#what one day without liquid iv does to a man. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keilemlucent · 4 years ago

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

Text

We Keep Going, That’s All

@whimpers-and-whumpers , this is for you. Hope your surgery goes well today!

CW: Aftermath of near-death, hospital whump, recovery whump, survivor's guilt, alcohol use, referenced drug use

Ryan shows up to the hospital with Coke bottles full of liquid that absolutely is not Coke - or not much of it, anyway - and Nate doesn't refuse the gift.

He twists off the plastic cap and takes a drink, wincing at the burn down his throat. "Jesus, Ryan, this is m-m-more Jack than Coke."

"Yeah, well. Figured we could use some relaxing." Ryan gives him a slight smile, and the bruising that's been along his jaw - the obvious press of fingers - is finally starting to fade. Off-white bandages ring his neck, hiding from direct view the deep, slowly healing gashes rubbed in by the iron collar he'd worn for a year.

There are other wounds, Nate knows, underneath the lightly-draped black t-shirt Ryan wears, under his effortlessly casual, perfectly-on-trend jeans.

There are deeper wounds still entirely underneath his skin, inside his head. Nate knows those even better. He doesn't begrudge Ryan the need to find some way to fuzz out the edges of what must be written in stark, bright blood in his memory.

Nate spent a year and a half doing the same, after all, before Bram came back for Danny again.

"How is he?" Ryan asks, settling into a hard wooden chair with plastic back and cushion in a dull pastel mauve. "Any different?”

"Then y-yesterday?" Nate exhales, slowly, rubbing at his unshaven jaw. The stubble prickles his fingertips, itches a little as it grows in. There's a razor in the private room's little bathroom, but he doesn't have the energy to use it. All of Nate's energy now is focused entirely around staying right here, being right here, for the rare moments that Danny is both awake and himself.

"Yesterday wasn't... great.”

"No, it wasn't." Nate sighs, leaning over in the chair he sits in, next to Ryan, reaching out with his good left hand to gently nudge a bit of wavy red away from over Danny's face.

The love of his life - the man he's killed for, twice, and would kill for again - lays on his stomach with his head turned to one side. The hospital blanket is pulled up nearly to his chin, hiding from view the fact that nearly all of Danny seems made of bandages these days, bandages and tubes and wires. He breathes slowly, a drugged deep sleep to let his body rest and try desperately to heal itself around the nearly-fatal place the knife went into his back.

He sleeps, more than he's awake. But Nate makes sure that when his eyes open, someone is here for him, every single time.

"Today has been a little b-better, I think," Nate says after a moment's though. He brushes a crumb from the corner of Danny's mouth. "He ate a l-little, this morning. Just Jell-O and a little bit of cereal, but...”

"But something." Ryan nods, takes another drink, looks out the window. Outside, the day is bright and sunny, with a cloudless blue sky. The courtyard below is full of visiting families and patients taking walks through the landscaped flowers, all of them in brilliant bloom. "Have you even left this room since we got here?”

"No." Nate doesn't bother to lie.

Ryan looks over at him, and smiles very slightly. "Remind me to bring you by some multivitamins do you don't die of Vitamin D deficiency.”

"I'm f-fine." Nate takes another drink, feels the warmth slowly spreading through his shoulders, relaxing the knots and tension that have been slowly building day by day. The 'bed' he has here is just a visitor's couch built into the wall, lumpy and hard, with exactly one flat pillow with a scratchy pillowcase. But he'd rather be here than anywhere else. He'll be here for every single second Danny needs him. "I eat oranges for breakfast every d-d-day. No sc-... sc-... scurvy for me.”

"Didn't we joke about scurvy once?" Ryan asks, slightly faintly, looking up at the ceiling. "After Danny came home the first time?”

"M-Maybe. Don't remember. Why do you c-care if I feel good, anyway?”

“My brother can’t fuss over you right now,” Ryan says with a casual shrug. “So someone has to. He’ll never let me live it down if anything happened to you while he’s here. I’ll get chewed out if you get so much as a headcold and we both know it.”

“I d-doubt-”

Danny shifts a little and both men go silent, watching him move in the bed - just an inch or so to the right, his eyes tightly closed, body tensing as even the slightest movement brings a wash of pain.

"It's okay," Nate whispers, and Danny's eyelids flicker, slowly open. The blue in them is hazy and clouded, but not empty. This time, at least, it's Danny who is looking at him, and not the other one, the one that Nate knows only as someone else. The one who runs Danny's body when Danny can't do it any longer.

"Hey," Danny says, in a hoarse whisper. He tries for a smile, and it's faded and wobbly, but it's there. Then he lifts his head a little, looking over to see Ryan. "Oh, you're both... here. How long was I asleep?”

"Four hours or s-s-so," Nate says, standing up - ignoring the twinge of pain in his bad knee - and moving the pillow under Danny's head to still support him even as he moves. A hint of freckled shoulder shows, with its swirling trace of scars from Bram's knife. There's a star carved into the back of his left shoulder that Nate did, at Bram's command, once.

Ryan's gaze be damned, Nate leans over to kiss it, and to kiss one by one the carved letters that are still there, faded, in the back of Danny's neck. A. D. N.

He tries not to feel the guilt that twists in him at the ownership Bram had meant to make obvious, there. His own first initial with Bram's initials, his own... his own culpability.

“How do you feel?” Ryan asks, leaning over close to Danny.

Danny’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like a liquor store.”

“Yeah, well. When your big brother scares the shit out of you by getting himself stabbed almost to death because of you, maybe you need a little pick-me-up now and then.” Ryan manages a half-cocked smile, but it’s fragile, and they both know it.

With a hiss of pain, Danny moves his hand up the bed, offering it to Ryan, who takes it without hesitation, leaning over so his forehead rests gently against Danny’s.

“I’m okay,” Danny whispers.

“No, you’re not,” Ryan whispers back.

Nate moves to sit back in his chair, then stands again, restless. He doesn’t want to sit there but he doesn’t know where he does want to be... until he looks at Danny, thin and dwarfed even by a small hospital bed. He sets down the mostly-jack-and-a-little-coke and climbs into the bed without hesitating, laying down behind Danny on his side, letting his good hand rest just next to a swirl of Danny’s hair on the pillow.

Danny’s smile widens - not that Nate can see that, from his vantage point. Although Ryan can. “I’ll be okay,” He corrects himself, watching his brother. “They said there’s no sign of paralysis. I’ll walk, I’ll probably even run after a while.” He tries moving and hisses again. “A long while. It’s going to be okay, Ryan.”

“You always were way more optimistic when you were high as balls,” Ryan whispers, and he and Danny laugh, until the action makes Danny whimper at a new spike of pain. “What do we do now, Dan, huh?”

“Keep going,” Danny says, voice low, barely audible even to the two men on either side of him. “That’s all. We keep going.”

“I keep thinking I should’ve died back there, ten times over,” Ryan murmurs. “But every single time, you took the pain for me. I should’ve died-”

“Nah. You’re my little brother. I need you here.” Danny manages to keep the smile, then, and his blue eyes are warm. “If you feel so bad about it, sneak me some of that booze next time, yeah?”

"Dan, I am not going to help you mix IV drugs and alcohol-”

“Just leave it in a really easy-to-reach place and I’ll help myself.”

“Danny. No.”

“Danny yes.”

“Daniel Michaelson-”

“Ryan Niall Michaelson-”

Nate’s rumbling laughter interrupts them. It’s such a rare sound that both of them go immediately silent when they hear it, and Danny even tries to look over his shoulder, gritting his teeth through the ache to see the smile on Nate’s face. It’s slight, nearly private - a smile barely noticeable by anyone who isn’t looking for it.

But Danny is, and through the fog of the painkillers still coursing through his system, he sees it.

“What?” Ryan says. “What’re you laughing at?”

Nate lays a hand over the star he once carved into Danny’s skin, and moves to rest his nose, just lightly, against the warmth of Danny’s neck, breathing in the scent of him under the hospital-smell that surrounds them. “Nothing,” He says, and Danny shivers a little as his lips move against the curve of the D at the back of his neck. “I’m j-j-just... realizing I’m g-going to listen to you two do this for the r-rest of my life.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ryan’s voice is dry.

“No,” Nate says, eyes closed. He can almost feel them in the cabin, like this, just the two of them on days Bram was gone. Lying in the bed wasting the whole morning being warm, just them together. Warm and safe. It feels like being in Danny’s apartment during their year and a half of freedom, the way sometimes when Nate couldn’t get out of bed Danny would just stay with him, holding him, until the pain inside of Nate had lessened enough to let him stand.

Now it’s his turn to hold Danny.

@tiddiroki @whump-it @bleeding-demon-teeth @finder-of-rings @whumpywhumper @endless-whump @18-toe-beans @pumpkinthefangirl @goneuntil @swordkallya @astrobly @evermetnotforgotten @whumpiary @card-games-and-pain @raigash @whump-tr0pes @orchidscript @wildfaewhump @doveotions @eatyourdamnpears

#daniel michaelson's story #hospital whump #recovery whump #recovering whumpee #referenced stabbing #referenced drug use #alcohol use #caretakers #caretaker and whumpee #whump #aftermath whump #the bad arc #injured whumpee #survivor's guilt tw

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dystopia-fantasy · 4 years ago

Text

Always read the job description -Part 1

Max was a fit, well built man. He had been body building since he was 14 and now In his early 40s he has the body of a god, but is slowly getting to the age when he needs to find another way to make money. He knows he can't take part in his competitions anymore, and needs to take it easy. He got great grades in school and college, proving people wrong that you can't be a nerd in a jock body.

Max had some money saved and was able to keep up on bills for a few months but needed a job to keep his large house, in the rich area of the city. He got a call from a business he applied to a couple of days ago, telling him to go in for an interview tomorrow, and if it goes well he will be sent straight on a trip for the company. He gets his new blue suit ready to be worn the next day.

The morning arrives, it's 5am, and Max wakes. He does his normal morning routine, making breakfast, working out, taking a shower, then gets his suit on ready for his early morning interview. Driving to the office building in the middle of New York, it's at least 50 stories high, and is made of mostly glass, and is one of the newest modern builds in the city.

On arrival a large man in his late 60s wearing a suit greets him, "hello sir, you must be max, Sir Mammon is on his way down to collect you, may I say what an amazing suit you have on today".

Max looks the man up and down, seeing the man's huge belly flowing out from under his dress shirt, showing a massive W shape, "thanks mate, you might want a bigger shirt" then points to his belly.

"sorry if I offended you sir, but all clothing has been chosen by Sir Mammon himself" Mammon is the big boss of the business "if you would like to make a complaint I can print you a form".

Max laughs, "No thanks, I'm gonna sit over there, tell Mammon im there".

"will do sir, have a great day" the man says while max walks away paying no more attention to him.

About 15 minutes later a young handsome slender man walks over. "Max is it?" He says behind Max.

"yes.." max says confused.

"I'm Mammon, nice to meet you" he smiles holding his hand out for a shake.

"oh hello Mammon, is wasn't expecting someone so young, no offence of course" max shaking his hand.

Mammon let's out a little laugh, with a little grin "it's ok max, people don't expect someone like me to own such a remarkable company like this one would you like to follow me, we can go up to my office, this is Mark by the way, he's my Butler". Mark is another large man aged around 50, he has a massive belly stuffed into his suit, hes huffing and puffing, like he ran a marithon, "don't mind him, most of my staff are..."

Max cuts him off "fat?"

They both laugh, "you could say that Max" the elevator arrives and they all walk in, "now max, you did read the whole advertisement correct?".

Max didn't, it's was 48 pages long, who would read it all? He just looked at the wage he would get, it started at $100,000 per month. "Yes, I did".

"that's good, most guys are more keen to keep their body's but I guess if your struggling you'll do anything."

Max now confused just nod's and watches though the glass elevator as they fly up to the top floor.

"where here sir" Mark the butler says peacefully in his British accent.

They walk into the room, and Mammon sits at his desk pouring himself a glass of wisky, and Max one too. Max looks around in aww, the room was covered in art work, with the walls painted in golds and whites and had its own bar. "How do you have all this money?" Max asked.

"a mix of many things, this company, and a few investments paid for this whole building, I have many other ways but we're not here for that." Mammon points at the seat," take a seat max" Max sits the chair is made from leather and is very comfy. "So, max, I've gone through your file, I think you're perfect for the job."

"so, does that mean I have the job?" Max replies confused, expecting to be asked a question.

"well yes, if you agree to the terms"

"terms?" Max still confused.

"well yes, you expect to be paid 10times the amount the normal person for this job without any terms or conditions?"

"well I didn't know.." Max gets cut off.

"Max let me simplify them for you. You sacrifice your body to the company, and in trade you get, $100k X the amount you weigh paid into your account per month, So if you weigh 450lbs, you get $450k a month."

"what the fuck? That's sick, I'm not doing that, I'm leaving" and with that Max got up from the chair and stood face to face with Mammon, with the desk all that is separating them. "Your sick, you fa**ot".

With that Mammon's eyes glow a bright red. "I'm a what?" Max got through back against the chair by an invisible force. "Max you could have just left with your freedom, but now look what you've gotten yourself into".

"Let me go, What the fuck?" Max says while traped against that chair, it chreeking with the force of his muscle.

"I'm a fucking demon max, I'm never going to 'let you go'" he took a second break to mock max, "now, what did you say? Fa**ot, was it?".

"fuck, I didn't mean it" the force pins him down harder, trapping his arms against the leather chair arms, and pushing his legs against the underboard. "Please let me go home, I won't do it again."

"shut up max, the process is already starting".

Max looks down to see his body deflating, his pecs turning from mountain peaks to a flat surface, his giant powerful arms turning weak and light. And then looking up he sees a whole new man infront of him.

"Not as big as I thought I would get, but boy I'm big" he took a break to admire his new giant arms and pecs.

"what the?" Max looks in confusion, "how did you do that? Give me them back".

"what are you gonna do max? I'm an infinitely powerful being and you, your an old man, or at least your going to be."

"I'm only 42, what do you mean, going to be?"

"you see I don't have my infinite life span on earth, so to stay alive and in this fit body, I absorb anything a guy has and I want. In your case, these massive muscles, but then I need to absorb their life force as well, in order to make sure I don't age."

"what do you mean life force?"

"well, you have roughly 50 years, worth of life left, I'll drain about 20 years leaving you in your future crippled body at around age 60, force you to work for the company for another 20 years, then when your 80 drain the rest of your life, which after you get fat won't be much, then you got to hell."

"man your sick, let me go, LET ME GO!".

A bright red light shoots from Peters hand enveloping Max's whole body, and he starts to age, his face wrinkling, skin dropping, eye sight worsening, hearing getting muffled, and mind changing a little. "Max, you ok old man?".

"yes sir" max was confused in his mind, why did he say sir?

"max, you ready for your Cruise? You can have tones of food for the next 6 months."

"Yes sir, I'm ready" max lifts his head, opening his eyes to see a new blurry room from his new old eyes.

"you're gonna need these from now on" Peters eyes glow and a new pair of glasses appear on Max's face he can now see clear.

"thank you... Sir", max blinks seeing Peter infront of him, "what have you, done to me".

