#falling out of bed or the chair must be awful and painful

[neskastree]

[after-witch]

The Morning After [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: The Morning After [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: You wake up in a room you’ve never been in to the sight of a man you’ve never met.

Word count: 3500ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, degradation, drugging

Memory and time and the world itself are fuzzy, gray things as you wake up. Before the abrupt, awful, heavy awakening, there was nothing--just a dull blackness where you did not exist. 

Yet there’s a dim sense as the world returns to you, as your heavy eyes struggle to open, that you are, indeed, alive. 

Alive and a person, you remember that, too. Alive and a person and... somewhere. You must exist somewhere, that is a basic tenant of existence, isn’t it? But as your eyes finally open and the world above you is stark white, too bright, you can’t quite remember where somewhere is.

Underneath your head, there is a body. That, too, feels heavy. So you flex it, or at least you try. Your fingers feel like fuzzy sticks but perhaps they are moving when you try to curl your hands. The fuzziness extends all the way through your body, like you’ve rolled around in pins and needles and have yet to shake them off.

Breathing--you’re breathing, too. That is a sign that you are alive, that you have returned to the world. Even if your mouth feels dry and sticky, and there is an awful taste in it. You open and close and it almost hurts; there’s a vaguely wet smacking sound, and the awful taste is amplified by the trace spit that registers against your tongue.

Your head hurts. Your neck, too--specifically one point. There’s an instinctive desire to reach for that point, and your arms obey, feeling like heavy lead, until your hand slaps against it. Why does it hurt like that? 

It’s a small point of pain, like someone had stuck a needle into your--

And there. There. It all comes flooding back to you. Your name, your life, your world, the moments before it all went dark. 

You worked the day it all went dark. It was an ordinary day of work, a bit stressful, with moments of reprieve. Your lunch had been soup and rice and a treat: blue raspberry soda from the vending machine. After work, you went grocery shopping--you needed something for dinner--and returned home to your apartment. You remember the sound of the key turning in the door, the surprise that there was a light on in your kitchen--hadn’t you turned it off that morning?--and then… and then…

The pain, in your neck. That small point. An awful prickling, like being stung by a bee. Only there was no time to swat it away, and you fell into darkness, the bags of groceries hitting the floor before you did.

That was… however long ago. How long had the world been gone? A few hours? A day? Days?

With the returned sense of self, your body seems to want to catch up with your mind, and the sense of buzzing heaviness fades away enough for you to push yourself up onto your elbows. The material underneath you is soft: a bed, a mattress, with plain white cotton sheets.

You’re in a bed. In a bed, in a room with plain white walls. There is sparse furniture: two wooden dressers, a table, two chairs. There looks to be a folding door--a closet?--and two more doors, besides. 

Are you in a hospital? Did you pass out, and some kindly neighbor heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of your body and bags falling to the ground, then called for emergency services? It would explain the sparse room, although there’s no IV in your arm, no machines monitoring your heart rate. 

It would explain, too, what you’re wearing.

You’re not wearing the clothes you fell down in. Instead, you’re wearing a cotton nightgown, made from a thick but relatively soft material. There is lace on the collar, which is strange (but not impossible, your mind reminds you) for a hospital. Still. It makes sense. You pry away a thin comforter with still fuzzy hands and see that your shoes are gone; your feet are clad in only soft white socks. That, too, makes sense. You wouldn’t be put in a hospital bed with work shoes. That would be silly, and silly things did not belong in hospitals--which must be where you are.

Even though there are no IVs hooked into your arm, and no machines monitoring your heart and blood pressure and many more things, besides. Even though this appears to be some private suite, and you were sure that no hospital would put someone who fainted into a fancy room like this. You weren’t wealthy or notable, just a nobody who lived in a mediocre apartment and had a mediocre job and--

The door opens, and a doctor walks in. Or he must be a doctor, because who else would walk in wearing a tailored black suit and a face mask, if you had woken up in a hospital? Which must be where you were--despite all the confusion, and the strange details, and the fact that you had neither the wealth or status to be in a private room like this.

He stops when he sees that you’re sitting up. He must be surprised to see you awake, or perhaps he’s looking you over for signs of continued injury, because the way he stares is a bit unnerving.

You want to ask where you are, and what happened, and if anyone called your emergency contact. But your head still feels heavy, a little cottony, and all that comes out is--

“Um.” The word comes out all dry and croaked, and you’re suddenly aware of your dry, parched throat.

“I’ll get you water,” the mystery doctor says. He has dark hair and his voice is low, almost neutral. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Doctors probably had to practice speaking like that; like nothing was wrong, even if you’d clearly had some awful medical episode that required some sort of specialized care with a private room.

He steps away from the door he entered--locks it, too, and isn’t that strange?--and walks to the only other door in your suite. When it opens, you realize it’s a bathroom. Just as white and sterile-looking as the main area. There’s a squeak of a tap being turned on, and a rush of water, and before long he walks up to you.

