesn't know when the shaking first started. He doesn't think he always shook like this, but, then again, sometimes memories go missing in his head. Reflecting, he knows it must have happened somewhere between the day Anti stole him and the day Anti gave him his knives as a present, because by then the only steadiness he could find was with a blade in his hands.

And he was good with a blade in his hands. He was good. He felt a little safer.

He used his knives on Anti, once.

He had been tortured that morning – he remembers the causal offense precisely; he had spent too long outside, a whole three hours instead of two – and he was hiding beneath his cot, frailly coughing blood.

There was an illness in his chest and thick cuts in his ribs and the pain throughout his body was fresh and hot and stinging. He had not eaten in two days. There were times when that great agony became a desperate love for Anti, a desperate attempt to justify the suffering he was in by promising himself that this brotherhood was worth it, but on that night, there was nothing but hatred.

There was nothing but hatred.

Anything is better than this, Jameson decided hollowly, dragging himself out from under his bed and picking up a pair of his knives. Let him kill me. Please, God, let him kill me.

He didn't bother trying to sneak up on him. There was never any point. Anti always knew where he was, what he was doing, what he could do, and often he seemed to see his very thoughts. Jameson's breath rattled thin through his body and he left his room, turned in the empty doorway, and came to stand before Anti at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, Dapper,” said Anti, smiling far too wide.

Jameson threw himself at him like he was insane, frothing blood and saliva, and Anti was corporeal enough to be shoved to the ground. They fought, and for the first few seconds, Jameson felt that they were caught in a fight to the death, the final culmination of all that he had been through discovered in the violent thrashing of his knife and the strength of his hands, but then – but then.

Anti laughed.

Jameson, confused and terrified, tried harder and harder, struck him again and again, brought his knife into his glitching stomach and wailed without sound to see that it did not hurt him, it did not hurt him, it did not even make him flinch; he only laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

They tussled for a long time, Anti smiling and giggling just the same as he did whenever they mock-fought, pushing playfully at him, tugging at his hair, occasionally biting at his wrists or his ears, while Jameson continued trying to stab him. Eventually the younger brother wore himself out. Weeping, wheezing, choking on and slicked in blood, Jameson collapsed into Anti's lap.

And Anti held him, amused, and stroked his hair for a long time while he screamed.

There was never even any punishment. There was never the slightest punishment for that.

Because his fury meant nothing.

His pain meant nothing.

His decision – his choice – his fury – meant nothing.

He fell asleep. Dreamed vaguely of a smiling boy in a red hood.

The next morning, he convinced himself he loved Anti again.

And he trembled.

And trembled.

And trembled.

“Do you always shake like this?” asks Henrik.

He feels like a dead thing. His mouth tastes like dust. He makes no move to answer. Makes no move to sign. Makes no move to look at Henrik.

He's been clammed up for hours now and the doctor is becoming afraid.

“Jameson, can you meet my eyes?” he asks.

Jamie's gaze is fixed on the white door of the spare room like he expects it to catch fire and then charge at him. The overhead light is on, but the blinds of the window behind them are closed, leaving them both streaked with feeble slats of golden light.

“Can you even hear me?” adds Henrik, concerned. “Maybe it's your ears, not your mouth, where the problem is?”

At this, Jameson's mouth curves down ever-so-slightly at the edges and his eyes, just for a moment, flicker over to Henrik's. He reaches up to touch his trembling hand to his bruised throat and gives no reply.

Chase opens the door and Jameson jolts so hard Henrik wonders if he hasn't been shot. He didn't know it was possible for the littlest brother to get any more stiff, but here he is, staring at Chase as though the apocalypse has come wearing a snap-back and a PMA hoodie.

“Poor buddy, still shaking so much,” Chase frowns, closing the door behind him. He carries clean clothes and a glass of water, not that they've been able to get him to drink or eat anything for the past 12 hours. “Do you think this room's making him nervous?”

“What, does this room make you nervous?”

“I don't know. For a spare bedroom, Marvin was kind of territorial about it.”

“Yeah, I think have practiced shit in here. Don't know what. Probably don't want to know what.”

Marvin. The name registers distractedly through the back of Jameson's head. That must be the cat's name. Anti never told him. He was only ever “kitten” or “witch,” and Anti did not entertain questions about him or any of the others.

The drunk – the actor, the gunman – sits down beside him on the black sheets of the bed, and guilt nearly makes Jameson cry.

“How you doing, buddy?” Chase reaches out to wrap a warm arm around Jameson's shoulders and rubs his arm. “How about something to drink, huh? Must be thirsty. Let's get some water in you.”

Jameson's mouth has gone very dry, but not from the mention of water. He is choking on Chase's kindness, on his sweet vanilla and whiskey smell, on the memory of hot black blood pouring out of his heart as he looked up with eyes impossibly forgiving, the memory – oh, oh, is he bleeding now? Jameson swears he feels warm wet blood blossoming against his shoulder, where Chase, kind and loving, is pressed against him ���

“Chase, let him go. Chase, you're scaring him. Chase – ”

“Sorry,” cries Chase's panicked voice, and then his arm is gone, and Jameson realizes that he is breathing very hard, his chest moving in rapid, ragged gasps. Chase and Henrik are speaking again, but their voices are far off in the distance, and anyway, he doesn't care what they have to say. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He is frail as the glass that remains when the window is already once-shattered, as stable as a leaf in a hurricane; a thousand emotions have long since overwhelmed him and his heart is very, very broken.

Chase slicked in blood, Henrik chained to a rebar pole, the bright slit in Jackie's arm, and, in the middle of it all, Jameson himself, my fault, my fault, and for all that I have done and failed to do, I still wasn't enough to make him want me at all –

He cannot breathe.

Fury! He's angry and he strikes the bed with his fist. His speaking hands have known blood and the strangled emotion of murder. Guilt! He's ashamed and he cries, reaching up to hide his face from these strangers who have already named him as their own and given him care and protection. Sorrowful! Sorrowful, sorrowful, he has lived every day of his life with a sorrow and a desperation crying inside his chest, and none of it is fair, and none of it is right, and he needs it all to be over.

“Jameson, breathe!” Henrik gives instruction through gritted teeth, standing before his little brother and holding his shoulders. Jameson has stopped responding completely. His hands are on his heart and his blue eyes stare up at the ceiling as he hyperventilates. “Jameson, Jameson, here I am, okay? Chase, maybe you should go – here I am, it's okay. Anti's not here, Liebling. Anti's not here. You're safe. You're safe.”