"Max, I've turned you into the perfect office worker, old, brainiac, who is soon going to get fat and live the rest of his life, in an office chair for me, don't worry for accomodation you live here now, we have apartments on floor 30 to 40, all workers live here, it's policy, we have also sent a team to your house to, well, blow it up, that way nobody is going to be looking for you, becuase we can plant a body"

"give me... My.... Body back, give me... My.. life back."

"Max we both know that will never happen, now enjoy a life of gluttony, and prepare yourself for hell, that's gonna be worse then anything I can do to you." Peter snaped his fingers and a red glow enveloped max.

Recovering from the glow max sees two men infront of him with a trolly of sorts between them. "Is he awake" one says,

"I don't know" said the other.

"im- awake" max said in a much older raspy voice.

"good we can now start the feeding" the man on the left said, his body as muscled as a god, ripped from head to toe, and we can see everything.

Max rubs his eyes under his glasses and opens them again, "Fucking hell, put some clothes on both of you".

Both men where nude, one a ripped god, another muscled up but with a big gut. "Clothes are banned here mate" the beefy man said in a type of Australia accent, "you cant say much fella, look at that tiny pecker".

The men laughed pointing at Max's shriveled up old cock and low hanging balls, "what the fuck"max tries to move his arm to cover him but his arm doesn't move, he looks down to see him stuck in a chair, with a cut out hole under his ass, and straps tying him down, trapping him. "What... Are you gonna do to me?" Max asked sceared.

The men laughed at him again, "no need to act to sceared, we're here to feed you for the next 6 months".

"but... Sir said..." Max get cut off.

"he said you'd be going on a cruise? Fucking hell are you dumb? He's a demon, you shouldn't trust a demon" The muscled guy says.

"bro let's start the feeding we have 50 other guys to see and I wanna watch football Tonight." The beefy guys says, and in unison both their eyes glowed a bright red, showing they where demons too.

The trolly between them had several items on top, one long tube, which floated in the air for a few moments before shoving itself down maxes nostril and deep into his stomach, his head flipped back trying to wriggle it out, but it was stuck. Another item moved into his frame, a IV bag holder, holding a giant barrel type object made of glass, and two large bags floated of the table again and started to drain into the barrel, and the tube connected itself to it, starting a flow of the liquid into maxes stomach.

"done" the beffy guy said. "Now we'll be back tomorrow to refill your barrel, and clean you up if you make a mess, but youll basically be unconscious for the next 6 months, due to the drugs were feeding you."

"so enjoy your sleep mate, you'll litterally wake up a different man." The two men laughed and walked out, max tried fighting the restraints but in his crippled form could do nothing. The door slammed and locked, and the room fell dark, max screamed begging into the darkness to be let free, and to have his life back, which he had only an hour before, but nothing happened, nobody came. He felt the drugs taking effect, but tried to fight back, but it was useless, his body slumped and loosened. His mind fell blank as he drifted of into his 6 month hibernation.

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burnedbyshoto · 4 years ago

Text

spiral

— Honestly, what could go wrong when you’re lusting over your close friend and you’re locked in a box with only one way to get out? Well, not a lot, honestly.

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pairing: kaibara sen x fem!reader

warnings: smut, 18+, gloryhole, dirty talk, praise, fingering, sexual tension, reader is a pervert, quirk use during sex (spinning cock lol)

word count: 2,695

a/n: this is the second gloryhole fic ive written, but its completely different from the last time because its like not a cult fic LMAO!!! anyways, I think yall basic shouto and bakugou stans could do well to stan this class 1-b man because when I tell you he is another deviation of the two of them personality wise.... I mean it!

day 5 main kink: gloryhole

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If you had known precisely what you had just gotten yourself into right now three hours ago, you would have laughed at yourself. Without a doubt, there was no questioning that the predicament you had concealed yourself in was one that would bring you great shame once this wall was gone, but for now, you would deal with it.

At the bitter age of twenty, having graduated from the hero department over in Shiketsu High, you had been almost shocked when you were reached out upon by the graduating class over at Yuuei, to come and join their agency. You had accepted it with caution, unsure if you could live a life paycheck to paycheck that was as new as they come. But, it was a decision you would come to never regret.

Or at least, not until right now.

You had been on patrol with your coworker turned friend, Kaibara Sen, hero name: Spiral.

His quirk was an interesting one. A quirk that allowed him to gyrate -- spin -- every limb and ligament on his body. It caused some pretty asshole moves in close combat that not only stung with the piercing metal on his gloves but also sent you flying away. Countless amounts of times, you had pinned him only to spun around like a spinning top and slammed back into the practice mats.

You hated it.

Or well, you hated his quirk in a sensical way (note: do not attempt to beat him through a crowd, he always wins). In the nonsensical, coming of age brain of yours that had been for the most part silenced due to Shiketsu’s no-dating-policy, but as you grew fond of your coworker, frequent workout buddy and sparring partner, you couldn’t help but wonder just if… well… if he could spin his cock.

You would be lying if you said you had never imagined what it could feel like. You wondered if his cock was curved, or if it was straight. Would the veins be prominent? Too many times, when watching quirk-plot porn videos, you found your mind lingering onto his ability, which leads you to scream into a pillow, your hormones both skyrocketing and plummeting in your horror.

You weren’t a perv, you like to remind yourself as you changed into your hero costume. It was merely a rational, human thought! Humans were curious beings, after all! Sure, Kaibara was attractive, and his voice was… so low, deep, and raspy that sometimes you would try to – NOPE NOT A PERV!

Blazing hot cheeks drummed in time with your hammering heart as you finished dressing, hoping to get out and clear your mind with helping out the community as a hero! You were a hero!

Not a perv!

Nodding to yourself in the mirror located in your designated locker, you slammed it close and left.

Unfortunately for you, or fortunately, Kaibara was already dressed in his costume and waved at you in greeting as you approached him.

“Afternoon.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up!” you flustered, your back stiffening as you continued to stomp ahead, readying to leave the stupid agency and get your afternoon rounds done.

You weren’t a pervert!

With three years since graduating from high school, three years of this agency having been founded, and three years of becoming friends with the esteemed and infamous class 1-A and 1-B from Yuuei, you had learned one thing for sure. This group of Yuuei students seemed to attract the worse kind of trouble like a moth to a lamp.

Without a doubt, you knew that was the reason why you had Kaibara somehow ended up in this horrible, ridiculous quirk from a child that just so happened to manifest their quirk out in the open. And of course, it would be the most humiliating shit to ever happen in the entire world of quirk apparitions.

“Uh, the mother said it’s probably the father’s quirk!” came the apologetic, nearing frantic voice of Deku from outside the steel box both you and Kaibara were trapped in.

You couldn’t even see Kaibara’s face, and the perv in you screamed over the lack of even having his body pressed against yours! No! Nothing! As a matter of fact, there was a divider between you and Kaibara, a giant wall with a hole near your crotch area.

“I can’t believe you idiots got yourselves trapped in this!” came the amused, annoyed, and somehow antagonizing voice of Ground Zero.

“Shut up!” you screamed back. “They looked at us, and it happened! It’s not like we touched the kid!”

“Y/h/n,” Kaibara’s voice sighed, and you felt your face ignite at the sighful tone on his raspy, deep voice. You pouted at the slight scold in his manner and felt yourself looking down in shame as he continued. “Don’t argue with Ground Zero. Hey, Deku, how we get out of this?”

The both of you were silent for some time, the outside world quiet as you waited for an answer.

“Oh, um, I don’t think you’re going to like it…” Deku’s voice laughed awkwardly from outside the box, and you frowned.

“Just tell us.”

“I-It’s uh… it’s a quirk called Gloryhole!” Deku squeaked, and just as you knew the successful and well-recognized pro hero outside of this box was undoubtedly red in the face, you felt your already warm face turn into an inferno. “I-I-It’s exactly… ohmygod!”

“The shitnerd is apparently a fucking perv and can’t finish his stupid sentence. Anyways, this quirk only works on shits like you with unresolved sexual tension and only removes after you use it,” Ground Zero’s voice barked from outside the walls.

“KACCHAN!”

“Shut up, Deku!” Ground Zero fired right back, and you could feel your body trembling at the news. Oh no, your perverted mind finally caught up to you in the worst of ways?! Although he did say unresolved sexual tension, that could totally be onesided, right? “We’ll be back in an hour, get it done, or fucking else.”

They left you, and you realized that despite your panicking pitched breathes, there was no noise coming from Kaibara’s side.

Oh no, this was all your fault!

Oh no, oh no, oh no!

“You, uh,” Kaibara spoke softly, and you felt your hands clutch onto the fabric above your breasts. “You have unresolved sexual tension with me?”

“No,” you denied immediately, your forehead crashing against the barrier between you and Kaibara at the blatant, stupid lie. “Yes. Ugh, I do, but that wasn’t something I was planning on telling you!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing? What was I supposed to say when you pin me against mats during sparring sessions? ‘Hey, Kaibara, does your cock also spin? If so, can you fuck me with it?’”

You slap your hand across your mouth, eyes going wide in your panicked embarrassment. That mouth of yours was genuinely going to get your tongue cut off or lips sewn together one day.

It’s silent for a bit, but there’s a sound of clothes ruffling. The rate of your heartbeat seemed to increase exponentially as you saw something shift from the view you had of the Gloryhole. “Well, if you want to find out, I’ll be more than willing to give you a demonstration.”

The pervert you may or not be did not hesitate to respond back.

“Please?”

And you watched as his shadowed figure approached the hole, and a pink-headed cock pushed through the hole into your side. You watched with a gaping jaw at the still-growing cock before you. Without a doubt, it was more than seven inches and was glorious, gravity defyingly curved upwards. It was proud as it was thick, and you watched as the underneath of his cock scraped across the bottom.

A soft grunt strangled in his throat at the cold, rough sensation, and you watched a small, glistening bead of pre-cum appear from the slit on his head. You’re not sure how quickly you dropped to your knees, but you did know that your mouth took him on completely. Within the first drop of your mouth on his cock, you enveloped at least half of his cock in your mouth. A loud bang hit the wall, and you felt a warmth in your chest, knowing that you had already affected him.

Your lips and mouth glided against his length, your tongue pressing and lapping at the underneath of the head of his cock, trying to cock to become as hard as it could be, because it was still growing. A particular needy, near sloppy suck of yours, sent a loud, dizzying guttural noise from Kaibara’s side. A noise that sent liquid heat spilling into your cunt as your hand gripped the base of his cock, bobbing your head slowly, as leisurely as you would allow yourself.

His taste was indescribable, faint yet had you licking his length for more, trying to cover your tongue in his pre-cum.

But the issue with a proud curving upwards cock, was that you found it awkward to choke yourself down his impossibly stubborn curve as he began to thrust his hips to meet your mouth and travel into your throat. Grunt, gasps, and growls seemed to be growing in volume and repetition on his side of the wall as you relaxed your throat, chokes, and gags sounding wet and sloppy on your side.

“Fuck, just like that, wait up,” Kaibara moaned, a thud coming straight above your own head, letting you know that he had pressed his head against the wall. The thumping of his hips on the wall was slowly becoming musical, white noise as you bobbed your head further along his length, throat vibrating with your need to make him feel good. And the weirdest, most surprised splutter came from your throat as his cock spun in direction.

Once curved upwards, making it nearly impossible in the space to take his cock all the way down your throat, was now downcurved. It stretched your jaw out entirely as he didn’t bother to pull away to do it, and your throat stretched out in a way you had never experienced before as you coughed and staggered against his length. But, it was a pain that made your clit throb and allowed his cock to go even further down your throat.

You did what you could only do once your throat stopped hurting, and the sheer pleasure of having your throat stretched out in a more desirably wait set in: you moaned.

It was a long, pitchy noise that you swore you could feel against the steel wall that your free hand supported you against. Your toes curled at the way his intensely thrusting hips faltered for a moment, undoubtedly turned on by your noise if the twitch in his cock said anything about it. You moaned again, and again, and again. You continued to do so against his snapping hips until Kaibara was practically snarling your name with the intention and muttered promises of what he would do to you once the barrier was gone.

Your mind was gone at the point, the promises of fucking you against the window of his apartment that overlooked the Tokyo skyline had you shoving the pants off your hero costume down. Your hand on his cock tightening in its grip, but the one manipulating your pants off, sunk into your cunt, thumb on your clit.

A mewl left your lips as you began to play with your wet heat, and you drove your mouth and head closer to the hole, enthusiastically taking him in further and further.

“Imma fuck you so good when we get fucking out of here,” Kaibara promised, teeth undoubtedly pulled into a snarl, his thrusting in bizarre speeds as you tried to keep some piece of sanity as you continued to finger fuck yourself, all too pleased with him absolutely using your mouth. But, you registered his words just well enough to respond back, choking an agreeing noise as you bobbed your head enthusiastically. “Had I known you just wanted that slutty pussy of yours to be fucked, I would’ve done this with you ages ago. Would’ve pinned you down on that mat, and claimed your cunt as my prize.” Your eyes rolling back in your hormone-induced euphoria, your own dirty fantasies having played that scene in your mind countless times. “I want to hear you choke on my cock more, I want to hear the saliva and drool leaving your mouth. I know you’re fucking your cunt, so do it well enough you’re moaning like a paid prostitute. I promise you, I’ll make sure you never want to see another cock again that isn’t mine!”

A choking, hiccuped, and wet breath expelled from your mouth, and you hadn’t even realized you were crying at the moment. But, you agreed, head bobbing in your agreement.

And so, it continued.

You pushed forward, his length reaching new depths of your throat until you had your nose smashed against the metal, cold wall. Your throat manipulatively squeezing and milking his throbbing cock, tongue, and teeth rubbing against his protruding veins until Kaibara was stuttering out your broken first name.

The wet noises of his saliva drenched cock meeting your drooling throat and mouth grew louder with every slap, and you wanted more. You needed more.

“Fuck, y/n, you take me s-so fucking good. I think you have me entirely in your mouth like the fucking little pervert you are,” Kaibara hotly laughed, a soft thudding from near your chin sending your mind in a feral daze of how it was probably his balls. “Doing so well with my directions, you really do deserve to be fucked properly after this.”

A low, lewd whine strangled from your throat, your hot, swollen lips sucking harshly against the base of his cock as he continues drilling, and the melodic moans from his mouth made it all worth the fact your lips and nose are starting to tingle from the sufficient lack of oxygen. But it’s also your curling, pumping fingers in your cunt that add onto the headrush you get, the slick and essence coating and dripping from your pounding fingers send you into a series of keen and mewls against his cock. And you can perfectly find each sweet little pleasure spot.

You were close, and by the consistent twitching and throbbing of his cock and the thick coating of precum on your tongue, Kaibara was too.

With your impending orgasm, you felt your body begin to tense up, shaking, and moaning with the tipping sensation you loved. And Kaibara, entirely lost in his own passionate, horny endeavors, shook as he slammed into you again, again, and again.

With a fiery determination, your cheeks hollowed out on his length as he pulled out, a resonating “fuck!” screamed from his lips as your tongue swiped at the salty silt on his cock, and it was all over.