Your heavy hands move forward to take the glass, but he takes one look at the trembling and tsks.

“I’ll hold it,” he says. The thought makes your stomach squirm but, he would know best, wouldn’t he? 

So you don’t protest when he raises the glass lid to your lips, and tips it back so you can take a drink. He doesn’t hold it there for long. Just long enough for your throat to feel soothed and damped. Then the glass goes away, and he sets it down on the nearby table before grabbing a chair and placing it near the bed.

He sits.

You stare.

Shouldn’t he be taking your vitals, or something? The thought comes softly. He’s not like any doctor you’ve ever seen. And this is not like any hospital room you’ve ever been in; even a private suite should have… something, right? An IV bag trailing into your arm, a heart rate monitor in case something went wrong. 

The sense of wrongness hangs in the air as he begins to speak.

“I’m glad you’re awake. I had to guess at your body weight, so I wasn’t sure if I had the correct dosage.”

Your brain feels heavy as you ask--

“The correct dosage…” Dosage, of what? “You mean, medicine?”

He blinks impassively at you. Then there are wrinkles around his eyes, like he might be smiling. 

“The sedative.”

The sedative? The sedative--

Memories come back slow, unwillingly, like dragging your feet through heavy gray slush in the winter. 

When you opened your apartment door, the kitchen light was on. The kitchen light was on and when you turned, there was something; no, not something. Someone. A man with no mouth--a mask--and cold eyes and there was a glint of silver before it plunged right into your neck.

This wasn’t a hospital.

The man in front of you wasn’t a doctor.

If you had been hooked up to a heart monitor, it would have no doubt gone haywire in the next moments, as you forced your leaden body to shove back against the wall, your trembling legs getting stuck on the cotton sheets of the bed. There was nowhere to go; the bed was pushed up against the wall and he blocked the only exit.

“You--you--” The words come out stuttered and tingling, like they aren’t even coming out of your mouth. “You kidnapped me.”

He eyes your sudden skittering with nothing more than a moment of raised eyebrows.

“I acquired you,” he corrects, as if that was a correction to be made at all. “To keep you safe. To keep you away from the filth.”

His words barely register as your breathing speeds up. You’ve been kidnapped. Kidnapped and redressed and taken to some bizarre room by someone who was clearly out of his mind. So you do the only thing you can think to do in an awful situation like this: you bargain.

“Please,” you say, and the dryness in your throat comes back and makes your words crack. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. If--if it’s money you want, I don’t have much, but I can--”

He raises a gloved hand.

“Please, this has nothing to do with money. I won’t be letting you go.”

You shake your head, like that matters. 

“Who are you?” You ask, not sure if you really want to know.

The lines around his eyes crinkle again.

“Chisaki Kai. That’s what you may call me, anyway.” He sighs, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. “Very few have the privilege of doing that, you know.”

You’d rather have your freedom than this thing he calls a privilege, but you don’t have the wordpower to voice that particular thought. 

Your fingers cling to the only thing they can: the cotton sheets underneath you. Tighter and tighter, until they almost feel like they’ll cramp up.

“Why did you bring me here?” There are tears in your eyes now, and you can see his gaze begin to follow them as they trickle down your cheeks.

“To protect you,” is all he offers, before slapping his thighs and standing up. “Now, it’s time to get up.”

A million awful scenarios rush through your head at once, leaving you feeling sick. What is he going to do to you? Is he going to hurt you? Kill you? Are you just one in a long line of people he’s brought to this room, all drugged and hazy, before he kills them and does who knows what with the bodies?

You shake your head.

He tsks from behind the mask. There are no crinkles around his eyes, now.

“Get up,” he orders. Softly, yes, but there’s a finality and firmness to his tone that makes your wobbly legs push towards the end of the bed as if you were an automaton. 

“Why?” You squeak out. If he’s going to kill you, will he tell you, first?

He turns around and repositions the chair so that it’s back at the table, and pulls out the second. His hands hover around you as he guides you on jelly-like legs to sit down. 

“It’s time for breakfast.” A simple answer, like you had met him on the street and asked the time. Like he didn’t just admit to drugging you and kidnapping you. 

“I’m not hungry,” comes the automatic answer. You’re not. Your stomach feels empty, but it’s wrenched; from fear and stress and gallons of adrenaline.

“You will eat breakfast,” he says, just as automatically. “You will eat everything on your plate, as well. I’ve calculated out the perfect nutrition for your needs.” There’s a bit of a smile to his voice, even though it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

The wooziness in your body, the fresh horror creeping from your skull down to your toes, keeps you rooted to the chair while he briefly leaves. When he returns, he’s carrying a tray--it reminds you of a hospital tray, despite everything--with a modest amount of bland, healthy looking food on it.

Your stomach turns.