Anti's not here. Anti's not here. Anti's not here. Jameson hates him, Jameson loves him. Jameson  doesn't know what to feel or say or do. It's one of the first times in his life that the choice – that any choice – has been his to make.

His throat sends throbbing pain up into his head and mouth and down into his back and shoulders. He's growing dizzy from hunger, but Anti wouldn't want him to eat their food. And always, for hours, there has been a scratching at the back of his head, a scratching at the back of his head, a reminder of something he has forgotten – it was important, what was it? It was something Anti told him. It was important. It was an order. It was important. It itches.

“Please,” he says, and it is the softest sign, it is a frailty, his fingers touched to his chin and then drawn quietly away again, and still he cannot meet Henrik's eyes. “Please.”

Please, end this. Please, let me die. Let him kill me. I can't take this. I've done my suffering. Haven't I, doc? Haven't we suffered together? I need this to stop. Get Anti and let him take it all away. Get your syringe and let me drown back into sleep. Get the mask or the cat and let them kill me, and then, if I'm damned, at least I will know where I belong. Let this moment pass. Let this moment pass. Let this moment pa

The moment passes.

And the next, and the next, and the next, and Jameson, wide-eyed and choking, is in the silver river once again, as time, at the call of his shaking hands, rushes faster and faster past him.

Henrik is gone. Chase is gone. Anti, Jackie, Marvin, all washed away.

The water flows over his head and about his body. He stares around him, wide-eyed and knee-deep in something other-worldly.

It's real then, he realizes. Nothing has felt real for hours, the world far away and in dissonance with his panicked harmony, but this – this place feels real, feels right. He lets a hand drift through the cool water. It does not wet his fingers. The pressure is painless. Everything is silent and gentle. Everything is his. It's real, this power. It's real.

For a long time, he only watches, watches, watches, and the river is obedient, and the moment passes. It's strange, how easy it is. He feels, in a way that he has never felt before, that this is something that he was created for, or maybe that it was created for him. Eventually, he sits down on the rocky floor of the riverbed.

Images move past him.

A boy with a red hood. A boy with a cat mask. A boy with a wound in his throat, but not Anti. He can tell from the way he moves. He puts his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees and he watches. Is this someone's memory? The people who have lived in the house where he stays now? Or is it just time?

He sees Henrik and Chase side-by-side, sat next to a bed, their heads turned warmly to each other and their hands close together as they talk, low and easy, until it is late at night. Chase's arms are bandaged. Henrik is pale. Jameson recognizes a survival struggle in their eyes, but he also thinks that's probably what friendship looks like. They smile at each other.

He sees the mask, though his face is not yet scarred, standing in river of his own, picking up rocks from the shore and skipping them skillfully across the water. Every now and then, he looks to the side, where Jameson cannot see, and he laughs, hard and earnest, and answers a voice Jameson cannot hear.

He sees Mr. Jack – no, it is Anti, not Jack. He sees Anti stood in front of a mirror, leaning over a sink, retching. He spasms hard, and for a second, when he looks up, there is terror in his eyes, and Jameson reads on his mouth the words “Who am I?”

He sees the house where he lived with Anti. He sees the house that Marvin made for his brothers. He sees the doctor and the mask and the cat and the gunsman and the demon and Mr. Jack.

He sees himself.

Smiling and earnest.

Shaking and scared.

And he wonders, in all this, between two houses, between the two dogs that have always torn him apart like a wishbone, in all that he has and all that has been stolen from him, just where it is that he's supposed to fit in.

Maybe that's something I'm supposed to figure out for myself.

He realizes he's breathing easy again.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

Maybe that's something... I get to choose?

He feels a little calmer.

A knife in his hands has always made him feel calmer, and though he likes to watch, passively, as the images go by, what he sees first of all in the silver river is the ways it could be wielded to protect himself.

To protect himself and to hurt others.

This is what Anti trained him to do, after all. To be dangerous. To see violence. To use weapons.

And to find Jack, Jameson.

Find Jack.

And lead me to him.

His head really, really itches.

He thinks he probably needs to go back to the world as it was.

He reaches for the watch in his pocket and breathes in deep, his fingers tightening around the stop button, and as he presses it, he catches one more glimpse of time in the water of the silver river.

“Hi,” signs a boy who looks like him, but who is not him, a boy who is not Anti or Jackie or Marvin or Henrik or Chase. He smiles bright. His eyes are very blue.

“Hi,” signs Jack. “Hi, JJ.”

And then they are both gone away.

[planetsam]

“Come one Alex stay with me, breathe!” - Michael. For malex

Michael is in the bathroom when he gets a sharp jab in his skull.

It’s like someone is poking at him and he recoils from the sink, almost crashing into some other guy. He mumbles an apology when it happens again. It forces him to listen or to feel, he’s pretty sure this isn’t auditory. Discomfort hits him, followed by disgust and it shapes itself into an thought it takes him a moment to fully comprehend.

Get out here.

Michael gets out. Maria is the focal point of several guys who are well into that nasty drunk phase. One of them has her hand on his, it looks seductive but Michael knows she’s got it there for a reason. Maria’s a great fucking actress, nothing about her screams help. The most he gets is surprise that she quickly turns to a grin that’s completely apologetic.

“Sorry guys,” she says, “honey what are you doing here? I’m working?”

“Trying to decide which of these guys sucks more ass at pool,” he says, “I think it’s a three way tie.”

They rush him at the same time.

After Maria puts ice to the right side of his face as he wishes that Max was there. She is quiet and he wonders if he fucked up. But she lowers the ice and takes his hands in both of hers.

“You’ve never come that fast before,” she says, “did you hear me?”

Michael’s mouth is dry. Immediately his mind flashes from the bathroom to the prison. The pain to the overwhelming love he felt. It was easier to understand, like his mother knew how to work the connection. How to control everything. He remembers the gentleness of her voice rather than the way Maria felt like she was desperately trying to get his attention. Like she didn’t think he could hear.

“How many times did you call?” He asks.

“Twice.”

He feels lightheaded. It must show on his face because something painfully hopeful shows on Maria’s. He can hear her. He can hear her and she isn’t alone until she has kids. Oh thank you, thankyoutthankyou—Michael shoves himself back and Maria let’s go of his hands instantly. Her sunshine warm fog becomes ephemeral and dissipates, leaving him alone. He almost snatches it back but he can’t move until it’s gone. And then everything is just cold and jumbled.

“I don’t—“ he shakes his head, “I don’t understand.”