You came on your fingers with a loud, pitchy scream, and thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from his cock onto your awaiting mouth, dirtying your face slightly in his heavy ejaculation. Swallowing the cum, a shiver ran down your spine as you quickly cleaned the remaining cum on his cock. Slowly, you removed the fingers in your cunt, and you shuddered at the pulsating heat form your core as you dropped to the floor as his soft cock disappeared from the hole.

Laughing softly, you looked up at the ceiling of the box that was slowly disappearing, allowing fresh air to enter the sex smelling box.

“So, how about dinner?” Kaibara asked, and you chuckled, running a hand through your abused face.

“I don’t think I’m hungry.”

“No?”

“You might’ve proved you can spiral your cock,” you began, turning your head to look at Kaibara, who was collapsed on the floor, barely put together as the two of you locked eyes. “But I still would like to try it out for real while you properly fuck me. After that, if I’m hungry for food, I’d love to go for dinner.”

He laughed, his hand running through his sweaty locks.

“Sounds like a deal to me.”

#kaibara sen x reader #kaibara x reader #kaibara smut #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #bbs kinktober 2020

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fan4196 · 3 years ago

Text

Happiness (Part 3)

Evermore

Hey everyone here’s part 3, the last part, as requested by so many of you. Hope you like it. Enjoy!

After they dropped Izzie of at the hospital to see her mother alone at first, Jo convinced Alex to drive them to the loft and order some lunch. The twins were already sleepy from the flight and also jet lagged, so Alex gave in and drove them to the place he once called home instead of driving them around city, looking for a hotel to stay at.

As soon as they walked through the loft door, Alex has this weird feeling of being home again. It feels like the place where he belongs, the place he once thought he would start a family with Jo in - now he sort of does but he also feels like a complete stranger. Like he shouldn't be here. Like he shouldn't be allowed to feel like home here.

He immediately notices the missing of all their pictures. The corner were is workout stuff used to be holds two cribs and a changing table now. Most of the stuff he once brought into the loft is gone. Jo's closet is half empty and all in all it just doesn't look like it used to.

All of them get rid of their shoes and jackets and Jo prepares the bed for the twins, so they could take a nap. She and Alex sat on the couch talking until the twins woke up again and they ordered pizza.

The evening went over rather quickly with them watching movies and playing games. Heavy hearted the twins said goodbye to their new friend Jo, but got immediately excited again when she promised to accompany them at the zoo tomorrow.

Exhausted Jo falls into bed that night. Letting the day reminisce. She's really relieved that the twins immediately liked her and also that Alex is back or at least near. It makes her feel safer, to know that if something would happen now Alex is only a fifteen minutes drive away and not a three and a half hours flight. Although her due date is still seven weeks away, you just never know.

For Alex the next morning starts quite early - like almost every day with the twins but today they are extra excited. From getting them dressed, through breakfast and through out the whole car ride to the loft, they couldn't stop talking and asking about Jo.

They pick Jo up from the loft and Alex drives them to the zoo. The twins chat happily with Jo and sing along to the Taylor Swift songs she plays for them. Alex is quiet the whole car ride, smiling and thinking about how this right here is everything he ever wanted - a family with Jo.

At the zoo they start with the otter as requested by the twins. They walk the big round, looking at all the animals before then decide to take a break at the playground.

While the twins play and show Jo their skills at the monkeybars, Alex sits down on one of the benches from where he has a good few at them.

"Are they all yours?" An old man that sat down on the bench with Alex a few minutes ago asks all of a sudden.

"Yeah." Alex answers simply with a toothless smile, not really in the mood to explain his family constellation to a complete stranger.

"If an old man can give you an advise, try to keep them as happy as they are right now. If they are happy you are happy." He says before he stands up again and walks away.

"I see while I was gone you made a new friend your age." Jo jokes as she comes towards him and sits down on the bench.

"Shut up." He snorts, keeping his eyes on the twins.

"Never." She mocks, laughing at the sulky look on his face.

They sit in silence watching the twins play for a while, when out of nowhere Jo grabs Alex's leg and doubles over in pain.

"Jo what is it? Are you in pain? Jo talk to me!" Alex immediately asks concerned, grabbing her hand that's on his thigh, while his other hand strokes her back.

"I think I'm having contractions." Jo answers as the pain subsides and she sits up straight again.

"Since when?" He asks worried, not letting go of her hand while he's also not taking his eyes off of her.

"This morning?" She answers a little quieter, looking away to escape his look.

"What?"

"I'm having braxton hicks since probably a week. I saw Carina and she said everything was alright. But I don't think that those are braxton hicks, this one was way stronger and it hurt a lot more." She answers, trying to take deep breaths to calm herself down. Alex hand on hers was helping a little bit.

"Ok. Ahm we can do this. We're gonna get you to the hospital. Can you walk?" He asks before he gets up from the bench, holding his hands out to help her up.

"Yeah." Jo answers, taking both of his hands and letting him pull her up.

"Ok. Alexis! Eli! Come here! We need to go!" He screams in the twins direction, waving at them.

"Noo, Daddy." His daughter immediately complains from the sandpit.

"Yes. No complaints we need to take Jo to the hospital now!" He shouts again.

The twins know their dads serious voice so without further complaints they come running towards them and all of them make their way out of the zoo as fast as Jo can. Alex arm is around her to support her while walking and to stabalize her when another contraction hits.

"You're doing so good. Deep breaths." Alex whispers in her ear when they stop for another contraction break. His arms are around Jo, calmly stroking her back while her head is against his chest.

"It's way too early." She whispers a little out of breath from working through the contraction.

"I know. Let's get you to the hospital and see from there ok-" He says while her head still leans against his chest.

"Sir, Ma'am do you need help?" An older lady asks, coming up to them.

"No!" Alex immediately answers rather rudely which scares the lady off.

"Alex! They just wanted to be nice."

"They should mind their own god damn business." He answers "You good again?"

"Yeah." Jo nods and they keep walking, finally making their way out of the zoo.

"Ok you stay here with Jo and have an eye on her and I'm getting the car." Alex orders, already running off to get the car.

"Are the babies hurting you, Jojo?" Eli asks as he sits down beside Jo on the bench in front of the zoo.

"A little bit but it's fine. It's nothing you have to worry about, ok?" Jo assures him with a smile stroking his hair. "There's your dad. Come on."

They get up from the bench while Alex parks in front of them. He quickly gets out of the car to help Jo in the passenger seat and the twins buckling up in the backseats.

During their ride to the hospital the car is silent. The twins are completely quiet while Jo calmly works through her contractions and Alex tries to get them as fast but also as safe as possible to the hospital.

"Kiddos when we are at the hospital a nurse will take you to your mom, ok?" He explains to the twins, watching them nod in the rearview mirror.

"Ok daddy."

"Good." He takes his view from his kids and takes a quick look at Jo, "You ok?"

"Yeah." She smiles as he reaches for her hand to let her squeeze it during the next contraction.

"Ok unbuckle. I'm gonna get you in a second ok?" He tells Jo before he gets the twins inside where a nurse takes them to Izzie. He comes back with a wheelchair and helps Jo sitting down in it.

"Karev? You can't park here." Owen orders as he comes around the car, which is parked directly in front of the ER door.

"Jo's in labor!" Alex replies immediately, handing his key to Owen.

"Alright don't worry. Go get her admitted I'm gonna take care of your car."

"Thanks Owen." Alex screams as he pushes Jo into the ER.

"Stop!" Jo interrupts Alex before he can get them into the elevator, "Levi! Can you go to my place and get me my hospital bag it's right at the front door?" She stops the resident before he could walk past them.

"Are you in labor?" He asks totally surprised.

"Yes."

"Oh my god. Ahm- Of course. I still have my key."

"Thanks." Jo smiles, letting go of his arm so Alex can get them onto the elevator.

He pushes the number to the OB/Gyn floor and squads down in front of Jo, taking her hands in his.

"You're doing so good." He smiles up to her, his eyes softly looking at her.

"It's way too early." She whispers, trying to hold back tears while she keeps looking into his soft, brown eyes.

"It's not. You are 30 weeks which is far enough for them to survive. You kept them save as long as you could and once they're out I promise that I'll keep them save as long as they need, ok?" He assures her softly.

"I'm so glad you are here right now." She whispers.

"Me too."

The opening doors of the elevator interrupt their moment of intimacy and Alex gets her admitted and into a room.

"Jo, bambina I didn't expect you here so soon. Oh hello Doctor Karev." Carina DeLuca greets then as she walks into Jo's room.

"Hi Doctor DeLuca." Alex returns her greeting.

"Carina." She smiles at him, as she puts on a pair of gloves.

"Carina. Alex." He smiles back, taking Jo's clothes from her and puts them on the chair in corner.

"Ok let's see. Did your water already break, Jo?" Carina asks, getting the ultrasound machine ready.

"No- yes." Jo corrects her answer, as she feels the liquid running down her leg.

"Alright then there's no turning back now. Your bambino's want to come today. Can you lay down so I can do an ultrasound and check how far you are dialated?" She asks, getting everything ready.

Alex helps Jo on the bed and sits down on the chair beside her while Carina does the ultrasound and checks her.

"Your babies look great. They are both with their heads down which means we can try the vaginal birth you wanted." Carina smiles, taking off her gloves.

"Yes."

"Perfecto. I'll give you an IV with fluids and something to develop their little lungs and then we'll see. You are seven centimeters so you'll have a little more to go." Carina informs them before she gets the ultrasound machine to take it with her again.

"Thank you Carina." Alex smiles at the OB as he gets up to help Jo sit up again.

"Of course. I'll send a nurse for your IV and check on you in an hour."

"Thank you." Jo smiles.

Carina pads Alexs shoulder before she leaves the two alone again.

"If you need to get the twins or something you can go, I'm fine." Jo turns to Alex.

"Hell no I'm not leaving your side again. Izzie can take care of them for once." He replies, sitting down in his chair again.

"What do you mean?"

"Since the day I got there she plays the 'You missed five years of their life' card which means I have them 24/7 and she doesn't give a shit about them. Don't get me wrong I love my kids but Izzie couldn't care less. She's happy when they are at school or at a friends house and she doesn't have to deal with them all day. Why do you think she has this big ass farm with a hundred animals and a nanny? Just so they can run around outside and she has her quiet inside the house." He vents, laying his head back agains the headrest of the chair.

"So you have them all the time?"

"Yeah they basically live at my place and visit Izzie when she's free on the weekends."

Jo had heard enough, with Alex's help she gets up from the bed and sits down on one of the yoga balls. Closing her eyes and thinking about everything Alex just told her.

The next few hours go by quietly. Carina checks on Jo every hour and Alex tries to help Jo whenever she needs it.

"I'm thinking about moving here again." Alex voice breaks the silence from his new place on the bed, "Would that be ok with you?"

"What?" She asks again, opening her eyes to be sure he really said what he said.

"I wanna be closer to you and our babies. I wanna see them growing up, Jo. I already missed the first five years once and I don't wanna miss them again. I wanna be their dad - who is around, who is there for their their first words and their first steps. I wanna change dirty diapers and get puked on, I wanna take them to daddy and me classes, I wanna have the whole damn thing - if you'll let me." He finishes, waiting for her answer, "Jo?"

He gets up from the bed and walks to her. Seeing that her eyes are closed, he takes her hands.

"I need to push."

An hour later their beautiful babies are born.

Small but healthy. They need a little help with their breathing but other than that they are both perfectly fine.

Jo has Emery on her chest, Alex has Parker for a little skin to skin time. They are all four curled up on the hospital bed - happier than they ever believed they could be.

"They are so perfect Jo." Alex whispers, watching his son and daughter sleeping peacefully.

"They really are." She smiles towards Alex, "And yes."

"Yes what?" He asks, now looking at Jo.

"You can have the whole damn thing if you want but only if I'll get the whole damn thing with your twins too." She throws him a toothless smile.

"Are you saying-"

"I'm saying after all I still love you and I wanna do this with you. I'll probably need a little more time to fully trust you again but I want them to have their dad around." She nods, not interrupting their stare.

"Thank you." He really doesn't know what other to say.

They get interrupt by a knock and the door opening.

"I'm so sorry Jo that it took this long. I got pulled into a surgery with Bailey- Oh my god you had the babies." Levi stops in this movement.

"Thanks Levi." Jo smiles at him.

"Sure. They are perfect, Jo. Congratulations."

He smiles at them before he puts the bag down at the door and leaves the four alone again.

"How come you call him Levi?" Alex asks interested, watching her carefully.

"He was my roommate for a while right after you left." She answers, carefully stroking her daughters rosy cheek.

"Oh-"

"And Taryn too." She adds, taking her glance of her daughter now looking at him again.

"Who?" He asks, scrunching his nose as he returns her glance.

"Helm."

"Oh ok."

Another knock at the door interrupts them. This time it's one of the nurses.

"Are you up for some visitors?" She asks carefully before she opens the door completely as Jo nods. And the twins come into the room.

"Hey guys. Come on in." Alex assures them as they are a little careful. But within a minute they are on the bed with the rest.

"Eli, Alexis those are Emery and Parker." Alex announces with the biggest smile an his face. Right in this moment he was the happiest man alive.

"They are so tiny." His daughter marvels over her little siblings. Scooting closer to her dad to have a better look at her new baby brother.

"They are." Jo laughs at the twins reaction.

"But they are soo cute." Eli adds, scooting a little closer to Jo to get an even better look.

"Right? Don't you think that Parker looks just like your daddy?" Jo asks, pulling the blanket a little from Parker's face so the twins have a better few.

"A little." Alexis agrees with a nod.

"Can we hold them?" Eli asks excited, scooting even closer to Jo.

"Sure. Are you guys strong enough to get me this bag?" Jo asks them, ponying towards the bag Levi just brought.

"I'll get it."

"Thank you, Eli. Let's get them dressed then you can hold them ok?"

The twins nod before they help Jo dressing Emery and Parker. When the smallest Karevs are dressed Jo gets something else out of the bag and hands one to Alex.

"I think you were right about their heads. These are a little big now but just think about their heads if they would have been full term."

"Where do you have those from?" Alex looks at the little hat in his hand, before he looks at Jo.

"Your mom send them."

"You're still in touch with my mom?" He blankly.

"Yeah. And Amber and Matt. And I finally met Aaron too-"

"When?" He asks quite surprised.

"Well your mom invited me to Easter and Amber, Matt, the kids and Aaron where there too."

"We would have been there too but the twins were sick," Alex gasps, looking at Jo.

"Well now we're all gonna be there for Christmas." Jo smiles at him.

"We will." He smiles back.

#jolex #fanfic #fanfiction #jo x alex #alex #alex karev #jo karev #jo wilson #grey's #grey's fanfic #grey's anatomy #fan.4196 #tsjolexweek21

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bitchassbucky · 4 years ago

Text

.eps (explicit)

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment/beheading, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: i told y'all there's more <3 the special character treat is for @sarge-barnes-sir mwah!

this is queued shdhhsh gonna fix the links in the mornin’

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ABOVE, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THIS VERSION, GO AND CHECK OUT THE NON-EXPLICIT VERSION.