--

The rest of your day comes in awful little vignettes, all blurry black around the edges, only becoming clearer when he explains the rules to you. It’s an awful form of clarity.

He doesn’t call them “the rules,” but that’s what they’re meant to be, certainly. He lays them out so simply, almost sickly sweet. Like you’ve been brought to some boarding school and are getting shown the ropes.

The thought of ropes makes you feel sick. But he hasn’t tied you up, and that’s some small relief.

Or it would be, if it weren’t for the rest of those black-rimmed vignettes that fill up your day. 

When he picks out an outfit--a simple dress, a pair of clean underwear, and soft socks--and turns around, telling you to get changed. He won’t look, as long as you behave; as long as you don’t make a fuss.

When he shows you the dresser, the closet, the bathroom, the empty shelves. Tells you that if you behave, you’ll get rewarded; with books and paper and pencils. That the better you are, the happier you’ll be here, he says. Like you had any control over the situation at all.

When he makes you eat lunch and tells you to chew your food more slowly, more thoroughly. It helps with digestion, he says. You’ll get an upset stomach otherwise. As if you aren’t fighting the urge to gag with every bite you take--as if the reason you’re feeling queasy isn’t sitting in front of you with a mask on his face.

When you tell him, teary eyed, that you want to go home and burst into sobs but he merely waits until your hiccuping shoulders have ceased to move and tells you: “This is your home now. I’ll take care of you. Crying is only going to work you into hysterics.” 

When you refuse to eat dinner--your first act of rebellion, such as it is--and he simply sighs, leans back, and tells you that if you refuse to eat, you will go to the clinic and be fed through an IV.

“Would you like that?” Honey drips bitterly from each word.

You would, in fact, not like that. 

The spoon trembles when you lift it, but the soup goes inside your mouth, all the same.

--

“But why do you have to watch me?” The words come out dry and scratched. If you were home, you would brew yourself a cup of tea and drizzle in a modest amount of honey for good measure. You, however, are far from home.

“It’s my job to look after you.” Even if he wasn’t wearing the mask, you’d have no idea what he looks like right now, because you can only manage to stare at the tiles on the bathroom floor. Below you are your bare feet, feeling shakier than ever; above, your cheeks are burning so hot it almost hurts. 

“You don’t have to… I’ve always--what I mean is--I can do this myself,” is what you manage, fists clenching at the soft fabric of your dress. It felt flimsy enough all day--how much flimsier, then, if you were to pull it over your head and let him see you bared? 

“I’m sure you think that.” There’s something like a smile in his voice, and it’s a smile you hope to never see. “But the reason you’re here is that you can't take care of yourself. Now,” he says, with an air of finality. “Remove your clothing and step into the tub.”

There’s no room for argument. No room for pleading, no room to change his mind. There’s only one thing that you can do to end the situation, and that's to do exactly what he wants: take off your dress, your underwear, even your white padded socks, and sit in the clear water while he stares at your naked body. 

“I’ll turn around while you get undressed.”

It’s a wonder that you don’t burst out laughing. 

Instead, you fight back tears and look up, staring at the still back of the man who has turned your world into a frizzy, confusing mess in a matter of 24 hours. 

Despite the warmth of the water steaming up the room, you shiver. Your heart might as well be in your ears, for how well you can hear it pounding. That haziness from the morning returns, a sort of numbness as your fingers clench the fabric of the dress and you pull up, up, up, slipping it over your head and dropping it on the floor. 

The underwear takes longer to remove. So long that you worry he’ll turn around, and that’s what finally has you yanking the fabric down, has you stepping out of them and then--like an automaton cranked too tightly--rushing to step into the tub.

Water splashes around you as you settle, pulling your knees up to cover what you can.

He turns around and, of all things, kneels next to the tub. If he touches you--if he reaches for the sponge and tries to wash you--you think you’ll scream.

But his hands stay where they are, resting on his knee.

You look at his hands, and not his face. There’s nothing you want to see less than his eyes right now.

“Most people don’t know how to bathe properly,” he tells you, as if instructing you on something of high importance. And it probably is, to him. You can sense the beginning of some long speech, a list of things you must do in the bath, just as he gave you a list of things you must do when dressing, when eating, when everything.

“I know how to wash myself,” you mumble, feeling hot around the ears.

He doesn’t bother acknowledging you, and a further rush of shame flushes through your chest and threatens to jump out and migrate to the wobbling knees pressed against it. 

Instead, he points--you follow his hands, still unable to look anywhere else--to a line of cloths and brushes hanging from hooks on the wall of the tub. 

“They’re color-coded,” he offers, almost cheery. “Pink is for the initial scrubbing, to slough away the initial dirt and dead skin. Blue is for cleansing with antibacterial soap. Purple is for rinsing.” His fingers tap the brushes. “The same for the brushes, for your back.”

There’s a moment where you think he might actually grab the cloth and wash you, but thankfully, his hands return to their former position. 