“You’re an empath,” She says, “we may have been along the same wavelength so you didn’t realize,” he looks at her blankly, “my mom used to do that to me until I got strong enough.”

“I’m not an empath, I’m telekinetic,” he protests, “how can I just develop—“ he stops, his stomach dropping, “I gotta go.”

Maria lets him, nothing but sympathy on her face. He stops at the door and turns around.

“I’ll help. When you’re ready,” she says, “you shouldn’t go through this alone.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t call Alex on his way over. 1 am is late but Alex is a night owl. He’s definitely awake. Michael thinks back to Max after he killed Noah. He’d been almost in a mania but Michael hadn’t thought much of it. And then he had been dead, which took precedence. Absorbing other people’s powers, that wasn’t something they had thought about. But why would it be? Until very recently they hadn’t known there were other people’s powers to absorb. He tugs his curls and fights the uncomfortable feeling of someone else’s powers in him. He knows all the cheesy shit about parents passing things on and he knows the genetic part of it. But this is like a tangible part of his mother is rooted him and he can’t wrap his head around it. Before he goes crazy, he has to be sure. And there’s only one place he knows to get answers from.

The lights are on in Alex’s cabin and Michael barely stops the car before he walks to the door. He knocks hard. He can only hope that Alex will let him in, that he’ll get it. This is bigger than their romantic stuff, right? The door opens and he has to rethink that. Alex is standing there in a pair of grey pj bottoms and a white t-shirt, a pair of glasses on his nose. His hair is sticking out in all directions. A wave of longing crashes over Michael. He looks good and something is wrong. Alex silently takes a deep breath and calm settles over him, though historically Alex taking a deep breath happens before shit hits the fan. It’s never calming to be on the other end. Which can only mean—

“Oh fuck,” Michael realizes. Maria was right. She was cancelling him out, “shit.”

A wave of affection and hurt crashes over him but he smiles around the anche.

“Hi to you too,” Alex says, “you want to come in?”

“No!” The word is loud and emphatic. Concern joins the other emotions, “can you not—“ he wishes Alex moved towards him so he could have some excuse. But Alex knows him too well, “I need the stuff you have on my mom,” he says. Guilt crescendos. God, Alex, no. “I can wait here.”

“Come inside,” Alex says.

Michael gingerly steps in, trying to pull his emotions back from Alex’s. It feels invasive, like he’s spying on something he has no right to see. Which is exactly what he’s doing, even accidentally. It’s difficult to find the mental wall he uses on his siblings. They are respectful and he doesn’t have to try terribly hard. Alex’s emotions are more like waves that lap at him. He has to adjust with so many factors. Alex opens a locked box inside a locked cabinet and more guilt slips knife sharp along his defenses.

“I’ve been trying—“

“It’s okay,” he says, fighting the way he crashes back into that aching pit, “Alex it’s fine,” he reiterates, ignoring the confusion that rolls in.  Alex boots up the drive and steps back. There is a prickle of trepidation at the ladder, “you don’t have to go,” he says, not taking his eyes from the screen. He gets to it finally and looks at the mugshot. He cannot go to pieces. He looks first for the powers. They are charted with terrible precision, “shit.”

“What?” Alex asked and the guilt hits him.

“My mom passed her power onto me,” he says, looking away from more information than he can digest, “she’e in me,” he stresses. Alex is unsure and guilty, “i’m like Maria on steroids,” he says. Before he can untangle Alex he continued, “you shouldn’t feel guilty about Cauffield. I don’t blame you for that,” and just to be sure, “your ass looks great in those pants.”

“You’re not funny,” Alex tells him, “you can feel everything?”

“I’m hysterical and i don’t know,” he glances at the screen.

“May I?” Alex asks.

Michael nods gratefully as Alex peers at the screen, digesting the information. He looks at Michael and then back at the screen.

“Empathic abilities, memory probing, mind sharing—“

“Max does that when he heals someone. Leaves a glowing handprint.”

“This doesn’t say anything about a handprint,” he says.

“What about the connection lasting?” Michael asks, “or if she could control it?” He turns.

“Don’t!” Alex blocks the chair with his hand. But Michael turns anyway, catching a glimpse of wires and wires and a shaved head— “look at me,” Alex orders, “focus on me.”

He latches onto Alex’s calmness and sureness. Everything is going to be okay. Michael is going to be okay. He is going to be fine and all he has to do is look into Alex’s pretty eyes and old man glasses. A surprises bark of laughter rips from. Old man glasses, he hears emphatically. Affection mirrors his own somewhere deep under everything else. For the first time in his life, Michael sees the red glow start between his fingers. All the emotion retreats like a curtain pulling back. It’s the overture to something bigger. Alex looks at his hand as well.

“What’s it going to do?” Alex asks.

“My hand you mean?” Michael asks. Alex looks but his emotions are a mystery, “I don’t know.”

“I guess we should find out.”

Michael wants to shake his head but it’s Alex. Alex may not know him better than a handful of people but they have a connection. Something even he can’t deny. He misses out on all the ET jokes he could make as he lifts his hand up. Alex does his deep breath thing, which Michael knows is the start of something big as he lifts his hand up and then determination crosses his features and he presses his hand to Michael’s. A zap seems to go all the way up Michael’s arm and then back towards his hand.

Then the explosion happens.

It’s not literal though, God, it might as well be. Everything levels in a single moment like trees being cleared and in the clearing, chaos erupts. It’s a tangle of two lives. Of dark secrets and bright bursts of hope. His leg gets blown off and Alex’s hand gets shattered in the same instant. He grows up terrified and Alex grows up alone. Then they switch back. Over and over again, all in a single instant. It’s molten and It’s going to destroy them both. Though Alex will always fight to the bitter end and matches the maelstrom. Suddenly they’re eleven and seven and sixteen. Michael grabs the seventeen year old memory but he’s to the left instantly. Later that night with Alex collapsed on his bed weeping himself into sickness and exhaustion. Alex is with him in the car, collapsed over the steering wheel with acetone on his lips. Michael tears himself back into the present. Alex is on his knees, fingers slotted through Michael’s and the other hand gripping his forearm. His mouth is in his elbow to muffle the sound but Michael can see he’s screaming.

“Alex, Alex!” He tries to get his attention, “Come on Alex, Alex stay with me!” Michael focuses on the connection, back to the bedroom and seventeen. He shoves Alex through. Through the desert, through the medvac to the blue mats in the VA facility that become his most ardent lovers, “come on Alex!” He grabs him through his doctor, hauling him to his feet, “Alex stay with me!” He forces his their hands together in this world and pulls along the connection, “stay with me!”