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

So you stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walks into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Starting with his left shoulder, you jab the knife between the bone and the soft flesh of his armpit, bringing the blade downwards. The sickening smell of blood swirled along with the image of muscle and fat being sliced made you gag.

Does the brain know that it’s seeing something it shouldn’t?

A rational part of you wanted to look away but the time is ticking, it’ll be much harder once rigor mortis sets in an hour.

You swing the knife down, cracking the bone once, and then again, and again, and again until the shoulder bone splinters and dislocates itself from the rest of Bucky’s torso. You had to switch knives and blades and a fucking bone saw to get through the rest of his limbs, leaving only his chest, head, and stomach untouched. After taping up and packing the arms and the legs, you work on putting the rest of Bucky into a nondescript suitcase.

The only problem being his head getting into the way of things.

Wanting to preserve even a shred of his dignity, you left his face untouched. Well, save from the crack in his skull.

You begrudgingly take a hefty chef’s knife and start cutting through the jugular vein, only stopping when the blade hits the spinal cord by his nape. The serrated blade of the bone saw sits on your blood-soaked gloves, scrape-scrape-scraping until it snaps into two.

The human head weighs around 10 pounds, kinda like a bowling ball.

An opaque black garbage bag containing Bucky’s head looks nothing suspicious as you put it inside a backpack—into a firepit you go.

His limbs—arms and legs alike—are going deep into the ocean, forgotten and to be used as fish food.

The limbless torso will be finding its home in a deep hole in the middle of a densely wooded area, far from the city.

But you’re not quite sure what to do with the mason jar of teeth though; the clinking noises of it remind you of the seashells you used to collect when you were a kid. Maybe you’ll stash it away with the torso.

Placing the bags into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale.

The drive to and from the places was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and went straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

#bitchassbucky writes #dark!bucky #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x fluff #dark!bucky x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x reader angst

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tiens-letters · 4 years ago

Text

upon autumns day, where you and I met. upon autumns day where I remember all of what we were before youve passed. and upon autumns day would I have ever so slowly let go of that pain of the past

zhongli (angst)

@albeidoof its somewhere here hehehe

Time was a luxury. A treasure each and everything holds.

Yet time is a curse as well. It covets, devours and leaves. which humanity neglects to cherish until the heart ceases its steady rythmn, only then do they regret of the wasted minutes, hours and seconds.

Beneath the flow of the rushing waves of things that have come and gone. Only on this particular day would he sit beneath a certain tree. The rough bark brushing up against his back as leaves fell effortlessly to the ground, as if it were ready to let go of from the branches that gave birth to it, only to return once again to the waiting soil.

It was a sunny afternoon, clear of any clouds and only clear unblemished blue, a good time to enjoy a warm cup of tea yet there was no energy in his bones to even move from where he was.

He felt exhausted. Desultory even.

Gone were the halcyon days of the past, and now the present time of the vivid reality he had to face.

Morax, rex lapis, the geo archon. Names that weighted more than one could carry, memories that shackled his soul that lived for a thousand years on end, all but a stain that could never be washed away.

The breeze slowly danced in, playing with his hair softly, kissing his skin and welcoming him. It carried a hint of aromatic essence only he would know belongs to.

You.

He tried to desperately recount the days after youve left the face of the earth and yet he could not remember or did his mind not allow him to as if he did, it would bring him terrible and heavy consequences for an answer, one sane mind would never want to know.

Sighing, he sat back and recalled back the memories of you instead. When you were alive, warm and breathing in his arms. He remembers the way your eyes would shine brightly whenever he would be around, or the small sound of delight you would make when you have finished another one of the many interesting blends of tea youve done over the course of a week of mixing different flowers and tea leaves. Youve made up quite the fortune with this as your little hobby bloomed into a fully run business known across teyvat.

"Zhongli." he froze, youve never called him by his name ever since youve started getting close, it made him feal uneasy as he turned to look at you who stood by the doorway, a neutral look on your face.

"y-yes?" nervousness clawed at him as he racked his brain to what he couldve done for you to call his name like that, he couldnt think of any.

"I came back from the market and I heard youve made quite the generous payment. Why is that, I wonder?" he's done it again, that spending habit of his

"The price was reasonable for such a fine ceramic tea set, I dont seem to find why it shouldnt reflect its quality?" you sighed as you pointed towards the glass cupboard behind him

"You bought the same exact set a week ago, Zhongli. Thats why." having to realize his mistake after looking over the two identical set that on the shelf, he turned to apologize but only to see you missing from the doorway. Footsteps can be heard from the floorboards above him. You were upset.

After minutes of pacing in the living room, he finally mustered the courage to climb the stairs and enter your shared bedroom. A figure already under the sheets as the warm glow of the lamp illuminated your delicate features. The mattress sunk as he sat beside you, fingers brushing away the stray hair that fell on your face.

"Im still mad at you Zhongli." his hand flinched slightly at the way you called him

"I apologize. I seem to not have learned my lesson again. I would gladly return the set tomorrow."

"Its no use, they dont accept refunds." you replied without sparing a glance at him

"What can I do for you to forgive me then?"

"Just go to sleep, Zhongli." groaning you reached for the switch to shut the lamp off but a gentle grip stopped you, forcing you to look at his gloomy expression. Perhaps you went too far this time.

"Please stop calling me in that way. I dont like it." he whispers, drawing your palm to his lips, leaving small kisses upon it. He sure does know his way around your heart, no wonder why you could not stay mad at him.

"Just be mindful next time." you cursed yourself for being weak to his charms.

"I will." yet something was missing "Then can you call me as you did before?"

"Zhongli?" you could see the slight grimace in his face as you teased him

"Stop it." he kissed you without warning "Call me as you did before."

However, his lips didnt stop as they began to travel. From your cheeks to you forehead and then to your neck. Oh dear, he wasnt having any of your teasing.

"A-li." you giggled beneath him as he finally stopped and met your gaze

"Thats better."

He still remembers the faint smile that graced your lips whenever he would wake up next to you tangled in the same sheets. The softness of your skin on his calloused touch. Your lips melting his and your voice lulling his raging mind to peace.

Then everything changed when you drew blood that spilled from those lips he's kissed for a thousand times, painting a morbid image on the sheets. Anger and despair boiled inside of him once he learned of the secret youve kept. Zhongli was a calm and collected man all of the time except when he was with you.

Having to witness him at such a point felt as if his own spear was being driven right through his very chest. He held you in an arms width away, the panic and pain in his eyes increasing over the minute as he begged for you to explain why youve decided to lie about the flowers that bloomed in your lungs, the sickness youve inherited from your deceased mother, whose fate you soon would follow. You didnt want him to find out, not in this way.

He couldve done anything if he knew from the start but alas, you wanted to be cruel, thinking it was for the best. Until your symptoms persisted, a heavy reminder of the remaining distance of the string you have to walk on to reach the end. The heavy feeling in your chest started to worsen as cherry sweet liquid poured from your mouth.

Soon the once pristine sheets were stained in haunting crimson shades as you heaved and he watched in agony. If only he had the ability of what he once had back then, if only he could plant the seeds of the flowers from yours to his then he would, if only he hadnt met you one autumn evening

" please dont look at me like that. " you told him, cold hands caressing his cheeks, catching the streams of salty warm beads that fell freely from your darling's amber eyes.

"Im sorry. Im so sorry..." the last thing you wanted to see was this man to cry. The last thing you wanted to see was to see him relive the past tragic memories you promised to bring him out of

" my disease has nothing to do with you. In the end it was mine alone to handle. oh, you are far from that so please dont you ever blame yourself."

"How can I not? If I havent fallen so deep then you would experienced so much more in life, you couldve been happier if you met someone else. Yet you chose me and I couldnt give you anything, I--. " the words knotted up as he began to shake, hands holding yours as knuckles turned to white

You slapped him.

With all the strength youve gathered in that fading body of yours. The sound cutting the grieving sounds that spilled from him, soul and flesh alike.

"A-li, look at me. Do I look like someone whose unsatisfied with what youve given me? Did my smile ever fade when Im with you? Did your affections ever lack? Answer me." his watery gaze met yours, a torrent of emotions swimming in them

"No. Never." a soft smile was carved unto your lips

"My dear, youve given me all Ive ever wanted in this life and I regret nothing of it."

To him, you were the flower that bloomed at the highest peak of the mountain he's never reached and yet its petals voluntarily detached and fell down, making him the happiest as one thing he's admired was untouchable and now, lay softly in the palm of his hands. To cherish and to protect.

But of course, all things are evanescent.

The familiar feeling of soreness that wasnt supposed to be there rose, ebbed and flowed through his throat. He knew it all too well, it was after he woke from his week long slumber did he feel it along with what his ancient beating heart felt.

"You collapsed." the worried words of the qixing echoed in his head. He frantically got up but as soon as his feet touched the floor did his legs give out underneath him, what use was he in this sorry state. He was helped up and sat back on the edge of the bed.

He wanted to ask many things yet was unable to.

Ningguang spoke as if you were still breathing and was visiting her minutes ago with another one of your tea blends. "Dont worry and rest first, go to jueyun karst after. They will be waiting."

To where the adepti resides, who as well, favored you, that one soul among thousands of others. One to which they shared a few good memories with was allowed to slumber there in peace.

Zhongli found himself waking up to the sun setting in the horizon. Just like how youve gone and resurfaced back into his memories. It was time.

He stood up from where he sat, gloved hands brushing any dirt that clung to him as he made his way to where you slept.

The red bean that was planted by himself still remained, a token of his love for you. Picking one bead and placing it inside the hollow dice he brought along, completing another one of the similar handicraft he's made every visit.

The sun finally died and the moon began its reign. The small wisps of light gathered around before him, forming a blurry image.

It was then he felt at ease, he saw you smiling at him with all there is in the world. Your light seemed to dim a little, hinting the blessing the adepti gave was slowly diminishing. Soon your visits would cease and you were sure that by the end of the power spent, he wouldve let go of the torment that plagued him.

"A-li. Have you been well?" he knew what you meant

"Im letting go slowly my dear. Perhaps in time, I would learn breathe easily once again."

Longest yet lol. Hope yall liked it ehehe

#genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin impact x reader #zhongli #zhonglixreader #genshin impact drabbles #zhongli angst #morax

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years ago

Text

Drowning Part 7

I felt like writing today, so you guys have two Drowning parts today. Enjoy, but beware that I did not edit this.

Masterlist

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: possessiveness, medical whump, odd medical practices, anesthesia, major descriptions of vomit, striped of clothing (not sexual), restraints, IVs, needles, knives, surgery (intense descriptions)

Hero blinked her eyes open, taking in the scene around her. She wasn't in the chair anymore, she could move her arms and legs and there wasn't the consistent beep of the monitors hooked up to Supervillain's skin.

Her hands must've have recovered some of their strength for she dug them into the object she was laid upon. It sunk down, but rebounded when she released pressure.

A bed.

Her head was also set gingerly upon a soft pillow- caressing to give her optimum comfort.

Light streamed in through a window, landing on her torso. Hero stiffened, noticing a shadow pass through her abdomen where it stopped.

"Look at me."

Hero hesitantly brought her head up to meet Villain's blue eyes. Memories of their encounter streamed through her head, blocking any other thought process.

"There we go now dear," Villain sat on the foot of the bed, tracing some form of shape into the ruffled covers with a smug smile on his tanned face.

"What do you want?" Hero asked, though she halfway knew the answer.

"You, of course, my dear," Villain said with such confidence that it almost sounded arrogant, cocky...

Possessive.

"Well, now you have me," Hero stated, her tongue feeling bitterly dry. "Where's Supervillain?"

"You still care about him? I thought the doctor- oh sorry, your friends- did a pretty good job of taking those feelings away," Villain tutted. "What breakfast? I made a smoothie bowl." Then he added with a twinkle to his gaze, "Your favorite."

"Hmm no thanks," Hero smiled, still glaring at Villain as if that would remove him from her sight. His whole fit body was a vulgar sight.

Villain sighed dramatically. "Can't I do anything right for you?" He asked, voice in a bitter snarl. "Nope," he answered himself. "No because Hero is too righteous to take anything from a villain..."

"Quit with the guilt tripping. It is not working," Hero informed him, rolling her eyes. "I don't want anything because I don't need anything."

"You can't walk."

"Can to," Hero retorted, crossing her arms, relieved that those at least had some strength in them.

"Try it," Villain dared, leaning against the bed with his palms dug deeply into a mattress, a twinkle in his eyes. Hero vaguely noticed the decrease in swelling, the near fading scar on his right temple- a reminder of how long she had been caged up.

Hero swung her legs to the other side, dangling them down before putting all her weight on the shaky muscles. Gripping the sides of the bed, she pushed herself off and...

She fell, only to be caught by strong arms.

"There now. Proved you wrong dearie, now how does breakfast sound?" Villain asked, smiling down at his little captive.

Hero snarled, tucking her chin to her chest, before nodding subtley. Villain grinned even wider and carried her to the kitchen where she was sat down at the table.

"What are they doing to Supervillain when I'm not there?" Hero asked, looking down at her hands.

"Probably healing him up," Villain replied as he dished flax meal and chia seeds on the berry smoothie bowl. "And then do who knows what."

"We should rescue him," Hero said, nearly a whisper. Villain cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?" He asked nonchalantly. Hero nodded and took the cold metal spoon and began to eat the more than delicious breakfast.

"That is, hmm, not happening," Villain scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Why not?" Hero asked, pausing her eating.

Villain didn't answer. He just left and began to wash the dishes.

"Hello?" Hero called, but received no answer in return.

Within the next fews days of movement, Hero built up enough strength in her legs to carry herself across the house without as much as breaking a sweat.

"I want to watch a movie tonight," Villain said once when Hero was helping clean up after dinner.

"What movie?" Hero asked, never giving him an joy-filled statement once in her stay.

"Thor," Villain replied. "The first one."

"Why don't we watch Iron Man? The first one. Or whichever one Tony gets drunk at the party and fights Rhodey."

"Because Stark sucks, Loki is the best."

"Uh, nooo. Loki is the definition of bad acting," Hero rolled her eyes as she set a dirty plate into the sink.

"Stark is the definition of a crappy character," Villain retorted as he handwashed a knife. Hero studied him, watching as the soapy water drenched his long sleeve shirt. His soft blonde hair trickled into his icy blue eyes as his pink lips were pulled tight into a concentrated purse.

"Or maybe we watch the Kissing Booth," Hero murmured and joined Villain to rinse off the plates and utensils to put them in the dishwasher.

Villain smiled, but it wasn't his usual broad, creepy smile that made shivers run down Hero's spine. It was a smile one, a contented embarrassed one. Tied with his blushing cheeks, Hero would've even called it cute.

That was if he never betrayed her, or never kidnapped her.

If he never kept her from rescuing Supervillain in that wretched place.

Yes, Hero noticed that doors that could only be unlocked by Villain's fingerprints. The sealed windows that refused to budge.

And the fact that the one story trailer house was different from Villain's previous home that consisted of three stories with a gym room and a gaming room.

He was moved, or moved himself, specifically to keep Hero locked in.

Not even his charisma could change that foreboding fact.

《~~》

"Welcome Supervillain to the lab."