A moment more--two or three, at least--and he clears his throat.

“Start with your legs. Most people do not scrub their legs well enough, and it leads to an excess amount of dead skin.” There’s a bit of distaste in his voice at the mention of dead skin. Your thoughts go to the gloves on his hands, the mask, the insistence on making sure you get clean enough in this tub of his.

You grab the pink cloth. Dip it in the hot water, and start scrubbing at your knee.

He clears his throat again, and your stomach drops.

“Put your legs down. Scrub under the water, so the dead skin doesn’t accumulate on the cloth.” 

No. No. No-no-no-no-no. It’s what you want to say, a simple word, a clear word.

But the word is stuck in your mouth, and you’re left with nothing to do but let your knee slide down, one, then the other.

He can see you. He can see you.

The thought makes the held-up tears finally come, bubbling out like soap. Something childish in you glances at him, then, hoping for pity--for disturbance, for him to wonder if perhaps he’s doing the right thing.

But the only thing you see in his eyes is a flash of impatience.

“If you take too long,” he says, over your sniffles, “the water will not be hot enough to disinfect. We’ll have to start over, at that point.” Start over and--would he want to take over, fed up with your clear incompetence? 

And so you get back to work, the colored-coded cloth scraping at your skin, and you can only hope you’re doing it well enough to avoid dragging out the bath any longer than possible.

“Don’t forget behind your knees,” he murmurs. Despite not looking at him, you can feel his eyes on you. Watching. Assessing. 

And that’s what he does: assess. Because the comments don’t stop, even as you move on to cleansing and rinsing and everything else he’s ordering you to do.

Wash this. Scrub that. Do it gently, do it harder. Use this soap and only one pump--don’t wash your hair like that, it causes breakage--let me test the water to make sure it’s hot enough. 

--

That night, on clean sheets, in a clean nightgown, with a clean body, you cry yourself to sleep. 

And in the morning, when you wake up, you’re still here.

And Overhaul still comes in through the door, breakfast tray in hand, a smile hidden behind his mask.

[gtgbabie0]

heyy!! i saw that your reqs are open ans i was wondering if i could ask for an "cregan stark x fem reader" in which the reader is giving birth but she ends up having complications during the birth (blood loss or the baby simply taking too long to come out) and she ends up being unconscious for a while... if that's not ok please ignore it, thank you!! <3

-Cregan Stark x reader

{The birth of your son Brandon Stark was nothing but stressful, and it makes Cregan face some horrible realisations}

CW// descriptions of blood/ reader is giving birth

Hope you enjoy my lovelies!! 💕

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It was early in the morning when it began. You were eating breakfast with Cregan when the sharp shooting pain erupted through your lower stomach, it took your breath away and you couldn’t help but reach over to clutch onto his arm with a gasp.

He stops mid-sentence as he watches your face contort with an awful look of discomfort, panic rising in his chest when your eyes meet his.

“My love? What is it?- what happened?” He asks, standing up from his chair. He helps you up, wincing as you scream out in pain. Cregan guides you to the bed his hand soothing your lower back in hopes it’ll relieve your discomfort, but his attempts are fruitless when he notices the tears that fall from your eyes and his heart drops.

You shake your head, squeezing your husband's hands as you try your best to ignore the blood that pools between your legs, “The maesters- please” You gasp between breaths and Cregan doesn’t need to be told twice as he rushes out the door.

It isn’t long before people start to barge into the room, orders being thrown around as the midwives lay you down on the bed pressing a cold wet towel on your forehead.

Your body aches as a hot flush wash over you, and every sensation is far too overwhelming, it certainly doesn’t help that your skin is sticky with sweat. You can hear Cregan outside your shared bedchambers before walking through the wooden door, much to the dismay of the nurses.

“What is happening?- please” his voice is strained and he can’t bear to look down at you, the sound of you hyperventilating is enough to make him feel sick to his stomach.

The maester looks up at him, “She has started her labour early lord Stark” he takes a deep breath, watching the worry that deepens within Cregan’s eyes, “You must let us work”

Hours have passed since then, the late afternoon sun is peaking behind the curtains and Cregan hasn’t left your side as your clammy hands squeeze his. He chokes back a sob every time you let out an agonising cry, your face pressed into the sweat-soaked pillow as you grit your teeth.

The nurses tell you when to breathe then push, breathe then push and you know for a fact that your body cannot handle much more pain, exhaustion is creeping through your already weak body.

“Almost there lady Stark, almost there” one of the nurses promises, as she switches your cold rag for a new one, and Cregan doesn’t miss the worry in her eyes as she glances down to the blood-soaked sheets beneath you.

“You hear that my love? Almost there” He leans down to press a kiss to your damp hairline, pushing back the wet strands.

His thumb caresses the space under your eye, wiping your tears away as he holds your cheek. “I can’t- Cregan I can’t” you sigh, trying your best to smile up at him.