They rip back to the bunker violently and Michael’s power sends him backwards as Alex collapses into himself against the floor. Michael scrambles off the chair and crawls to him. Alex is curled around himself and trembling violently. Michael wraps his arms around him and pulls him back against his chest, so Alex’s back is against his front. Alex is barely breathing except for shallow pants of air and his eyes are wild. Worst of all, Michael can feel nothing except static. Like Alex isn’t

“Breathe,” he says, pressing his hand to Alex’s sternum, “come on Alex. Stay with me, breathe!”

Michael forces himself to stay calm but when he feels Alex’s emotions finally hum back, he lets himself sag against him in pure relief.  Alex exhales and sucks in a lungful of air. Michael presses his forehead to his shoulder, remembering why he always fought so hard to never use his power around Alex. He forces his breathing to be steady and exaggerated so Alex will copy him and he does. Propped up on Michael’s chest, he breathes with him.  Michael doesn’t know how long they stay that way, breathing but the hum eventually starts to become other emotions. Michael is better able to push them aside this time and just focus on the tangible person in his arms. Alex shifts eventually so they’re facing each other. Careful not to touch him, Michael reaches out and straightens Alex’s glasses.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Alex gets out, his voice hoarse, “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“What about the bunker?” Michael says, “is the bunker okay?”

Alex’s wave of ‘I am so done with you’ and ‘please keep doing that forever’ breaks over him and Michael leans into it, pressing his forehead to Alex’s.

“Max got Noah’s powers because he killed him,” Michael says.

“Your mother wanted you to have them,” Alex says. Despite what’s just happened, he reaches out and cups both of Michael’s cheeks, his thumbs skimming along his cheekbones, “they were a gift, Michael.”

“How can you say that after what just happened?” He asks.

Alex chuckles, the sound soft and sweet and comforting. And Michael realizes Alex doesn’t think what’s just happened is a bad thing. Scary, to be sure. But he only scares Alex in how he makes him feel. Not in what he is or what he can do. Michael ducks his head and presses his lips to Alex’s as Alex’s fingers slide back to his curls. The kiss is dry and chaste and warm until Alex licks the seam of his mouth and he parts for him. It’s safe here. 

Alex loves him and Michael doesn’t need his powers to know that.

He never has.

[astudyingreer]

A fic commissioned by @epicfangirl01 <3

----

Chase stepped in first, trying and failing to take a steady breath as he looked around Jack’s house.

It was a nice place, a familiar place, very simply and humbly decorated but full of personality. It seemed ages since Chase had been here—he was always at the hospital now. Or he used to be. I guess he wouldn’t have to go there anymore. He didn’t even want to think about stepping foot in that place, since they got the news.

God damn it, Jack.

The rest of the group filed in like sheep being led to slaughter: slowly, overcome with dread with their heads hung. No one spoke. No one had anything to say. And it was pretty clear that no one wanted to even be there, either. Even Henrik, the one who was always so stoic and disconnected from pain, seemed subdued.

The doctor walked to the living room, letting his hand trail over the furniture as his dark eyes darted in thought. They all knew that look: he was retreating inside himself, trying not to feel the pain, but it was all too much. They could all feel it. “We should begin,” he finally said, hoarsely.

Chase looked to him, a bitter smile twisting his mouth as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

“Great,” he said, like the word left a sour taste in his mouth. “I can’t wait to have a bunch of cool new stuff.”

“Don’t be like that,” Peter mumbled next to him, voice thick with a suppressed sob. Chase watched him as he sat down, wiping his hands down his pants with a shuddering breath.

“Like what?” Chase asked. His voice spiked just a little. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”

“This is how it works,” Marvin told him. He was still standing in the doorway, watching them all with an almost chillingly-guarded expression. His words were cold and emotionless, but his distance portrayed the sadness he was feeling—he hadn’t been as close to Jack, and still he felt his friends’ pain. “You shouldn’t get upset about it, Chase. Jack wanted you to have his stuff. He told you so.”

“I don’t care,” Chase murmured. He wiped his sweaty hands down his face. There was a prickle down his neck that he couldn’t shake, and he hated it. “It’s wrong. It’s wrong to take his stuff so soon.”

It seemed like Marvin wanted to say something comforting, but Chase didn’t give him the chance. He only heaved a heavy sigh, pushing past Peter to walk upstairs. That was where most of Jack’s collectable posters, figurines, and other junk were—junk Chase had mentioned he’d want in the will to relieve the tension of another depressing hospital visit, but now it actually all belonged to him.

He could still hear the others talking downstairs as he slowly opened the door to Jack’s room. The hush of the abandoned room has an effect on Chase that he didn’t expect: it was sudden and violent, lurching in his chest. Anger. Anger so intense that his eyes stung. It felt like an asthma attack, but worse somehow… it squeezed a fist around his lungs and he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. That monster—that inhuman thing—had just come into their lives and ripped them apart, taking everything, for fun. For fun.

Every breath heaved through strangled lungs, crescendoing into a raspy scream as he reached for the first figurine he saw and threw it at the wall with a dull thump. He thought the scream would make him feel better—it only burned hotter inside of him and he continued to scream, rage surging through him as he swept all the items of Jack’s desk to the floor. His vision became blurry and a sob forced its way up his throat, and the scream died out as he fell against the desk and buried his face in his hands.

Peter came running up a few minutes later, throwing open the door to see Chase weeping softly at the desk. The panic in his eyes turned to compassion as he watched his friend, but there was nothing to say.

They had lost. Jack had lost. And there was no way to pick up the pieces.

[modernmisterdarcy]

Brothers

The Duke of Bainton was prepared for politeness and pleasantry and he made ready to receive, his thin-lipped, easy smile fixed in place.

“It is I who should thank you, Your Grace. This evening has truly been a magical one,” said Miss King.

“The magic has been entirely your own, to be sure,” said the Duke. “And the Earl's daughter is as welcome to my service as the Earl himself.”

“And, Your Grace, may I just say…”

Adrian leaned in as she lowered her voice.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said earlier – how I should be more mindful of my reputation. I think you are right; I should be aware of the consequences of my actions… – But I hope you know, if I had the ability to go back and choose again – I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

Adrian's lips parted in surprise at this bold declaration. His pallid face flushed for the final time that night, and he swallowed thickly.

“Why-- Miss King, I--” He cast about for words, and finding none, simply smiled at her, perhaps a bit sadly. “I thank you. Goodnight, worthy lady, and goodnight to your fine family.”