Supervillain blinked slowly as LED lights brushed past tender eyelids. The rolling floor memorized him slightly as he watched the equally placed lines fall under the gurney's wheels.

The gurney took a turn, causing a nauseating lurch of vertigo to pass through his stomach. He held back the urge to gag and instead burped repeatedly until he tasted the beginnings of vomit.

Tossing his head over to the side, Supervillain opened his mouth a threw up. He wanted to lurch, but the restraints around all points of movement other than his head and neck forbid that. He was left to allow the puke to streaming down his front, landing on his bound hands.

"Look at you!" One of the heroes chastised, slapping Supervillain hard across the face with a backhanded slap. The world around Supervillain whirled and he nearly threw up again if it wasn't for the gag- no, metal bit- shoved into his mouth, hitting his teeth and sending yet another gag reflex through his esophagus. But this time, he was forced to keep the vomit within and threw up inside his own mouth. Groaning and eyes rolling up slightly, Supervillain laid his head back against the thin pillow that protected his head against any form of head injury. Eyes fluttering closed, he tried to draw more sleep in.

Only for a sudden release in pressure to wake him up from his momentary slumber. The bit was removed and his body was held under a faucet for his mouth to be washed out. Someone came behind him and dumped a bunch of listerine into his unsuspecting mouth. Sputtering from the numbing taste of strong original mouthwash, Supervillain allowed his head to dangle- black hair wetted by the flowing hot water.

Next, his soiled clothing was removed- even his pants- and replaced by a faded pair of shorts. His torso was left bare.

The next movement was of him being laid across a metal table, his limbs once again being held in place by the four-point restraint system- padded metal contraptions barricading any form of movement or escape from the inevitable pain that was to come.

"Patient is restrained, begin procedure."

Nurses bustled around, two on each side of him, one by his feet, and one by his head.

"We are going to force the water out of his lungs," another voice, one that was not owned by any of the nurses surrounding him. Out of the corner of Supervillain's eye, he saw the doctor. The doctor, pacing around not even once looking at the stretched out patient before him.

"This will be painful, but we need the patient entirely conscious for this to work," the doctor instructed. "We are going to insert a tube directly into his lungs- on both sides-, piercing them, and using a sort of plunger instrument to force the liquid through his trachea. To ensure he does not choke, Medic and Nurse, once the plungers are released, you ladies need to unrestrain him and roll him over to his side. We go slow and the second all the fluid is expelled, we need to anesthetize the patient to due emergency surgery to stitch the lungs back together. Estimated recovery time is a couple days with the rapid-healing drug we will administer. Any questions? Prep the IV, Nurse2 be ready there."

The hairs on Supervillain's arms stood up and goosebumps picked his skin. The order from the doctor made him struggle against the restraints, pulling aggressively against them.

"Oh please don't do this," he blubbered, tears spilling from his ducts. "Don't do this. I can't do this. Oh please, please, please, please." He started sobbing, terrifed, as a nurse stuck his elbow with a needle.

"Prepare insertion."

Two sharp metal pieces found their home right below Supervillain's rib.

"Ultrasound."

A cool gel was squirted between the two sharp pricks before a rectangular object was placed upon it.

"Ultrasound ready."

"Begin incision."

A buzzing sound, right before a knife cut in his skin. No, not once, that was a lie, but two.

Two sharp, agonizing knives.

Supervillain screamed, wailed pitifully, as his body thrashed around.

"Stop, stop!" He begged, picking his head up only for hands to shove it back down. His fingers stretched out, clenched, anything for the torture to end.

"Left, move yours towards the ribcage a bit so you don't cut the liver."

Supervillain tensed, clouded thoughts coming to the surface. Cut my liver..., he thought before attempting to evade the knives cutting into his body.

"Don't, don't, don't!" he screeched. "Please."

"Prepare to pierce the lung."

Supervillain shoved himself downwards, but it did nothing with the unrelenting cuffs keeping him close to rock still.

The pure agony that he felt when the knife pierced the lung, then the way the knife evolved into a plunger, was indescribable.

Supervillain screamed. Screamed so loud that even the practiced nurses flinched. The doctor though stayed still, watching the procedure with his authoritive gaze.

"Release the patient."

His wrists and ankles were quickly let free by the wave of a card. He tried to curl in on himself to avoid the operation, but professional hands kept him stretched out.

"Start pumping at Level One to begin."

The horrendous feeling of the machine inside of Supervillain changed into a coveted one when the same machine started to pump. A plunger hit the liquid, sending it up and into his trachea.

Supervillain coughed, rolled over to his side. At first, he imagined that the left plunger would quit working as if it was kinked, but found out that it must've been electrically powered.

Mucus, blood, and water shot up through his trachea. Pain forgotten, Supervillain gagged and coughed the abhorrent liquid out until blackness began to crawl at the edges of his vision. It clouded his thoughts, but he body still involuntarily gagged, coughed, and spat all of his lung's content out.

"Stay awake," a rough voice sounded as his body was shook. Supervillain complied and returned to his coughing fit, agony once again returning to his veins and muscles.

Then, as soon as it started, the pressure ceased as soon as it started.

"Administer the anesthesia promptly."

A dial clicked, though Supervillain hardly registered it. Even before the sedative started pumping through his veins, he was losing consciousness.

A mask was placed above his mouth just as the world descended into blackness.

#supervillain whumpee #hero whumpee #villain whumper #villain caretaker #?#medical whump #pneumonia #anesthesia #drugged whumpee #heros and villains #not me making two characters argue over my two favorite characters from the marvel series #lab whump #surgery

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sonnet009 · 4 years ago

Text

Wilder: Jamal’s Story (Route Summary)

PROLOGUE:

MC decides to flee Ziya alone. A rotund wine merchant named Barlow offers her a timely rescue, smuggling her out in one of the wagons in his caravan. On their journey across the Shining Sands MC learns that Barlow is a wealthy and ambitious man who can afford not only a team of djinn guards but even a pleasure slave. It is this pleasure slave who warns MC that Barlow intends to ransom her back to Ziya and urges her to leave the caravan. Though afraid, MC chooses to stay rather than risk facing the desert alone. Jamal is not pleased at the prospect of continuing to share his wagon.

CHAPTER I:

The caravan stops so Barlow can take his dinner out under the stars. MC joins him and Jamal while the djinn guards keep watch. Barlow is very blatant about his sexual relationship with Jamal and Jamal for his part fawns over Barlow in return. MC has never seen anything like it. Left alone for a few moments, Jamal teases MC that she can't keep her eyes off him.

During the next day's travel the caravan is attacked by a raiding group of djinn come down from the Western Hills. The djinn guards rally around Barlow to protect him but change their minds when the leader of the wild djinn offers them a free life with the tribe. Barlow and MC are pushed onto their knees, faces in the sand, and Barlow is beheaded. MC hears Jamal's horrified gasp.

MC does not share Barlow's fate. She is restrained and brought back to the Hills with the tribe and their new recruits. She is not sure why, but feels in her heart that this is no salvation.

CHAPTER II:

While the new djinn are welcomed into the tribe, Jamal sneaks over to where MC has been tied. He probes her about her rich, important family and muses that she must have connections in Umar. Though he knew she was fleeing Ziya he doesn't seem to have the full story – he certainly doesn't know that MC is an accused murderer and therefore utterly without connections or power.

After a ritual in which each new djinn must eat a piece of a raw deer heart, the disgusted Jamal has had enough. In the dead of night he frees MC in return for her promise to take him to Umar. They catch their breath by the river but are soon discovered by one of the ex-guards whose disdain for Jamal the pleasure slave is obvious. He calls out for the rest of the tribe and MC and Jamal run.

The tribe pursues them far, all the way to the base of the mountainous Knives. With little other choice, MC and Jamal head up – away from the Hills but only into more danger.

CHAPTER III:

MC offers condolences for Barlow's death. Jamal is dismissive and MC realises that though he appeared to adore the man it was all just an act. He doesn't miss Barlow, just the security that being his personal slave offered. Jamal insists that MC is his master now, though MC insists that she is not. Jamal reveals his intention for MC to sell him to a famous pleasure house in Umar, and for that she has to be his master.

Jamal whines and gripes the whole way up the mountain path. In contrast, MC finds a fortitude within herself she never knew she had. In the night he attempts to seduce her though she rebuffs him, saying, “I told you, you don't need to do that.” The next day they stumble into the path of a mountain lion. Jamal hides behind MC while she scares it away.

They come across a hot spring and MC spends most of her time trying to avoid looking at Jamal's naked and shameless displays designed to get her attention. But when he asks her to wash his hair it is with genuine, vulnerable wanting so she does so. It is the most intimate moment MC has ever shared with anyone.

CHAPTER IV:

In the sprawling farmland on the other side of the mountains, MC and Jamal are caught in a sudden downpour. Sheltering in an old barn, they share a sweet, quiet moment that turns into an argument when she once again refuses to claim him as her slave. MC is secretly very drawn to Jamal, but fears that his affection is all a lie and that she will be taking advantage of their positions if she lets herself believe him. He accuses her of looking down on him and gives her the cold shoulder. This means that MC has missed another chance to confess that she is not the connected noblewoman he believes her to be.

As they continue on their journey in strained silence, a group of bandits appear and block their path. MC is afraid but not as afraid as Jamal. However, when one of the men grabs MC and makes lewd comments, Jamal exclaims, “Hey!” surprising no one more than himself. As the scene turns to violence, MC and Jamal learn that even a light slap from a djinn whose claws have been growing for weeks can be devastating to a human body. MC thanks Jamal for his protection while he desperately tries to get the blood out from under his nails.

They finally make it to Dijarah, a port town where MC intends to board a ship sailing for Umar. The one problem? She has no money.

CHAPTER V:

To earn money in Dijarah, an innkeeper agrees to hire MC and Jamal to work in the kitchen. Jamal is aghast at the prospect, especially when he meets the old battleaxe of a cook on whom his charms utterly fail. Jamal is terrible at every practical task put before him and, after only a few days, is utterly miserable.

MC is gentle and encouraging with Jamal, and he eventually is able to put aside his pride (a little) and improve. He finds it amusing to think of a world in which he worked here instead of as a pleasure slave. But when MC takes this question seriously he balks and insists that he would never want an unglamorous life like this. “I know what I am,” he says quietly.

As the two grow closer, Jamal tells MC the story of his life. Bred illegally and born sick, Jamal was passed under the table from master to master, role to role, failing at all of them. Finally dumped in a pleasure house as an insult, Jamal actually flourished there – able to put his natural charm and artistic talents to use. That is why he cannot even consider another life. MC asks if he would choose the same life if he were a free man. Jamal goes quiet and does not answer.

CHAPTER VI:

One day MC walks into the kitchen to see Jamal scrubbing pots with all his might then absent mindedly tidying up some things – not as part of his assigned task but just because it needs doing. MC announces herself and they compare their palm callouses and growing arm muscle. One night Jamal is asked to perform for the inn's patrons by playing the lute – he is giddy with excitement to be the centre of attention once more, though the audience is not his usual clientele. He plays and sings beautifully and MC sets off a standing ovation that nearly makes him cry.

An evening shift turns tense when a group of drunkards start causing trouble. Jamal shocks everyone by taking charge of the situation and intimidating them into leaving. Though, as soon as they are gone, his legs turn to liquid and he slides to the floor declaring how terrifying the whole thing was. The innkeeper draws him a hot bath in thanks. Jamal asks MC to wash his hair again. Though she won't join him in the tub – despite his persistence – Jamal does wash and style her hair for her in return.

Finally MC and Jamal have enough money to book passage on a ship. As they are boarding MC catches sight of Hamza in the crowded street. She drags Jamal away to avoid getting caught, though now she is less afraid of being arrested than she is being exposed to Jamal who still doesn't know that she is a fugitive. She resolves that she must tell him soon, even if it ruins the... friendship... that seems to finally be blossoming between them.

CHAPTER VII:

Hamza has also boarded so MC spends most of her time hiding in her cabin – and Jamal has no objections to passing the days relaxing on a soft bed. She tries many times to broach his misconceptions about her but is consistently thwarted by interruptions and her own cowardice. A rich passenger tries to buy some time with Jamal from MC but she staunchly refuses. Jamal is delighted by this, then confused as to why he is so delighted.

One night they lie side by side on the bed and MC asks Jamal why he is so set on being sold to this particular brothel. He explains that, not only is it a famous venue, but if they purchase him then by Umar’s laws he will no longer be a slave but an indentured servant. MC says that isn’t good enough – she wants to free him. Jamal is dismissive of such an impossible idea but MC insists that Lord Yasir, the most powerful man in Umar, could surely help them. Jamal asks why MC would be seeking Yasir’s help for herself and she prepares to finally tell him the truth when– the ship’s bell rings. They have arrived.

Hamza catches sight of MC at just the wrong moment. She drags Jamal off the ship, pushing past everyone else, and manages to lose Hamza in the moonlit streets of Umar. They come to Minerva’s Pleasure House. Inside is a whole new world to MC but Jamal is in his element. Then he goes quiet. “I don’t want you to leave me here. I want to stay with you. I want to be–”. The madam interrupts, realises exactly who MC is, and throws her and Jamal out of the place, calling MC a murderer and threatening to tell the authorities if either of them ever return.

CHAPTER VIII:

MC hurries to Yasir’s estate, a confused and suspicious Jamal with her, and fortunately finds the merchant-turned-lord to be very welcoming and willing to provide sanctuary. Jamal confronts MC and she finally admits everything. Jamal is devastated. He accuses her of using him, of dragging him through danger and hardship just for the amusement of it, of being just as rotten as Barlow and the others. “You think so little of me. You think nothing of me.” MC cannot explain her actions without admitting – to Jamal and to herself – that she has been falling in love with him. Jamal is stunned. Then he turns and leaves the manor.

He returns in the morning and apologises for leaving, kissing MC on the cheek and saying that he understands she was only doing what she had to do – she’s a survivor. He turns down MC’s attempts to make him a free man and instead asks Yasir to use his influence to place him in the pleasure house. “No more pretending,” he says in response to MC’s protestations. “I know what I am.” Yasir arranges for the madam to accept him as an indentured servant.

MC and Jamal say a fraught goodbye in the gaudy room that is to be Jamal’s from now on. Jamal kisses MC and, at his soft declaration that he has fallen in love with her too, she gives in to her passion and they come together in a tangle of flesh and emotion. After, as they lie in bed, the door is kicked down and in bursts Hamza to arrest MC. Jamal is remarkably unsurprised. “I should’ve known it was all a lie from the beginning. All those things you said about my potential. Trying to make me doubt who I am; what I am. But you know something, mistress?” There is nothing but cold resolve in his eyes. “I’m a survivor too.”

CHAPTER IX:

MC is transported back to Ziya to face her execution. She spends the journey thinking on Jamal. That night he left the manor he must have gone to Hamza to arrange the ambush. Anger and betrayal come in cycles but always give way to regret and the knowledge that she brought this on herself. MC’s execution is a public event on the steps of the shah’s palace, but the proceedings are suddenly interrupted by Jamal and Yasir’s right-hand-djinn Royo. Since MC was under Umar’s protection, Ziya’s actions in abducting her have been taken as a hostile act. Hamza takes justice into his own hands and attacks MC with his sword. Jamal tries to protect her but she pushes him away, taking the blade in her chest.