He shakes his head, pressing his forehead against yours “Yes you can. You are the strongest woman I know” he whispers.

You nod, taking a deep breath before squeezing your eyes shut, pushing one last time as the nurses and maesters all shout praises. “A boy!” You hear someone gasp but they seem miles away, and then you hear your baby cry as the midwives move quickly to clean him, wrapping him up in a clean blanket.

The noise of the room seems to bleed together, muffled as if you were underwater and with it goes your sight, then everything seems to stop and for a moment, for the first time in the last seven hours, there is clarity and the ache in your body ebbs away as your eyes flutter close.

The moment your grip on Cregan's hand loosens his heart stops, and the sight of your limp body covered in sweat makes his whole world come crashing down. He can’t think straight and the feeling only grows stronger as his eyes drift to the blood-stains all over your legs and bedsheets.

There’s a lump in the back of his throat that chokes him, and all the words he wants to say, needs to say, die on his tongue.

“My wife- is-” he isn’t able to finish the sentence as the Maester hands him his son, his cries hit Cregan's ears, a painful reminder that no matter what happens to you he has to carry on, a harsh reality that he can’t bare to face.

Before he has time to even look down at his child he’s already being whisked away from his arms, wet nurses attending to him. It’s almost as if the world has slowed down, and he can’t breathe.

“She has lost a lot of blood, my lord,” The maester says, his tone soft and gentle as he cleans up, taking out some strong-smelling herbs. “The best we can do is let her rest, if she doesn’t wake within the hour hold this under her nose” he nods about to leave the room.

“She’ll live?” Cregan's voice is weak as he gently holds your hand.

“Of course my lord, as you said, she is a strong woman” he smiles before leaving the room, and it’s only when the door closes that his tears fall so effortlessly from his eyes, and he pleads to any Gods who are willing to listen to him that you’ll be okay.

Cregan doesn’t leave your side once as the hours pass by. His hand gently lays over the top of your heart. The feeling of it beating beneath his palm gives him hope. He gently pushes your hair back, tucking the strands behind your ear as he waits on bated breath for you to wake up.

He watches your eyes flutter and immediately sits up, shuffling to sit closer to you. You groan something incoherent, but he can tell from the way you sound it’s out of nothing but pain. He’s quick to hush you, guiding you to lay back down, to your dismay.

“Y/n, please- relax, my love” he pleads with you as you grab ahold of his hand.

“Our son? Is he-?” You panic, voice hoarse as you try to sit up, ignoring the pain that seizes your body.

“He’s fine, I promise-” He whispers, watching your panicked eyes flicker frantically around the room, "But you, my love- please you need to rest” The way his voice trembles with worry makes you listen, that and the unbearable ache in your bones.

You look up at him, tears in your eyes as the heaviness of the situation finally weighs upon you. “I want to see him, please?” You whisper, and the hoarseness in your voice makes his heartbreak.

He wipes away the tears that fall from your eyes, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You will, I promise.” His voice calms your nerves. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? He’s not going anywhere” Cregan smiles as you nod.

“Okay. I do need a bath” You let out a raspy giggle, relief washing over you as Cregan chuckles beside you.

“Of course, my sweet wife” he smiles, his hand gently caressing your cheek before disappearing off, but not without looking back at you, a sad look clouded over his tired eyes.

The water is pleasantly warm against your skin, your hands grasping onto your husband’s shoulders as he helps you into the wooden tub. There’s a thick layer of silence that falls upon you both, it almost feels suffocating.

Cregan doesn’t mutter a word as he washes you. The water sloshing around, and the harsh wind is the only thing you can hear. It’s you who breaks the silence, catching his hands within your own.

You bring his hands to cup your face, “I’m okay. Cregan? Look at me, please?” You plead, noticing how he hasn’t been able to keep eye contact since you woke up.

There are tears that build up in his eyes, a dam of emotions that burst out of him. “I thought I lost you” he whispers, voice strained as he breaks down completely, the last hour finally catching up to him.

“But you didn’t Cregan, I’m right here” You don’t bother trying to hide your own tears, and he’s quick to wipe them away.

He leans to rest his forehead against your own, “I know” his voice is so quiet that if he were sitting any further, you wouldn’t be able to hear him, “But you almost weren’t, and I can’t live without you” he presses his lips against yours in a gentle, loving kiss.

“You don’t have to, I am right here, my love,” you tell him, kissing him once more before he pulls away. “I love you” you smile, as he goes to start washing your hair.

“I love you more… more than words could ever express” he finishes washing you. His touch is overwhelmingly gentle, so full of love that it makes your chest bloom with warmth.

The way his fingertips graze along your arms, how his lips feel as they press kisses along your shoulders. Small whispers of sweet nothings shared between you both in the candle-lit bathroom only ever to be heard by the pair of you.