With that, the Duke of Bainton went out of the mansion and to his carriage, which waited directly in front of the door for its master. He required a deal of assistance from the footman to embark, having over-exerted himself that evening in every possible respect, and his bad leg wanted to buckle beneath him. Once inside, he fairly collapsed against the seat, and endured the ride home in embattled silence, his body one giant complaint, while his mind turned over Miss King's kind words, her kind face, her kind actions.

I wouldn’t have done anything differently

Wouldn’t have done anything differently

Anything differently

The implication shook him. Perhaps he thought too much of it. Perhaps he thought not enough. Did she mean it the way he thought? That she esteemed him worthy of her attentions in his moment of dire need, even at the risk of her own reputation? Had she truly, boldly declared as much, or was it only a distortion of his fevered mind? Perhaps in his illness he felt so vulnerable he only wanted to think as much. Perhaps he so longed for a good woman in his life that he should fabricate one at his own convenience, the first who showed any sign of decency.

Yes, that must be it.

He left the Astley residence feeling strange in the chest, all but smitten with the Earl's daughter. But by the time he reached his own home, Adrian had convinced himself it was all a trick of his own mind-- a trick of the light, perhaps a few too many sips of wine, perhaps a socially clumsy country girl (but was she?) speaking out of turn and an ailing bachelor wanting her words to be more than they were.

Adrian readied for bed on the verge of complete physical collapse. As his manservant helped him undress, from downstairs came the unmistakable sounds of his little brother, Tobias, returning to the house in a drunk. Just how drunk or what mood he was in mattered little to Adrian.

“I'll finish,” he said to his manservant. “Go to him. Don't let him come here. I haven't the strength for it.”

The manservant did as he was told. Adrian all but fell into his bed and closed his eyes, his left hip aching, his muscles heavy and weak, his heart in turmoil. For in his heart he still thought of Eierene, the sweet little thing, how she'd looked when he left her at the gala, so small and gentle, very like a flower in high summer. The fever burned higher and his mind whirled, twisting his thoughts and distorting every emotion.

The tide turned to Tobias as he heard, from downstairs, his younger brother unleash a savage scream. For what reason, Adrian could not fathom, but Toby was never a reasonable drunk. The boy came home drunk more nights than not, lately, and the very idea made Adrian's heart ache. For a time, he forgot Eirene, and sank into melancholy thoughts of how Toby was so very like their father. Adrian sank into his fever dreams and his warped feelings for his younger brother, everything that kept Toby at a distance-- his resentment over Toby killing their mother in childbirth, resentment over Toby escaping the war healthy and whole, over Toby frittering away his health and well-being with drink, and of course Toby's being a socially inept insufferable ass.

He needed to rest desperately, but Adrian's sleep was troubled. He woke several times during the night, and finally, around dawn, upon waking with a violent coughing fit, took a heavy draught of laudanum, and drifted into an insalubrious and dreamless sleep.

– – –

“What do you mean, he'll not see me!?” Tobias, meanwhile, demanded of the manservant.

“His Grace is very ill, m'lord--”

“Oughtn't his brother be the one to tend him, then!?” Toby was so drunk his eyes would not focus. He threw a dismissive hand on the manservant's direction.

“I have orders, m'lord--”

“FUCK YOUR ORDERS!” bellowed the young man, and he fell to the floor, weeping. “Why will he not see me, Gainesville?”

“He is likely already asleep,” the manservant said gently, touching Toby's shoulder. “His Grace was very tired upon returning.”

“Aye?” Tobias swiped at his streaming eyes. “Aye? He is always tired. My brother is a sick man. He may die soon, you know.”

“You mustn't say things like that,” the manservant chided, again, as gently as he could. “His Grace has proved very resilient--”

“He's dying,” Toby moaned, now going prostrate on the floor, face-down, his face buried in his arms. “It's getting worse, you great sot, don't you see? Or am I the only one here pretending it's not happening? He's dying, my brother is dying, why, God, why!”

Gainesville thenceforth kept his mouth shut. He stayed for a moment longer to ensure that young Lord Wolfe would not disturb His Grace, and, when he was fairly certain that Lord Wolfe would cry himself to sleep on the parlor rug, Gainesville retired to his own quarters, having to marshal his own energies to tend the Duke on the morrow, and the next day, and the next.

--- --- ---

Next day, sometime around noon, Tobias woke with the raised floral pattern of the parlor carpet imprinted on his cheek, and a raging headache hammering away in his skull. His heart was heavy, his groin painful (from having spent several hours too many in a harlot's crib the night before), and despite having been inebriated to the point of nigh-incoherence, he remembered everything. These days, Toby always remembered everything, which was rather inconvenient to a boy who drank mostly to forget.

Tobias picked himself up off the floor and stalked up to his room, pausing briefly before his brother's closed door. He heard coughing inside, and pushed open the door. There lay Adrian, looking an absolute fright, so wasted and small in his dressing-gown, his pallor nothing short of dire. When up and dressed, it was easy to think Adrian was stronger and more substantial than he was. But now, as he lay helpless and ill, exposed and vulnerable, there was no denying anything at all.

Toby slouched against the door frame.

“All right, Adrian?” said he.

“You know how I feel about staying abed, but the exertions of last night's--” he broke off, coughing into a handkerchief, while several others, flecked with blood, decorated the bedside table. Trembling, Adrian shook his head. “Far from all right, brother.... And yourself?”

“Hung over,” Toby said, gazing impassively down at his elder brother. His beloved, ailing elder brother. A man whom Toby idolized even now. A man whom Toby adored, but had long since ceased expressing his adoration, as it was only ever met with scorn and rebuke. Yet he could not help himself. Seeing Adrian so ghastly pale, seeing so many soiled kerchiefs, struck the fear of God into Toby's heart. He was reminded powerfully of seeing Adrian in the Royal Forces hospital, where he was certain to die of consumption, and Toby was forced to admit that the danger was still present. However strong Adrian tried to be, his force of will was not necessarily stronger than a force of God-- a force like illness.

“Call the doctor?” said Toby, not even of a mind to speak in full sentences, lest Adrian scold him for wasting his oxygen.

“No.” Adrian sagged against his pillows, his brow knitting with pain and fatigue. “There's nothing to be done.”

“You're not a doctor. You don't know,” Toby said mulishly. “Don't be stupid, Adrian. Don't try to be so brave, it's only me and the walls to see you.”

“I see myself.” The Duke closed his eyes. “I am excessively fatigued, brother. Please leave me.”