MC wakes in her old bedroom in her Aunt and Uncle’s villa. The blade missed her heart and, though badly wounded, she will live. Jamal is by her bedside. He asserts that he hasn’t forgiven her, and he’ll never forgive himself, but he wants her to know that Hamza was the one who caught and pressured him into the betrayal that night, and Jamal convinced himself that she deserved it. But he regretted it immediately and went running to Yasir for help. He confesses that he wasn’t lying when he said he’d fallen in love with her. He thinks that’s their shared fatal flaw – they’re dreamers.

When MC next wakes quite a lot of time has passed. This time it is Royo who comes to see her, informing her that the political pressure from Umar – and Yasir specifically – has worked. To avoid trouble between the two cities, Ziya has agreed not to execute MC but to exile her. Royo must return to Umar now but says that MC is welcome there once she is well enough to travel. MC asks after Jamal but Royo shakes her head. He is waiting by the carriage to leave and will not return to the villa. MC asks Royo to take something with her when she goes – a letter addressed to the madam of Minerva’s.

BITTER END:

When Jamal sees her in Minerva’s he covers his shock by asking if she is there to taste him once again. They go to his room and MC interrupts his cold, emotionless seduction with the last of the money he needs to truly be free. He insists at first to not want it then finally cracks open, tears spilling down his cheeks. “But where would I go?” MC says he can go with her if he likes. He doesn’t answer, conflicted, still so afraid to trust. MC backs off and says he can go wherever he wants to go; anywhere in the world. She leaves the pleasure house but lingers outside, hoping that when Jamal comes out a free man he will choose to go with her after all.

SWEET END:

Two years have passed since the almost-execution and MC has been travelling ever since, working tirelessly in whatever jobs she can in order to save money and send it periodically to Minerva’s to bit by bit pay off Jamal’s “debt” to the pleasure house. However when she journeys to Umar with the final payment she is informed by the madam that Jamal has already been freed from his contract and left months ago. MC turns to Royo for help, who informs her that Jamal had also been working hard to pay for his freedom – taking on extra chores and responsibilities at Minerva's – and that last she knew he was heading for Dijarah.

MC sets sail immediately. When she disembarks at Dijarah’s docks she is stunned to find Jamal waiting, Royo having sent word ahead. There is a tense moment of uncertainty then Jamal launches himself at her, catching her in a tight embrace. He thanks her for contributing so much to buying his freedom and says he’s never worked so hard for anything before – for the chance to live a free life. To stand before MC as an equal. To say he loves her and for it to be the simple truth. Hand-in-hand, Jamal escorts MC to his new place of employment – the inn in which they spent so much time before. He winks. “I hear they're hiring. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

#Wilder #Jamal #Route Summary

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spooderboyandtincan · 4 years ago

Text

Hibernation

“Mr. Parker!”

Peter’s eyes flew open, blinking rapidly. “Whassup?”

The teacher glared down at him, her hawk-like features sharpening. “Perhaps I can direct your attention elsewhere, Mr. Parker, since your desk seems to be so fascinating.” She slipped a blank sheet of paper on his desk. “Pop quiz, everyone!”

Peter hummed drearily as the room filled with groans, glares heating the back of his head. He shivered miserably and picked up his pencil, wishing he had worn a sweatshirt instead of a thin t-shirt with a science pun on it.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine curling up in his bed, warm and cozy. Nice and warm, lots of blankets, hot chocolate, sleep….

Mmmm, sleep.

“Peter!” Ned hissed, poking his side. “Pete!”

“Hmmm?”

“Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, glancing vaguely at his friend’s face. “Yeah, of course.”

Ned squinted. “Yeah, right. You need the nurse.”

“No, I don’t.” Peter scribbled a circle on the paper. “I’m one-hundred percent fiiiiiiiiine.”

“Dude, everything you just said convinced me you’re not fine,” Ned said. “Peter, really. Did you sleep at all last night?”

Peter thought back. Actually, he’d slept incredibly well, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow. “I did. Really good, actually.”

“Did anything happen during your… internship?” his best friend whispered confidentially.

The boy shrugged. “Haven’t gone out for a few days. So, no.”

Ned frowned at Peter, who rubbed his eyes vigorously, his hands shaking slightly as he fiddled with his pencil.

What was going on with his friend?

~~~~~

Happy glanced up to look for the kid, scanning the crowd. He spotted Peter, and his friend, Ted, or Fred, or whatever.

The kids stopped at the car, Ned squinting worriedly at Peter, saying something Happy couldn’t hear. The back door opened and Peter slid in, waving quietly to his best friend. Ned smiled and shut the door.

With a heavy sigh, he slumped against the seat and closed his eyes. Sleep.

“Kid?” Happy said, looking in the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

“Mmhmmm.”

“You don’t look so good.”

“‘M just tired.”

Happy raised his eyebrows. “Sure, kid.”

He drove to the penthouse as fast he could.

~~~~~

Peter staggered to the elevator, ignoring Happy’s offers to help. “No, really, I’m just tired. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Okay, kid, I got it. Now go to sleep, or I’ll call Tony and May.”

He barely made it to his room without collapsing, falling onto his bed and kicking off his shoes, snuggling under the blankets and curling into a ball.

Within seconds he was deeply asleep.

~~~~~

Tony fiddled with a button on the cuff of his fancy gray suit as Pepper spoke. It felt like the meeting had gone on for days, but in reality it had only been a few hours. Though those few hours hadn’t been exactly short. He was surrounded by old geezers who probably didn’t have their own teeth.

Plus, it was Friday, which meant Peter was already in the penthouse.

He pulled out his phone quietly and did a quick check on Peter’s vitals. His heartbeat was slow, his temperature cool, and was deeply asleep. Tony nodded, satisfied his kid was okay.

“-and that concludes this meeting, ladies and gentlemen,” Pepper finished, neatly stacking the papers in her hands. “Thank you for your attention.”

“Glad that’s over with,” Tony muttered as they dispersed, getting up from his seat and pulling off his jacket. “Thought I was about to die from old age.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “More likely to die of cold, Tony. It’s freezing in here.”

~~~~~

The inventor walked through the penthouse, rubbing his eyes. First he checked the couch for Peter (empty) then continued to Peter’s own room.

He knocked gently on his door before pushing it open and moving to sit on Peter’s mattress, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead and smoothing back his soft curls.

Tony frowned suddenly and felt his kid’s forehead. “Jesus, you’re cold, baby. FRI? What’s his temp?”

“Peter’s temperature is at 79 ℉,” she answered.

“What?!” Tony bolted to his feet. “Read his vitals.”

“Heart rate sixty beats per minute, blood pressure 70/80 mm Hg.”

Without thinking, Tony scooped a limp Peter into his arms and sprinted to the medbay.

~~~~~

“He’s hibernating?!”

Helen nodded. “It’s his spider side. It was cold enough today to send him into hibernation.”

Tony paled even more as he took this information in. “How do we fix him?!”

“Tony, calm down, take a breath. He’s gonna be okay.”

He took a shaky breath, massaging Peter’s smaller hand between his. “How do we wake him up?”

She smiled. “As far as I can tell, it’s best to warm him up slowly. That includes warm blankets, and lots of cuddles.”

~~~~~

Tony wrapped his arms around Peter, rubbing his back, the boy’s head resting on his chest. He kissed Peter’s temple and smoothed back his curls before starting to order Happy and Rhodey around.

“Get his Iron Man blanket, it’s his favorite, he needs it,” he ordered. “Get his nightlight too, he can’t sleep without it, and his teddy bear. Oh, his Spider-Man hat, get that. And find a weighted blanket, he has one in his room, it’s dark blue.”

Tony ignored the eye roll Rhodey gave him, and kissed Peter’s forehead gently.

“You’re gonna be okay, tesoro, I got you, Dad’s got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

God, he wished Peter could wake up right then.

~~~~~

Tony sat up in Peter’s hospital bed, reading aloud from some sort of science-y book about spiders he thought his kid might enjoy.

“‘Spiders have blue blood. In humans, oxygen is bound to hemoglobin, a molecule that contains iron and gives blood its red color. In spiders, oxygen is bound to hemocyanin, a molecule that contains copper rather than iron,’” he read. “How about that, kiddo? Pretty cool.”

Peter stayed silent. Tony tucked the many blankets more firmly around him, picking up his hand and running a thumb across his knuckles.

“‘During the 16th and 17th centuries, it was believed that a bite from a species of wolf spider would be deadly if the victim did not dance to a specific type of frenzied music. It inspired a dance called the tarantella.’” Tony snorted. “Now that I would like to see.”

Without one of Peter’s witty comments and high-pitched giggles, it was a lot less funny.

He sighed at the boy’s pale, lax face. “I miss you baby.” He dropped his forehead to Peter’s. “I miss you so much.”

~~~~~

Peter gradually became aware of two things; the soft snoring in his ear and a loose hand in his curls.

He was warm and cozy in a pair of strong arms.

Peter hummed quietly and buried his face in Tony’s chest.

He let himself slip back to the comfortable darkness.

He was safe with Tony.

~~~~~

“You know what I mean!” May insisted as Tony stared at her blankly. “The teddy bears with lavender and rice in them, you put them in the microwave and they get nice and warm. Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard of those.”

“So what, you eat them?”

“No!” she scoffed, “They’re all warm and fuzzy. I got one for Pete when he was little, but it had a hole and we had to throw it out. Maybe it’ll help?”

The inventor smiled.

The inventor smiled. “Maybe.” He reached for his Starkpad on the bedside table. “Would he like an Iron Man one or Spider-Man one? Nevermind, I’ll just get both. FRI, speed order.”

Barely fifteen minutes later Happy entered the room, holding a box. “Package.”

May blinked and stood to take it. “That was fast. These are super cute, Tony. I’ll go warm them up.”

“How’s he doing?”

Tony sighed, combing his fingers through Peter’s curls. “His temp is a lot warmer. He’s getting better.” He smiled and kissed Peter’s forehead. “Aren’t you, bubba?”

“Good.” Though people thought he didn’t care about Peter, Happy privately thought of himself like his uncle. “That’s good.”

May walked in a second later. “Nice and toasty.” She slipped the hot bag underneath the blankets, under Peter’s socked feet, and placed the other one by his side. “There we go.”

There was a whining sound from Peter as his fingers twitched. Tony rushed to move the bag closer to his skin. “There you go, baby, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

May laughed when Peter’s fingers closed around the warmth. “Aaw.”

~~~~~

May helped Tony tuck Peter in, which was hard to do when lying in the same bed.

She kissed Peter’s forehead, gazing fondly at him. “Goodnight, honey. Larb ya.” May smiled. “Night, Tony.” She walked to the couch, lying down and grabbing a blanket.

“Night.” He shifted and circled his arms around his kid. “Goodnight, Petey. I love you so much.” He kissed his cheek.

~~~~~

Tony woke up to whimpering. His eyes snapped open.

Peter was awake.

“Peter?” he gasped, bolting up in bed. “Oh, no, shh, don’t cry, shh. What’s wrong, buddy?” He cupped the boy’s face anxiously. “Are you feeling okay? Are you hurting- does anything hurt?” He pressed the call button frantically. “What’s wrong?”

“‘M cold,” he whined, reaching for Tony. Tony gathered him in his arms, rubbing his back to give him some sense of warmth.

“Oh baby, I got you, shh. You’re okay, we’re gonna get you warmed up. You’re okay, shh.”

He looked worriedly at the layers of heated blankets and hot packs. “It’s okay baby.”

“Peter? Tony?” May mumbled from the couch, slowly sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“May- May, Peter’s awake! He’s cold, we-we need to heat these up.” He grabbed the Iron Man neck warmer. “Here.”

May jumped to her feet and took it. “I’ll be right back.”

Cho rushed in a second later. “What’s wrong?”

“He woke up, he’s cold. Should he be cold? Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly.

“No, I think it’s just the shock. He came out of hibernation early, maybe his body isn’t quite ready.”

“Hey Peter,” she said to the boy. “This is gonna warm you up, but it’s going to make you sleepy, okay?”

She took a syringe and pushed a clear liquid into his IV. “There.”

“Hmm,” Peter mumbled, which was the equivalent of “thanks.”

“Do you feel better, tesoro?” Tony whispered, still looking worried as ever.

Peter paused, his eyes hazily focusing on Tony’s face. “Hun’ry.”

“You’re hungry?” he cooed. “Oh baby, of course, don’t worry.” Glancing towards Helen and May, he said “Someone needs to make some soup.”

May volunteered, and about ten minutes later she hurried in with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Okay, bubba,” Tony murmured. “We got you some soup, okay? Can you open your mouth, sweetheart?”

Peter’s mouth opened. Tony blew carefully on the spoon before scooping it into Peter’s mouth. Peter swallowed it, then glanced beggingly at the bowl.

The inventor quickly gave Peter another spoonful. “Is it too hot, baby?”

He shook his head slightly.

After nearly half the bowl was gone, Peter’s eyes began to droop.

“‘M tired.”

Tony immediately set the bowl on the table and gently helped his kid lie down. “There you go, sweetheart. There you go.” He kissed Peter’s forehead.

Peter snuffled quietly, curling his arms around the neck warmer and grabbing Tony’s arm like a koala. Tony lay back down and pulled the covers up to Peter’s chest.

“Do you feel better?” May asked, combing back his curls. Peter hummed an affirmative, eyes closed.

The inventor wrapped his free arm around Peter, burying his face in his soft curls and kissing them gently. He smiled in relief, drinking up the sight of his now sleeping kid.

“Goodnight, honey,” May whispered. She kissed his temple, then stood and flopped wearily on the couch. “Try to get some sleep, Tony, okay?”

Tony shrugged. “I’ll try.”

It didn’t matter to him. Peter mattered.

He was surprised that when his head hit the pillow, his eyelids began to feel heavy. The rush of relief and love for his kid, his baby, had taken a toll on him.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, bambino. More than you’ll ever know.”

Peter was okay.