You lean on Cregan like a crutch as he helps you from the bath, drying you off and changing you into fresh clean sleep clothes. Your bedchambers have been aired out by herbs and incense, and the bed sheets have been changed.

It feels so heavenly as you climb into bed. The sun was well and truly set. “I have a visitor for you” Cregan smiles, walking into the room with your son in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.

You gasp as he hands him to you. He stirs from his sleep with the movement. His tiny fingers wrap around your own as you admire him. “He’s perfect” You press a kiss to his forehead. Cregan sits beside you on the bed, the back of his fingers caressing his son's cheek.

“Brandon Stark” you whisper, looking over to your husband as he glances over at you with nothing but tenderness in his eyes.

You lean your head against his shoulder, smiling when he wraps an arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer, before pulling the sheets over your legs. “Brandon Stark” he repeats with approval, and you both chuckle as your son gurgles up at you with wide eyes.

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[steddieas-shegoes]

my body is my weapon

for @steddieholidaydrabbles popup event for 'spring'

rated t | 734 words | cw: canon-typical violence, mild blood | tags: self-sacrificing steve, hurt/comfort, getting together

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

Steve was good at this, springing up from nowhere, nail bat in hand, ready to protect his found family. It was a natural instinct at this point.

Didn't matter the cost, didn't matter if he was the only one willing. If Vecna wanted to take someone, he could take him.

With Eddie barely recovered from his first bout in the Upside Down, Max still in a coma, and Lucas being glued to her side to make sure nothing happened, the crew was a little short staffed.

But Steve would make sure that didn't matter.

They prepared as much as they could, which wasn't nearly as much as they should. Vecna was strong, stronger than they expected him to be, and his creatures were wearing them down before he even came to fight.

But El was stronger.

As Steve lay on the ground, bleeding more than he ever had before, certain of his life being over, he thought about every time he'd put himself in front of the kids.

He had no regrets, but he wished it could've played out differently.

Hands on his shoulders made him open his eyes, but his vision was blurry and his head was pounding. Probably another concussion.

"You don't get to die."

Eddie? How was he- why was he here? He was supposed to stay topside to call for help the moment he was signaled.

Maybe Steve was delusional in his last moments. Eddie mentioned that he was hallucinating from the blood loss when it happened to him.

"Steve. Keep your eyes on me," Eddie's voice was panicked. "God, you always have to spring into action, huh? Can't wait ten seconds for someone to help."

"Ed."

Steve could make out the outline of his head, but not details.

"'S what 'm good for."

"That's bullshit."

And then everything went black.

Steve's only thought was that he wished the last things he heard weren't those words.

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

His head was pounding again, and the incessant beeping surrounding him wasn't helping.

"If it hurts, don't open your eyes."

The voice sounded an awful lot like Eddie.

"Mm. Thirsty," Steve whispered.

"I got you," Eddie's hand was on the back of his head, gently lifting, while the other must have been holding a cup of room temperature water to his lips. "Little sips."

Steve didn't think much of what was going on. If this was the afterlife, at least he had someone taking care of him.

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

The next time Steve was conscious, his head wasn't pounding and he could tell the room around him was dark.

He opened his eyes, slowly taking in the hospital room.

Eddie was asleep in the chair next to his bed.

He looked uncomfortable.

Steve tried to shift onto his side, but a lightning bolt of pain shot from his shoulder to his knee, and he couldn't quite contain the gasp he let out.

Eddie's eyes shot open as he stood from the chair, leaning over Steve to see what hurt.

"Shit, are you okay?" Eddie asked as his hands hovered over Steve's heavily wrapped up body.

"Mhm. Jus' hurt," Steve managed to say, his voice raspy. "How?"

"How long have you been out?" Eddie waited for Steve's nod to continue. "First bit was about three days, then you woke up for a minute yesterday."

"Alive?"

"Yeah," Eddie's tone shifted to something more serious, darker. "But no thanks to you. You're good for a lot more than standing in front of monsters, Stevie. You know that, right?"

Steve shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda."

Eddie's hands gently cupped his face, eyes softening as Steve focused on him.

"You're more than a weapon. You're more than an expendable body. You understand me?" Eddie's voice shook as Steve gave a short nod. "You're my world. I can't see my world end."

"I am?"

"Despite my best efforts of trying to move on from the stupid crush I had on you, yeah," Eddie sighed. "Nursed me back to health and made me fall in love with you."

"Not bullshit?" Steve's eyes felt heavy, but he had to fight it, had to have this talk with Eddie before he passed out again.

"Never. You're everything, Steve Harrington. And when you can keep your eyes open for more than two minutes, I'm gonna kiss you so hard it bruises."

Steve smiled as his eyes closed.

Eddie's hands carried him out of hell and into forever.