In spite of himself, in spite of being treated the same since time immemorial, the dismissal still stung Toby's heart. He wanted to stay in the room, to keep Adrian company, to hold his hand and to help him take his fucking medicine, but Adrian did not want it. And Toby hadn't the slightest idea why. And he hadn't the slightest notion as to why, after all these years, he still expected Adrian to respond differently. Perhaps, because, on rare occasion, he did. But this was not one of those occasions. But Adrian looked so thin and lonesome, Toby choked back tears to think of leaving him alone. But Adrian's wishes were not to be ignored.

“All right,” said Toby, shoving off of the door frame and turning away. He couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, and see Adrian struggling with the bottle of laudanum, and his heart clenched in an agonizing way. He heard the little medicine cup clatter to the table, Adrian had dropped it, but he never asked for help, he only muttered, “Blast,” to himself, very softly, and Toby walked away.

--- --- ---

“What's this?”

The brothers sat at breakfast two days later. Toby reached for a book which sat on the table at Adrian's left elbow. The Duke had scarcely made a recovery, but insisted upon being up and dressed and going about his business. His only agenda-item for that day was to pay a very brief call to the Earl of Bainton, and Tobias was to accompany him.

“A book,” Adrian said blandly, sipping his tea.

“Elements of agricultural chemistry, in a course of lectures for the Board of Agriculture. What ever are you reading this for?” Toby laughed, shaking his head.

“I am merely curious,” said Adrian, delicately plucking the book from his brother's hands. “It does not belong to me, so keep it away from your breakfast or you're sure to soil it.”

“You're not wrong,” said Toby, for he had long since ceased arguing with Adrian's censures, no matter how unfair. Even, sometimes, as he did this morning, agreed-- if only for the sake of his own amusement. “I'm like a pig at its trough with the porridge, you know. Right slovenly, I am.”

“Do not try my nerves, Tobias.” Adrian had scarcely touched his breakfast, and now pushed it away. “We must tolerate one another's presence for a while today, and you know I am short-tempered when I've been ill.”

“What? You? Tolerate me? What for?” Tobias nudged Adrian's bowl back at him. “Eat a bit more, why don't you?”

“You forget, brother, that yours is a courtesy title only, and I am not to be trifled with. I am a crowned Duke of the Royal Peerage and I'll not stand to be condescended or coddled to in any way.” Flushed with emotion, Adrian pushed the porridge away. His stomach turned. He had no appetite; it was a wasting sickness; it was out of his control. He knew why Toby did as he did, and it was not Toby's actions which incensed him, but their reminder of his illness. Toby did not-- could not-- understand what it was like for Adrian, and this made the Duke angry. Of course he didn't understand-- Tobias was healthy.

“Sorry,” Toby grunted, one brow arched, and he shook his head. “So, what could be so important as to force you into proximity with your repulsive little brother for any length of time?”

“I am calling today on the Earl of Bainton. His estranged daughter has been reunited with him, and you must come and be introduced. They are our neighbors at Ashvale, as you know, and it would be of supreme rudeness for you not to be introduced straight away.”

“Have you met her?” Toby bit into a sausage, speaking with his mouthful. “Is she pretty?”

“Do not address me with food in your mouth,” the Duke snipped. “I met her at the Astleys' gala. She is a lovely girl.”

“Lovely!” Toby cried, making his brother flinch. “She must really be something to earn such high praise from the most frigid man in Britain.”

Adrian said nothing, his brow quirked, and he opened the agricultural volume to a page, at random, and began to read.

– – –

Several hours later, the Earl of Bainton's valet showed in the Wolfe brothers to the parlor. The Duke was in the front, looking exceedingly pale and tired, but otherwise as prim and perfect as ever. Beside him was a man who, on his own, might have been tolerable enough, but beside the Duke's rigid precision, he looked positively slovenly. His posture was not so keen as the Duke's, and his shirt was perhaps a little rumpled, and his hair was dark and wavy, a bit flyaway, without so much as a drop of pomade to tame (whereas, of course, the Duke's entire head was covered with the stuff, lest a single hair-- as Eirene had observed-- come out of place). To top it off, his expression was sullen, compared with the perpetual, neutral serenity of the Duke.

“Good afternoon, Lord King,” said Adrian, nodding to the Earl. “We've come to return Miss King's book, which she was good enough to leave with me a souvenir of our meeting.”

“I have been told that Miss King is a lovely girl,” the Marquess chimed in. “I am most eager to meet her!”

“And what a meeting it is, to be sure,” said Adrian, casting his brother a withering glance which said, in no uncertain terms, Behave!

[yuki-setsu]

12 Days of (Lance) Whumpmas! - Day 4 [Strep Throat]

this is more of h/c than whump but i tried T__T this is so late too because i was out all day adlkfjaskl it’s 3am i’m tired pls forgive

also my first doing a modern college AU for voltron hhhHHH i like it 

part of the 12 Days of VLD Whumpmas hosted by @vldwhumpmas2017! check out more info on the challenge here if you want to participate!

Keith knew something was wrong when Lance hadn't messaged the group chat in 2 days. Usually, his phone could barely keep up with the amount of messages Lance sent in one go, but right now... it was quieter than it had ever been. Hunk chimed in once, being the first to note that Lance hadn't chatted in a while and ask where he was. Which was weird, because Hunk and Lance practically knew each other's schedules on a day-to-day basis.

But more importantly, the “Spectacular Christmas Bonanza” that Lance planned for days was supposed to be happening tonight. In 10 minutes. And he was nowhere to be found.

“Still nothing?” Shiro asked, setting plates on the table. Most of their living room was cleaned up in preparation for the party, so all that was left was for Keith and Shiro to wait for the others to arrive.

“Nope.” Keith huffed out an irritated breath. He drummed his fingers against his leg once before getting up and reaching for his jacket. “This is ridiculous. Do you think he's home?”

Lance, by some incredible coincidence, had managed to move into the apartment next to Keith and Shiro's, something he'd been elated to discover one autumn morning when they all left for class at practically the same time. If he wasn't home, then Pidge could probably track down his GPS or something.

Shiro shrugged. “It's worth a shot. I'll let the others in if they get here before you. Be careful.”

“I'm literally walking next door, Shiro.”

“And you forget the number of times you nearly slipped down the stairs at the apartment's main entrance whenever it was even a little bit icy.”

Keith pulled up his hood, hoping it hid the way his face burned up. “It wasn't that many.” He stalked across the room, Shiro's laughter trailing after him. “I'll be back. Shouldn't be more than 5 minutes.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, pointedly taking care to walk down the main steps, more for his self-assurance than anything. They weren't that slippery. The winter winds bit at his face, and for the first time, Keith was grateful Lance lived so close because it was so cold.