~~~~~

/DO NOT TAG OR REBLOG AS ST*RKER/

~~~~~

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hongism · 5 years ago

Text

mists of celeste ➻ three

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 4.1k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒

mists of celeste act one ➻ part three

"First order of business," Yunho starts as he gets up from his stool. "I need to run some basic scans on your arm to gauge the injury and infection. Then a full-body scan to see how far the infection has spread. How long have you had the injury?" He moves around the bed you're placed on with quick steps, a tablet in hand.

"Th-Three days," you stammer, watching him work. Spectre cuts in, and you almost forgot he was standing nearby with a brown belt in hand.

"Four days. Today is the fifth," he says. Yunho glances over at him, eyes wide in question.

"How do you know…?"

"She was on the bridge of the HMS Revenge. Considering that Hongjoong destroyed the ship four days ago, this is the only logical explanation." Spectre motions towards you with his head. "I noticed her on the second day, to be honest. I only wanted to see how long it would take for her to reveal herself. Until I saw the blood trails, at least."

"Ah yes, that makes sense." Yunho nods before bringing his tablet to hover over your arm. Blue light emits from the bottom of it, a faint stream of light that cascades over your bare skin.

Now that your military uniform has been stripped, you can see the injury better, although you don't particularly want to see it. It's bruised black and blue, blood all around the hole that is shiny and fresh. It oozes a bit still, although the liquid is not all red, and you're certain that it's the infection mixed in as well. Not something you would like to look at but the blue rays coming from Yunho's tablet are quite fascinating to watch as they dance over your arm. You don't feel the touch of the light; you can only see it as it moves as though on its own accord. Sure you've had injuries time and time again, but the treatment methods for them were never like this. No fancy tablets with strange lights. Although the military has always had a more traditional approach to everything they do.

"Hm. The bullet is in there pretty deep, huh? It… uh, it's in an awkward spot. The bullet tore right through your brachialis muscle along with a bit of your bicep. Moreso, the nerves all around the path of the bullet itself seem to be a bit fried? I doubt that makes any sense to you, but in layman's terms: two muscles have critical damage, and that's not something we can immediately fix. I can remove the bullet with an emergency operation to cut the arm open and take it out, which is the best course of action. The nerves can be… I'm not sure how to say this in a way that will make sense to you. Hm, well. The nerves can reconstruct themselves over time. When I do the surgery, I can help them along a little bit but I don't think it's needed. Nerves try to repair themselves by shrinking back and resting for a period of time. After the rest period, they grow back as they were. Muscles can do the same sort of thing but not in cases of extreme trauma. A muscle damaged in extreme trauma creates these gaps that are too large to fill on their own so scar tissue forms in the gaps as a way to compensate. Does that all make sense?"

"I have an infection-induced fever," you state. "I don't understand anything you're saying." Yunho raises his brows.

"I'll take that as a no." Yunho lifts the tablet higher and drags it through the air above your head all the way down to your feet. The blue rays conform to your body as they move, widening and contracting with the folds of your clothes. "San, could you do me another favor? I need you to go get Woo so I can have an assistant to run the operation."

"No, no, I can do it," Spectre answers with haste. His eyes dart between you and Yunho. "Woo won't be necessary. I can help you." Yunho stands up straight, pulling the tablet back to his chest one the light retracts from your body, and stares at San. He looks ready to argue about the topic but never opens his mouth to retort. Instead, he releases a deep sigh: a sign of relenting. San's lips quirk upwards into a small smile of victory.

"Fine. Get the anesthesia injection, a scalpel, tweezers, and gauze." Spectre turns away from the bed upon hearing the command. You watch him walk out the corner of your eye, thinking over Yunho's words.

"Anesthesia?" You repeat. "I thought you said you didn't want to use anesthesia on me."

"I didn't want to. But that was before I ran the scans and saw the extent of the damage to your muscle. I'm not getting this bullet out without trouble, so numbing it is pretty much the only comfort I can give you."

"Wait San – the belt. I need it." San passes said object to Yunho by tossing it across the bed. Yunho folds it in half. "Here, you're going to want to bite down on this." He holds it out to you, and you take it between your teeth, glancing up at Yunho as you do. He then reaches around you to pick up the bottle of vodka from his table. "Please – well, please try not to jerk your arm while I do this."

Yunho grips your arm at the elbow, a small effort to keep you steady as he tips the bottle towards your wound. You clench your teeth around the leather belt before the alcohol even touches your skin. Anticipating the worst helps quite a bit, in fact, because the second the first drop of alcohol lands on the wound, you're screaming around the belt. If not for the death grip Yunho has on your elbow, you would be thrashing. It's the worst pain you've ever experienced. Far worse than being shot, far worse than burns or frostbite, hell even getting shot by a laser hurts less than the pain you're in at the moment. Yunho keeps the steady stream of alcohol going, flushing the wound out. The mix of blood, infection, and alcohol is causing a grotesque foaming mixture that drips from your arm to Yunho's hand and onto the bed.

"Hang in there, I'm almost done," Yunho mutters, voice barely audible behind your muffled screams. He continues pouring alcohol over the wound until it runs clear but the pain doesn't let up even after he stops. "See, that wasn't too bad!"

His cheery tone and optimism only make you want to punch him in the nose. Luckily for him, your punching arm is out of order at the moment and you're in so much pain that you can barely feel the limb. All you can do is spit the belt out. Yunho catches it before it hits your lap. He inspects the leather, a small laugh escaping his lips as he sees the indentations of your teeth along the belt. You all but bit through the leather on both sides.

"I hope you didn't like this belt too much, San," he calls to the man who stands on the other side of your bed. He's gathered the materials that Yunho asked for, all piled up with the other stack that Yunho already had.

"Oh, I didn't. Captain did though."

"You took this from Hongjoong?" Yunho asks, voice rising as he gapes at the other man. He grins like a Cheshire in response. "On god San, you're fucked if he finds out."

"That's why he won't find out. Can't miss something you forgot you had."

"That's not the way h—"

"Anyways." San passes the shot of anesthesia over to Yunho, interrupting his train of thought.

"Yea, yea. We need to work fast to get the anesthesia in so there's enough time for it to kick in and wear off before the 47 hours are up." Yunho takes the shot in one hand, his other hand squeezing around your elbow. He pokes at the skin a few times then presses so hard that you release a loud noise from the sudden pain. The needle enters your arm so quickly that you barely feel the pressure. Warmth is the only thing you feel for a moment, a cozy yet uncomfortable sensation that spreads down to your fingertips and all the way up your arm. "Okay, we'll need to give you a bit of time now. The anesthesia will take a bit to kick in, so in the meantime, I need to run an IV drip for dehydration. Just for putting some fluids back into your body that you've lost through all the sweating and vomiting. Not to mention you probably haven't had a lot of water in the past few days. I'll also do a drip later for narcotic painkillers once the anesthesia begins to wear off. Okay? All standard protocol for an operation like this, I promise."

"Let's just get it over with," you murmur back. He frowns at you, a small "okay" leaving his lips before he continues his work on you.

The combination of your fever and the pain is bringing a piercing headache. You don't notice that Yunho moves around the bed until his hand reaches for your left arm. You yank it away as though burned. His eyes go wide at the forcefulness behind your action. A moment later though, he tries again, fingers closing around your wrist. You try to tug away but his grip is a bit too powerful this time and you fail to release your arm from his grasp.

"I need your uninjured arm for the IV. There's too much damage on your right arm to get these fluids into your bloodstream."

"Use my right arm or no arm at all," you hiss back. Your fingers clench into a tight fist, knuckles going white from the pressure.

"I already saw it," Yunho whispers. There is no point in whispering, as the room is silent aside from his voice, so San can hear the words as well. Still, you freeze. The tension leaves your arm and you let it fall limp in Yunho's grasp. "I'm sorry. I saw it when we were getting the uniform jacket off."

"Whatever," you say, looking away from the man. The plain, white wall before you is suddenly much more interesting. Despite the length of time that has passed since you received the brand, the memory always remains fresh. The sensation of searing hot metal being pressed against the inside of your wrist, the pain that resonated through your whole body, and the feeling of five pairs of eyes glued to you as you received the brand. It's all too real and present in your mind. Just the thought of someone seeing the brand is enough to send you headfirst into those memories.

"How… how did you get it?" The healer inquires. His voice is quiet again, no doubt hesitant and uncertain about asking the question. You barely feel the next needle that enters your arm.

"That's none of your business," you respond without looking his way.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry for intruding. I'm just – just trying to make conversation to distract you from the pain."

"Well, talk about something else. Not my past."

"Understood." You catch sight of Yunho's small smirk out the corner of your eye. Despite your confusion, you decide against asking him about it and wait for him to contain what he's doing instead. He places small round patches on various points around your chest, deft fingers dipping under the fabric and back out without you even feeling it. "These are just for keeping an eye on your heart rate. It's good I checked too because your heart rate is awfully slow. Could be due to the infection or your body is trying to conserve. Normally I only see it this low if the patient is asleep though."

"Need anything else?" San asks. He steps forward, hands coming to rest on the foot of the bed.

"Not right now. I think we're – wait. Wait." The level of panic in Yunho's voice does not comfort you one bit. Especially when Spectre's face shares the same level of concern. "Something isn't right." Yunho swipes furiously at his tablet, fingers moving so quickly over the screen that you can't tell what he's trying to do. "She was shot in the arm… outer arm with no exit wound, the bullet still present in the brachialis muscle right against the humerus. Why does she have pneumothorax too?"

"English please?" San asks.

"Punctured lung. It's a punctured lung that could collapse at any minute. Yours looks to be a pinhole, meaning it's small and acute. You should recover just fine without any treatment if you were a healthy adult but there's a serious infection running through your blood and that means it could cause complications if not treated. More importantly, I can't do an emergency operation like this if your lungs aren't fully functional. I'd need to put you on an oxygen mask just on the off chance that your lung collapses during the surgery but a one percent chance is still a chance."

"What caused it? I haven't noticed anything." You try to sit up a bit to look at Yunho's tablet but he pulls it away before you have the chance.

"It depends on all sorts of factors. Do you know how long you've had a lung problem?"

"I didn't even know I had a lung problem," you retort.

"She's been on the ship four days, Yunho."

"Okay, okay. We can worry about that in a bit. I need to get the IV drip in now." You glance forward as Yunho approaches your arm with another long needle. San is blocking your line of sight. He doesn't look back at you; instead, his eyes are fixated on your arm, rather your wrist where the chain brand resides. Subconsciously, you turn your wrist away only to have Yunho resituate it again as he inserts the long needle.

"You're looking pretty pale again," San comments. You take a deep breath but find yourself unable to respond. All the white in the room begins to blur together. All the strength left in your body is ebbing away. "Yunho, she's looking pretty fucking pale!" The man's voice climbs in volume as his form blurs into nothingness. Yunho keeps working on your IV, securing the catheter and tubes with a piece of tape.

"Shit, hey. Hey. Hey, stay awake." Yunho reaches over, patting your face with his palm. You push him away with a weak shove as a wave of coughs overwhelms you.

"Is this normal? What do you need? What's wrong with her? What do we do?" San rambles. Yunho rubs at the skin between his brows as San speaks.

"Shut the fuck up, San. If Woo were here, he would know what to fucking do since he helps me ninety percent of the time." San leans forward, smacks Yunho's hands away from his face, and grabs hold of his collar.

"If you don't want my help, then you're on your own," San hisses as he yanks Yunho forward. A weak laugh escapes your lips.

"Do you all fight this often or am I just special?"

Yunho sighs at your half-hearted jab and pushes San off him. He reaches for his ear, beginning to speak again but this time it's not directed at San.

"Wooyoung to the med bay for emergency operation assistance." The moment his hand leaves his ear, San is back in his face.

"Call it off!" He yells. Yunho deflects San's anger with a surprising sense of calm.

"I'm not letting a girl die simply because you don't want him to be seen. The fact of the matter is you don't know what the hell you're doing so you're of no use to me."

"Your damn savior complex is going to be the end of everyone on this ship."

"Then we were doomed the minute I set foot on the ship. Wooyoung is the only one who knows how to help me conduct emergency operations and laser surgeries. You need to fuck off and let me do my damn job. It's my job to save people, no matter the cost. Yours is only to kill them. So, why don't you listen closely and hear the wheeze in her breaths? The sweat on her forehead? The residue from her arm? If I don't get to work quickly, then you'll have a body to haul out. Do you want to be responsible for her death?"

At those words, San stands down. He leans back and stands up straight ahead, the fury dropping from his features as he moves. He turns away from the bed but something in you causes you to lunge forward with a sudden bout of strength and catch his wrist. He glances down at you with widened eyes.

"Thank you… for – for saving my life." San's gaze softens. A smile almost crosses his lips but he stops it before it can show too much.

"I did nothing except prolong the inevitable," comes his response. The words are spoken in a cold and emotionless tone, much different from the tone he used with you previously, but you no longer have the strength to even think straight. Your hand falls away from San's wrist as you fall back against the bed. Yunho lets San leave the med bay without exchanging further words with him.

Instead, the healer finishes connecting all the IV tubes and fluid bags.

"You're probably going to pass out," he mutters, bending over you and resting his palm against your forehead. "We'll try our best to work quickly and keep you under during the operation, okay?" You can only nod against the pressure of his hand. He eases you further into the bed and makes sure you're flat against the mattress. The action is like the magic touch for you to fall unconscious. Before your vision goes completely black, you see a new form enter the med bay, one with tanned skin and hair that looks like coal and ash. You don't have the chance to look over the rest of his form before the darkness overtakes you.

✦ ✦ ✦

Waking up again takes far too much effort. Your whole body feels as though it's made of pure lead, and you can't even open your eyes easily. You can't recall what happened before you fell asleep or where you are; the confusion only grows further when you're finally able to crack your eyes open.

White. The color is all you see for a few moments before your vision clears up some. The brightness of your surroundings blinds you. You shift and push your head to the left. Wires and tubes are all around you, two lead to your arm and another to your face. You try to feel around but you aren't able to; the strength hasn't completely returned to your body. All you can do is move your head from side to side for the time being. You check your other arm. There's a large white bandage wrapped around your bicep and you can't recall what's underneath it.

The clink of metal distracts you. It resounds from somewhere in front of you, and as you twist to look in that direction. A man with tan skin stands near a sink. You peer at him. Something about his figure seems familiar but you can't place it. Seeing him brings reality back to you, however, and you recall how you got here, a Cheshire cat finding you in a crate, the gentle giant healer who helped you.

"Wh-Where am – where am I?" You stammer out, voice cracking and hoarse as you try to talk. The man jumps at the sound of your voice. He drops what he's doing and turns towards you, eyes wide and curious as he looks over at you. Now that you're more awake, you can see more clearly and get a better look at the person with you. Besides the caramel tan, he bears dark hair that's almost black but not quite. The color is more between silver and grey but the color of his hair is the least interesting thing about him. There is a metal collar around his neck, a thick block that stands out against his skin, and you peer at it in curiosity. A collar? I don't… You don't have time to look at him, however, because he's rushing towards you a second later.

"Oh, you're awake!" He chirps as he comes closer to your bedside. "You're aboard The Horizon, ship belonging to Captain Kim Hongjoong. I'm not sure whether you remember it, but you were awake for a little while before the surgery." At his words, vague memories of a healer and a man with a strip of white hair float to the forefront of your mind. "You had a pretty awful fever though so it might be a bit hard to remember. Yunho – the healer, if you remember him – patched up the pinhole in your lung and kept it from collapsing with quick laser surgery. We also removed the bullet in your arm and drained the infection. He patched it up with stitches as best he could. He said that it was hard to close without some skin grafting, but he didn't want to do that so he just closed it without the extra graft."