[moon-huny]

Stole the Moon - Chapter One

CW: My content is not for anyone under 18. Mostly suggestive flirting and mentions of kidnapping and imprisonment. Reader character has sustained head injury. Oh, you also get choked. Buggy is an a-hole, but that's why we all love him.

Word Count: 2K

Summary: You've been kidnapped and can't remember a thing. Good news! Ole Captain Buggy is here to make you feel more like yourself.

A/N: Alright this is my first ever fan fiction to grace the website we all know and love. I originally wanted to be a fic writer when I joined tumblr, and now, my time has finally come. This Buggy is very much based off of OPLA, since I never actually got into the anime until recently. Tying to keep him in character, but the plot is very much of my own design.

Being new to this, I would love any feedback you might have. Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome, and would make my little heart sing. Okay, that's all, enjoy.

masterlist ✧˖°

• next

“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up.” 

You woke to his voice. Your eyes slowly opening – or attempted to open – before becoming conscious of a stabbing aching pain racking your skull. You rolled over on your side, cradling your head in your hands and shutting your eyes tight. The soft candle light in the dark of your room eased the pain, but whatever relief you found was immediately wiped out by the shrill sound of him speaking.

“Ya know, I thought they killed you.” You could hear his heavy steps pacing the room, the sound too loud, his voice too harsh. He spoke with such levity, a certain air of nonchalance in his tone. He thought this was funny.

“I mean, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy getting you aboard my ship,” he paused, grabbing a chair and dragging it across the floor. A high pitched sound emitting from wood scraping wood – a sound he made on purpose just to cause more pain. You winced.

“But I didn’t think my crew hurt you this badly.” A tone of mock concern fell from his lips. “You must have put up a real knock out fight.”

He sat across from you. Spreading his legs and leaning over to get closer. Your body was curled up on a poorly made and uncomfortable plank of wood some might dare to call a bed. The “blankets” around you were nothing more than used burlap and tattered bits of sail.

He got quiet, you heard the ocean and people stomping and shouting above you. Then, so quietly, just above a whisper, “I don’t usually keep damaged goods, but you’re much better off lying here than wreaking havoc on my ship.”

It took all your strength to peel open your eyes and pull your hands away from your head. Breathing heavily, you pushed yourself upright. The clench in your jaw both from the pain you were in and the anger you felt.

Through your blurry vision, you could just barely make out a red nose. His eyes were piercing green, like the ocean after a storm. The clown makeup, the bright blue hair, you’d seen his wanted poster before.

Buggy the Clown – wanted for 15,000,000 Berry.

“I’ll burn this whole ship down,” you said. “I’ll sink it to the bottom of the East Blue.” 

Your threat came out much weaker than you intended. You were fighting nausea and an intense dizziness you were struggling to keep under control. It seems the clown caught on. He gently pushed his palm into your forehead with a flourish causing you to fall back down onto the bed gripping either side of your head in your hands.

“Aw see,” he said, standing to lean over your body. “That’s why you’re gonna stay right here,” he said, punctuating the last two words.

He made his way to the exit and grabbed the barred door. He pulled it shut with a loud clatter. You felt the metal sound resonate in your skull causing you to push your palms into your eyes.

“Night night, doll! We’ll chat some more tomorrow.” A loud cackling laugh resounded down the hallway. It made you want to scream.

///

And so, he came back to torture you everyday. Never brought you food or water, instead opting to send random crew members each visit. He didn’t want you making any friends. The only constant was one meal at night and a prompt visit from him following. He never said much, and if he did, you could hardly recall what you spoke about.

You started feeling better. You were able to get up, start walking around your prison. You clocked that you’d been at sea only four days. One porthole you could see out of – if you climbed some precarious boxes – told you you were in the middle of nowhere. Far away from any visible land.

The sun was setting, the sky turning a gorgeous orange color and the ocean turning pink in return. His boots thumped down the stairs, you could hear him shouting up towards the deck, “Hey, shit for brains, if I didn’t make myself clear earlier, I want to be docked in that harbor YESTERDAY! GET. A. MOVE ON!” 

Wherever this circus boat was headed, it was moving fast, but clearly not fast enough. What was the hurry? What was the clown’s goal? And with so little in the cargo hold … It wasn’t like he had a huge haul. Were we being followed by another ship? You didn’t ever see anyone from your tiny window, and the conversations above were so muffled that gathering any kind of intelligence was near impossible.

“HONEY, I’M HOME!”

You ran from your porthole back onto the bed, pulling the blankets up around you. You did your best to slow your breathing and pretend you were asleep.

“Oh sweets,” he sighed, draping himself through the bars. “I know you’re awake.”

The smile you knew he had on, the sickeningly sweet way he spoke to you, it made you angry. You heard the door unlock and slowly swing open. 

You were feeling stronger. Though the ship was in the middle of nowhere, if you could just surprise him, lock him up long enough to get to a lifeboat. You could get away.