He walked up the steps—carefully again—and pressed at the button next to Lance's name. Room 214. 15 seconds and no reply later, Keith was lucky that another resident chose that moment to use their own key to get inside, kind enough to hold the door open for him to step inside as well. Keith ducked his head, managing out a thanks before he jogged for the stairwell.

The second floor was tranquil, covered in old, brown carpeting that echoed Keith's every footstep. He reached Lance's door, trying not to knock too loudly and wake up the entire complex. Still no answer. But one glance at the ground was enough for Keith to notice the thin stream of light peeking out from under the door, which made it almost certain that Lance was home. The amount of times Lance had chastised both him and Shiro for leaving the lights on in an empty room whenever he came over was so high that Keith couldn't even keep track. No way Lance would commit the same crime.

“Hey, Lance.” Keith started, wincing at the loud way his voice echoed down the hall. “It's Keith. Uh, you remember the party's today, right?”

Through the door, he could've sworn he heard coughing, and Keith reached for the doorknob without a second thought. The door clicked open easily, and he took a moment to process that he could actually go inside. What idiot doesn't lock his door?

The coughing had died down by the time Keith stepped inside and closed the door, only to be replaced with a low groan. Well, Lance being down with the cold explained his absence. He could've at least messaged the group, though.

Keith stepped down the narrow hallway to Lance's room, whose door was ajar. Yet when he peeked inside, the room was empty, save for the messy bed. He glanced at the small jar of pills on the bedside drawer just as he heard another bout of coughing, wet and loud. Keith jumped at the noise, whipping around and tracking it down to the small kitchen. And that was where he found Lance, shivering and curled up on the ground. A dangerous mess of shattered glass covered the floor around him, and Keith just barely stopped himself from stepping inside the kitchen and onto a large shard. The bigger problem was the blood he saw on the ground.

“Shit, Lance. Don't move.” Keith breathed out, eyes wide. He scanned the kitchen for anything he could use to clean the glass up, only to come up empty. “I'll be right back. Hold on.” He ran for Lance's room, glad he didn't have to dig around too much to spot a small dustpan and sweeper. He worked fast to clean up while he tried to talk to Lance, who was barely coherent.

When most of the danger was gone, Keith set the dustpan aside and moved to get Lance off the ground and sitting against the cabinets. Keith could finally pinpoint the injury: a small but noticeable gash on his left hand, blood still slowly weeping out of the wound.

Keith leaned up and grabbed at a few sheets of paper towels before pressing it against the wound. “Lance, do you have a first aid box anywhere? Bathroom?”

Lance's eyes finally landed on Keith, eyes widening as if he just realized Keith was there. He nodded weakly.

“Okay.” Keith took Lance's other hand and used it to replace where his hand had been on top of the paper towels. “Try to keep some pressure on it to stop the bleeding. I'll be right back.”

Finding the kit was easy, the box sitting neatly on a shelf in the bathroom cabinet. He was glad Lance was pretty organized. By the time he got back, Lance was dangerously slumped over, trembling like he was sitting in the cold with no jacket on and not on his kitchen floor.

Keith ducked back towards the ground, hands on Lance's shoulders to guide him back upright. Lance groaned at the movement, eyes meeting his again. This time, a ghost of a smile touched his face. “Keith. Sup.”

Lance's voice was horribly scratchy and rough, but Keith ignored it. “Hi. Give me your hand.”

A slightly bigger smile. “You gonna propose or somethin'?”

If he weren't so worried, Keith might have rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Lance offered his hand anyways, wincing as Keith cleaned out the wound and wrapped it with bandages. One problem down. He lifted a hand against Lance's forehead, surprised at the sudden heat that greeted him.

“That's some fever you got there. Is it the flu?” Keith asked, a frown touching his face.

Lance sighed, his head falling lightly against the cabinets. “Nah, it's strep. Sucks.”

Keith's eyes widened. Strep throat? What the hell, that was so much worse. Wasn't that contagious, too? Great. He thought back to the bottle of pills he spotted in Lance's room.

“You went to a doctor already?”

Lance nodded again before he jerked his head to the side, coughing violently into his elbow. It wracked his entire body, and Keith had to keep him from falling over again. “Earlier today. Wasn't this bad yesterday...”

“Alright, alright, no more talking. You sound like shit and your throat needs to rest.” Keith blew out a breath, running a hand across his face. “Let's get you to bed first.” He thought for a moment longer, and his shoulders slumped with resignation. “You probably can't walk, so I'll carry you.”

Lance's eyes flickered over to him again, playful. “Aw, really?”

Keith ignored him, shifting an arm underneath Lance's legs and another across his back. “I told you not to talk. I'll drop you if you do.”

Lance grinned lazily, but he obliged. Lance's constant trembling and the heat emanating from his skin had Keith's annoyance drifting away pretty quickly, though. He was surprised Lance could still joke around in this state.

After tucking him in bed and having him take another antibiotic—apparently Lance had been trying to get a cup of water to take the medicine—Keith finally stepped aside and fished out his phone. He already had 2 missed calls and 5 new messages from Shiro, each more panicked than the last. He glanced back at Lance, who was—wow—already asleep, and stepped into the hallway before dialing Shiro's number.

Shiro picked up after the first ring. “Keith?! It's been almost 20 minutes, what happened?”

“Lance is sick. Strep throat.”

Shiro sucked in a breath. “Oh man. Did he see a doctor already?”

Keith leaned against the wall, adjusting his grip on the phone. “Yeah. He just took medicine and fell asleep. Don't know what you want to do about the party, though.”

“Hold on.” There was muffled silence as Shiro shifted the phone away from his mouth, speaking to someone in the background. Keith easily picked out the responding voices as both Hunk and Pidge, which was no surprise. More rustling before Shiro's voice rang through the phone again, loud and clear. “They're fine with postponing. Lance had been the main planner for this party, doesn't really make sense to celebrate without him.”

Keith blew out a breath, somewhat relieved. “Alright. I'll just wrap up a few things here and head back.”

Once he hung up, Keith went back towards the bathroom, grabbing a small washcloth and wetting it under cold water. He figured he should do something about the broken glass, too. Maybe he could toss it on the way back.

He tried to be careful when placing the washcloth on Lance's forehead, but his eyes still fluttered open at the contact. Any trace of his earlier amusement was gone, replaced with just bare exhaustion. It was kind of weird seeing Lance like that, and not a good weird. Keith didn't like it.