"How – hold on, how long have I been here?" You ask. The sudden barrage of information catches you off-guard. You're still waking up, brain not coming back to full functionality, yet this man doesn't seem to care about that one bit.

"Oh! Hm, I think you've been on the ship for maybe a total of seven days? If you include the first four stowaway days, that is. Otherwise, you've been asleep for three days."

"72 hours," you mutter to yourself. You remember something about the captain telling Yunho that he only had a certain amount of time to fix you.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"72 hours… but the captain gave Yunho 48 hours to fix me."

"47 actually!" The man corrects with a bright and blinding smile, his teeth shining under the yellow light above your heads. "Captain only gave 47 hours to fix you, but it only took Yunho 17 so."

"Wh—What do you mean?"

"We were up for 17 hours trying to fix you up. Captain was impressed at Yunho's speed so he said that you could have extra recovery time. Oh, if you pretend to still be resting, you could get longer recovery time!"

"Why is everything in this room so damn white?" You mutter as you push yourself into a sitting position. The man shakes his head.

"No, no, no! You shouldn't get up!"

"Why not?" You protest, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm fine, I feel fine, and nothing is going to rupture. Laser surgery doesn't leave tears or stitches either so it doesn't matter."

"No!" The man argues, voice climbing in volume. You blink up at him, eyes wide from the sudden outburst. "Yunho told me not to let you leave, and I won't go against what Yunho wants. If he says you stay here, then you stay here."

"This is ridiculous. Now I'm being kept here against my will? Am I a captive now?" You scoff as you continue to get to your feet. The man moves with surprising haste. He leans across the space in front of you, snatches up something from the table, then grabs your head. You try to fight back but he has already caught you and overwhelmed you. Something sharp pierces your neck. You cry out at the pressure but waves of warmth wash over you next. You stumble backward when he releases his hold on you. The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you fall back onto the mattress as your strength leaves your body again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry but I had to do it. I won't go against what Yunho says." His voice sounds somewhat remorseful. You're losing consciousness so fast that the world spins around you and as you glance over at his hand, you spot a large shot. You'd recognize that almost anywhere. The military use them religiously, a typical weapon that you would brandish when dealing with insurgent civilians. High grade emergency sedative shots.

"Y-You…" You can't finish the sentence before the exhaustion overwhelms you and you pass out yet again.

✧ ✧ ✧

a/n: hello hello it’s that time~ new chapter! i hope you all enjoy it! please let me know what you think so far and what your fav part has been or anything about the story!! i know things are moving rather slowly at the moment bUT i promise it’ll pick up in the coming chapters, we just gotta get through this ish first !!

consider sending me a ko-fi!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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whumpywhumper · 4 years ago

Text

Friends

I needed to release some comfort into the world. This skips some of the Hospital Arc, but the pieces will be connected.

Masterpost

@misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

Thank you guys so much for your support, putting up with my questions at weird hours, and being excited about my characters: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire

TW: Intubated whumpee

V***V

Markus isn’t quite sure when he wakes up the first time. Isn’t actually sure if he’s even really conscious. He’s aware, but the world is muted. It feels like early color TV, the hues not quite right and turning into an oversaturated mess the more he tries to force it. So he doesn’t, he stops struggling, just lets everything come back in stages.

His hearing comes back online first.

He hears the steady whoosh, gurgle, and hiss of medical equipment. The occasional urgent toned beep of a IV drip. The soft rustling and hushed voices of people doing their best to be quiet while shoving all of their worry and care into a box.

It’s all muffled and distorted through the cocktail of heady drugs in his system. The sounds swirl, clinging too long to his eardrums before slipping away to nothing. It’s disorienting, confusing, and he welcomes each wave of quiet that surges up to take away the noise.

There’s a growing anxiety that’s sitting heavily in his chest, but it’s not quite reaching him. Leaving him to teeter on the edge, giving him a hard place to fall with any gentle nudge.

Time flows syrupy slow, and it feels like he fades down back toward unconsciousness and up again before anything else becomes relevant. But, eventually, he becomes aware of his body too. He’s numb in the way that means that he’s on the heavy duty kind of drugs, administered correctly so that his pain is far away. Like the anxiety, the fear, the pain is just waiting on him to acknowledge it so that it can take over.

So.

He does his best to ignore it. To float in this absence of pain.

It’s better.

He doesn’t want to think about better than what, he just knows that it’s better.

So he focuses on anything other than the pain. He’s sunk into the softness of the mattress beneath him. The slightly harder cushion of pillows under his side and shoulder. The rhythmic compression and release around his lower legs, the not-painful pressure almost comforting, so much like a kind touch that he hasn’t had in what feels like years.

He almost feels cradled—safe—as something clicks on and warm air curls around his limbs and envelops him. He floats there, up and down, darkness closing over his head in staggering intervals as his body fights its way through the sedation.

It’s quiet, peaceful, for a while, real, deep sleep engulfing him and blotting out the awareness that his body has painstakingly been building up.

He wakes up again, not knowing how long has passed, not really remembering being awake at all. The world is still soft and liquid, slipping through his fingers faster the harder he tries to hold on to it, so he lets it go. Soaks in the myriad of conflicting and confusing sensations.

Time is skewed, but Markus is just starting to struggle with the thinning line between the numbness of his body and the morass of pain when the quiet clack of a curtain moving disturbs the quiet, the heavier tread of boots on hospital tile joining with the hiss-thunk of one of the machines. The sounds swirl around him, swimming up and burbling through thick water.

There’s a lingering silence as Markus feels the weight of this new person’s gaze on his lax limbs. An instinctive fear of the unknown bubbles up in his chest, and suddenly, he feels exposed. Vulnerable. At the mercy of a stranger when he doesn’t remember what mercy is anymore.

Viscerally, his body recalls harsh hands that pushed and pulled at his defenseless body. Hurt him, took advantage of his weakness, callously disregarded him as anything other than an inconvenience.

The silence lasts until there’s a heavy sigh, and the clatter of metal and plastic on tile. The blankets shift, and there’s pressure around his hand, the artificial, sticky feeling of latex that manipulates his limp fingers.

He gets nothing from that pressure other than the sensation of another person touching him without his permission. Desperately, Markus wants the simple comfort of someone holding his hand, that yearning striking a cord deep down, buried under the lingering fear and terror, reminding him of safety and home. But this touch is nothing but latex and a firmly artificial barrier between him and whatever supernatural sense he could gather of this person, leaving him with nothing other than the primal desire to curl into and away from the touch at the same time.

But.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s still far from being able to move, even if he wanted to. Divorced from his flesh, only able to suffer and exist inside of it.

His soul cries out for safety, for someone, anyone, to hear him and take him home.

Something tickles the side of his face, and the person next to him shifts, another latex soft touch brushing over his cheek bone, feeling wet and cold. His hair is gently stroked, and the touch settles over the top of his head. The pressure around his hand tightens briefly, “Markus? Can you hear me, sugar?”

The voice registers, but it’s muffled, the words whisked away just as he’s comprehending them. The sound and the touch though anchor him out of the soupy mire his consciousness has become, but he can’t really respond, doesn’t want to respond. The person doesn’t push, just hums, shushing him nonsensically.

“Alright, sugar, alright,” the low voice rumbles, the words coming tentative and slow, “I know you’re still sleepin’, but David told me that you were tolerating the lowered sedation this time. That maybe a little more of what we’re sayin’ will start stickin’ with ya.” Soft, soothing patterns are drawn into the cold skin at the back of his hand. “Catrina told me not to, uh. . . not to overwhelm you, not to talk about any heavy stuff, just to try and get you to respond, ya know?” A thick, huffed laugh. “She’s kinda terrifying, doesn’t put up with any a’ us trying to bully her for information. So, I’m. . . I’m just gonna hold your hand, and you squeeze when you’re ready, okay?”

The man clears his throat roughly, and the pressure around his hand leaves for the rasp of what sounds like days old stubble, and Markus feels an unexpected, surprising burst of warm affection. An absent thought tiptoed its way across his muzzy consciousness, there and gone moments later: Clint never did like to cry.

The voice—god, it’s familiar, so fucking familiar—quiets for a while, and Markus is so exhausted. He drifts, pulled down by growing fatigue and thickening tendrils of pain. Maybe he slips down into actual sleep again, but the next time he’s aware there’s another voice filling the room.

“—seems kind of distressed.”

“Yeah, I hit the call button just before you came in, Catrina should be here in a second.”

“Good, good, he probably just needs them to check his drip, maybe increase it a little. It’s not easy to titrate these meds.”

He’s too confused, overwhelmed to realize how tense he’s become, to feel the way that his brows have gathered together, the way the muscles in his arms and torso have tightened, or the way that his lungs have started to fight against the tube in his throat.

His chest and throat are sending him urgent messages that there’s something wrong, the intrusion of something hard and unyielding that isn’t supposed to be there making him move automatically. Clumsily, he reaches for whatever is making him hurt, uncoordinated limbs heavy and unwieldy.

“Woah, hey, heyheyhey—” he’s intercepted, and Markus flinches from the gentle restraints as they pull his hands away , “—don’t do that, sugar.”

“Markus, can you hear me, buddy?” The pressure around his hand tightens, cold latex rubbing over his knuckles. “Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear me?”

Reflexively, he tries to pull away from the restraints, ignoring the request as his heart gives a discordant thump at the whistle of anxiety thrumming through his chest. He stiffens at the brief flash of real pain through his system, muscles protesting as he begs silently for release. Please, please no. He can’t stand the thought of being held down again, being helpless. But even that small of a movement seems to push concrete through his veins, and he doesn’t know if it’s the fatigue weighing him down or the way the others slowly, gently push his hands back to bed that has him settling.

“Shhh, okay, okay,” his shoulder is engulfed by a soft touch, the deeper voice continuing to soothe him, “you’re okay. Markus, can you open your eyes? It’s Evan and Clint, we’d really like to see you, yeah?”

Clint? Evan? It can’t be. . . He wants to see his friends so badly it hurts, even worse than the building ache in his body, but his eyelids must weigh a hundred pounds. He feels the build up of tears behind his eyelids, the heavy droplets slipping free without permission. Please, please be here. . .

“Fuck, Markus,” one of the voices whispers, cracking over his name, a sniffle accompanying it, “Clint, where’s Catrina? I think he’s hurting pretty bad.”

“I’m gonna go see if I can find her, maybe Olivia’s available. I’ll be right back.” There’s the rush of displaced air, sudden coolness of his skin, but Markus’s weak attention is drawn back by the other’s calming voice.

“Okay, buddy, we’re gonna get you taken care of, alright? It’s Evan, Markus, I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.”

Markus wanted to sob. He wanted it to actually be his friend so, so much, he remembered how he’d prayed for his friends but they’d never come. His face creased as a wave of pain rolled through him, teeth clamping down around whatever was in his throat. He heard a muted curse, “Fuck this.”

There was the snap of latex, warmth cupping his cheek, and then the overwhelming sense of Evan had Markus drawing from some reserve of energy that he didn’t even know he had. He turned into the palm against his face, fighting his eyelids until they lifted, light and shapes crossing his vision in a blur, and he heard a wet gasp. “Oh my god, hey,” a calloused thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek, smearing the tears across his skin, “hey, buddy, I’m here, you’re safe, okay?”

He blinked sluggishly, taking too long to reopen his eyes, but he finally found a modicum of focus as he took in the image of one of his best friends. He was still blurred, but the salt and pepper of Evan’s hair was visible over the blue of the mask covering the lower half of his face. He didn’t need to make out the details to know his friend now anyway, the skin contact lighting up parts of his magic not used in months. It was enough to push the pain back momentarily, dulling to a hum rather than a roar.

Evan’s other hand closed back around Markus’s, squeezing gently. “Can you understand me, Markus? Squeeze my hand if you can understand me.”

Slowly, his fingers closed around Evan’s, and he heard his friend give a shuddering gasp as Markus blinked slowly again. There was a rush of movement behind Evan, and the other man turned slightly. “He’s conscious and responsive.”

A startled exclamation, and another broad shouldered figure appeared in front of him, leaning over him. Markus drug his glassy stare over, not quite focusing as even these little movements drained whatever energy he’d gathered. “Hey, hey, sugar,” his free hand was scooped up between two latex covered paws, “God, it’s good to see you awake.”

“Take your gloves off,” Evan ordered, “skin contact seems to help. His vitals dropped back down, too.”

The figure did as he was bid, and Markus shuddered, eyelids dropping as relief and the safety of Clint flooded through him. “Fuck,” Clint whispered, voice broken. As well as he could, Markus drifted his thumb across Clint’s hand, and heard a startled exhale that turned into a shaky, surprised laugh. The relieved joy of his friends was bright, buoying him in reality as it curled up in his chest.

Even with the safety of both of his friends surrounding him, the pain came back with a crescendoing wave. He tensed again, eyebrows pulling together as he shifted minutely. God, my chest hurts, it hurts. A few more tears slipped free, and he tugged weakly at Evan’s hand.

“You hurting, buddy?” He squeezed Evan’s hand, and he heard the entire room shift as Evan gave some sort of signal.

“And that’s where I come in,” a friendly, warm voice interjected, coming closer as Clint released his hand. The impersonal feeling of latex took his friend’s place, and Markus was terrified again. Clint, please don’t let him, please. There was a starburst of panic, and Evan hissed in surprise. The beast master’s hand snapped from Markus’s face in time with a sound of alarm from the faceless entity as the latex was pulled away.

“Sorry, doc,” Evan chuckled lowly, “if you’d felt what I just did, you woulda done the same. Gloves, you’ll understand in a second, trust me.”

There was another snap of latex, and a new, slightly cool hand slid into his own. The sense of deep caring and logic accompanied the doctor’s surprised inhale. “HooKay, that’s new.”

Markus relaxed slowly as he felt the other man’s alarm turn into curiosity and concern, but nothing malicious, as Evan explained. “His magic’s coming back. He’s always been extremely empathic, normally has great control of what you sense from him, but in this circumstance. . .” he trailed off with a sigh, bringing his hand back to brush through Markus’s hair.

“Alright then, no more gloves if we can help it,” the other man’s friendly voice turned back to Markus, taking the news in stride. “Markus, can you open your eyes for me?” His tone was authoritative, but gentle, and Markus did his best to obey as a thumb dragged across his skin.

He only saw a bright sliver of light before his heavy lids became too much. Instead, Markus managed to tighten his hand minutely. That was easier for some reason, he didn’t have to try and make sense of the room, could focus on the safety net Evan provided. His friend hadn’t let go of his hand, the warmth of Evan’s skin warming Markus’s even with his poor circulation.

“Okay, Markus, I understand. Can you squeeze my hand again if you’re in pain?”

His fingers twitched, but Markus’s brain was becoming fuzzy on stress hormones, mired in the negative sensations. His lungs felt sticky, like his heart was turning over in his chest. “Okay, yeah, that heart rate is getting elevated again,” the voice was distant in a way that told him he wasn’t being addressed, “Catrina, let's give him one time dose of 50 mcg fentanyl, intravenous, and he can have an as needed dose of 25mcg every hour, if that’s not enough call me. Monitor for how he continues to tolerate the vent.” The voice came back to address him, “Markus, hang on just a second, okay?”

Evan’s hand swept down to drag the back of his knuckles across the side of his face, the touch exactly what he’d been begging for for months. “Go back to sleep, buddy, we’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“You’re not alone anymore, brother.” Clint’s voice trickled in as a wash of cold flowed over his chest, black swallowing up his lingering consciousness. “I promise.”

#Markus/Lucien Series #Intubated Whumpee #Sedated whumpee #whump #hurt/comfort #urban fantasy #magic #magical whump

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