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. It's for the fever.” Keith said, straightening back up. Lance watched him wearily, but at least he wasn't talking like Keith had ordered. Seeing Lance so quiet was weird, too. Also not a good weird. “I'm gonna go back to my apartment to fill the others in on what happened, but I'll stop in a few hours when you gotta take the medicine again.”

Lance looked panicked at the prospect of Keith leaving, but relaxed a bit when he mentioned he was coming back again. He nodded, and Keith crossed his arms. Oh right, he almost forgot.

“And do you always not lock your door? It was unlocked when I got here. You know how dangerous that is?” Lance pointedly looked away, almost sheepish. “I'm locking it on the way out, so is there a key I can borrow to get in when I come back? I'll return it afterwards.” Lance glanced back at him, a silent question. Keith almost grinned at it. “Fine, you can talk. In as few words as possible.”

“Desk. Top right drawer.” Lance croaked out, grimacing at the way the words scraped out of his throat.

Keith fished out the key, tucking it into his pocket before he lightly patted the top of Lance's blanket. “Get better soon. We can't start the party until you're with us.”

Lance smiled at that, tired but genuine. He nodded, eyes already growing heavy. Keith made sure he actually fell asleep before quietly stepping back outside and towards the kitchen. He dumped the glass into a garbage bag and cleaned up the dried blood before washing the hell out of his hands and face. Then again, he'd carried Lance back to his room, so he couldn't be certain he hadn't already caught it. And on top of that, he was going back to Lance's apartment later. He'd probably need to stop by the doctor and get his own antibiotics tomorrow.

He disposed of the bag in the lobby before leaving the apartment, the cold air biting at his face like an old friend. He grumbled, so busy pulling his hood up that his foot caught on a patch of ice on the final step and sent him crashing on his butt. Nope. Shiro was never hearing about this.

[lumiereswig]

some sort of plumiere argument / plumiere pregnancy headcanons maybe?

argument

their arguments are as ferocious as their passions. neither is good at cold anger; they rage and plume their feathers and snap

plumette turns into a cartoon of haughtiness; she is The Grand Madame, and tosses her curls, and pretends she doesn’t mind, and snipes and drops WITHERING repartee

lumiere blushes—all his blood goes straight to his head—and he throws his hands above his head and calls down the saints to stand by him

they are never violent. never ever. and they never say anything that would truly hurt

it’s a loud fluffing of egos and ruffles and that’s it. BAM one loud explosion of rage (“i said i looked good in yellow!!” “i AGREED with you!!” “HOW COULD YOU DO THAT” “you DO look good in yellow, dammit” “STOP SAYING THAT”) and then lumiere comes flying back to plumette in about an hour begging forgiveness

which she always gives, immediately, and they kiss and make up, and ten minutes later they can’t remember what they were arguing about or even that they HAD an argument

all their arguments just let off steam. which is great, because then they quickly begin smoking again once they’re back in each other’s good graces

(or at least, lumiere starts smoking again. plumette thinks this is attractive. honestly even seeing each other fight is attractive)

w h a t i a m t r y i n g t o s a y i s t h a t   i t   a l l   e n d s   w i t h   t h e  m   i n   b e d

Pregnancy

well there’s this. so that’s the start.

lumiere is over helpful with the pregnancy. he gets himself into the library and tries to pull up the old scholarly spirit that he’s never actually had,  and turns himself to Research

literally takes all the advice. this doctor says that chocolate is good: great, Lumiere just ordered two hundred kilos. this doctor says kale: too bad, Mrs. Potts, time to move the fucking herb garden because these three acres are now all for kale

mrs. potts tries to give ACTUAL advice but lumiere will have none of it. turns to garderobe instead

garderobe claims she is basically a mom because of frou-frou. lumiere rolls with this and goes with her advice to have a blow-out shopping bash on the nursery

he sits down with plumette when she’s too sore to move and takes her mind off things by propping up catalogues of baby things. they pick out the friliiest, floofiest nonsense possible for their baby

these two don’t really know what the fuck they’re doing so they buy lots of unnecessary baby things. some traveling salesman convinces them that babies all need can openers, so they buy five and engrave them all with cute nicknames for the as-yet-unnamed baby

baby’s first can opener. nailed it, says lumiere.

sometimes cogsworth just comes into the room and lumiere is leaning on plumette’s belly, smiling. he sings lullabies to the baby. cogsworth tries to leave before he starts weeping at how cute this is

as the pregnancy goes on it starts getting scary. plumette is a lil frail, a little transparent at times. lumiere keeps putting kale in front of her but still she is sick in the mornings. she still smiles at his touch but oof, she is not doing so great. MON DIEU she would love some champagne right now

they choose garderenza as the god-parents, because at times plumette feels like they are her parents and it might as well be true for one member of the family.

adam blows out on the nursery. like this is a massive fucking SUITE for this baby. (he feels bad about being a trash human and obviously the best way to make up for it is to make sure every possible soft surface has twenty seven ruffles on it.)

belle picks out the baby’s first books. jk she actually INVENTS board books for this purpose

maurice paints murals on the nursery walls. candelabras, feather dusters, enchanted castles, roses, moons and suns: entire stories for the baby’s eyes to wander over

blue or brown?? who knows what color the baby’s eyes will be

sometimes when the pain gets too much plumette floats a few inches off the ground. she never notices

stanley and lefou are FASCINATED by all this. they’ve never seen the growth of a human inside another human before (tbh they’ve never seen anything really good before, like ever), so they’re always checking in on Plumette and making sure she doesn’t feel too bad

cadenza plays lullabies that garderobe sings

(she sings them a lil too loudly so sometimes plumette sings them again, quietly, after, and lumiere sings along)

cogsworth just keeps CRYING it’s all too cute for him. he’s obviously the godparent-on-top-of-the-normal-godparents, and he CANNOT FUCKING HANDLE THIS

for once his absolute control is tested becaues. JUST TOO. FUCKING. CUTE.

they tell him they’re gonna call the baby cogsworth jr. and he fucking CRIES

(they’re not gonna call the baby cogsworth jr. they all know this.)

in the last week plumette is so sick and horrible-feeling she basically is a ghost. lumiere is fucking terrified

one day, she’s gone. he was out arguing with cuisinier about how much chocolate it was healthy to shove into a pregnant woman and then he comes back in and she’s up in her rooms, with mrs. potts and belle, and he’s not allowed in, and cogsworth grabs his hands and whispers ‘it’s happening, old friend”

and then this. and that’s a start, again.