“Doll, enough games, okay? It's only fun when I want to play, and I really don’t feel like playing with my toys right now.”

He got closer, close enough you decided. You sprang from the bed making a move to pull any number of the knives from his belt. As you grabbed for his waist, you felt a gloved hand wrap itself around your throat and push you against the wall.

“Oh ho ho, you have GOT to be KIDDING.” He laughed hysterically. “I mean wow, honey, I knew you were bold but I didn’t take you for an idiot,” he spat the last insult inches from your face tightening his grip. Your hands flew up to his wrist attempting to loosen the strangling grip he had on you.

His body pressed to yours, his knee slotting itself in the space between your legs. You were fully pinned, unable to move with the full weight of the pirate against you.

That’s when you heard the long knife unsheathe itself from his belt. The sharp metal pushing into your side. Your eyes, once full of defiance, widened to reflect the fear you felt. Your eyebrows pressing together in a pleading look as your lungs burned, the need for air growing stronger.

“Mhmm, I knew I’d like that face on you,” he whispered. “You gonna be a good girl if I let you go?” You nodded slowly, then felt the knife push impossibly further to the flesh of your hip. The nod quickened, your eyes clamping shut, preparing for the worst.

Then, he let you drop. Your hands flying to your throat, bruising surely setting in, as you gasped for air.

“I told you, doll, not in the mood to play,” he said, sheathing the weapon. “I have something I need from you.”

He nodded in the direction of the small table and stools. You hesitantly pulled yourself upright, sharpened gaze never once leaving his larger figure. You were like a mouse in a cage with a snake – look away and you might be his next meal.

You sat across one another as he pulled a map from his coat. His large gloved hands smoothed the cotton-soft paper out in front of you. The candlelight flickered over the page, the night finally setting in, the air growing colder. 

The thin slip-like dress you wore did barely enough to retain your modesty. You pulled your arms across your chest, staving off the cold and attempting to cover your chest. Sitting there with him eyeing you across the table, you became more aware of your body and the night air prickling your skin. If he was attracted to your shape, he didn’t show it.

“You know what this is?” he asked.

“A map,” you replied flatly.

He laughed. “Funny, sweetheart. Yeah, your captain knows it’s – .”

“YOU are NOT my captain,” you spat back before he could even finish his sentence.

The smile spread further across his face, “If you aren’t joining my crew then you'll stay my prisoner.”

“Is that what this is about, you want me to join your band of seafaring freaks?” You were picking a fight you knew you couldn’t win. He knew it too.

“I think I made myself very clear but, if you need a little extra explaining, I don’t mind. You did hit that pretty head very hard a few weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” You did your best to keep your voice even as panic began to settle in your chest. 

“Your…” it took a moment for him to find the right words, “temperament was difficult to say the least. If I thought getting you on board was hard, oh boy! Talk about keeping you quiet! But, it wasn’t anything a little sleeping powder couldn’t fix.” 

He’s cocky, he knew springing this information on you would leave you feeling confused and uncertain. Was every move he made this calculated? 

“We all got used to how quiet you were, so much … easier to watch.” His eyes traced up and down your frame. You got your answer, that remark was calculated and so was his decision to finally regard your attire.

He was stronger, he had more weapons at his disposal. The clown capitan knew he could say whatever he wanted, and there was hardly anything you could do about it. But that didn’t stop you from opening your mouth.

“What do you want with me and why the hell am I on your ship?”

All he could do was smile and chuckle in return, “That’s so funny, beautiful, truly. You are so much more entertaining when you're conscious. But, I’m going to need you to stop playing dumb, okay? It’s really starting to piss me off.”

His eyes were getting darker, his words sharpening. You were really starting to wish you knew what he was talking about but, god help you, you had no clue. You couldn’t remember how you got here, and now that you started racking your brain for answers, you realized you couldn’t remember anything about yourself. 

Your name? Yes. You knew that. Family? Nothing. Village? A small seaside town, but the details were fuzzy. Who were you before this? You didn’t even know how long you were at sea and now you can’t even remember the basics.

The confusion in your mind began to make itself plain on your face.

“Oh no,” his tone began to change, the grin dropping from his face. “No no no no no -- you really don’t know do you?”

You looked up and saw his expression contorted between realization and anger. “SHIT! No! Gah! This was not supposed to happen this way! God fucking DAMN IT!”

He pushed himself up from the table with a fury, and something you’d never seen him carry before, frustration. Up until now, the blue haired man had acted with such a confident air, but now, it seemed like everything was falling apart. You made no move to speak, just watched as he paced the room spitting various curses into the empty space.

Then he finally turned to you, slowly on his heels. “No, you know what, this is fine.” He smiled, collecting himself. “All of this is just fine.” He began to stalk toward you.

“You’re here, on my ship, and that is alllllll that matters right now.” He placed both hands down on the table in front of you, leaning over the map and getting dangerously close to your face.

“We will just have to work through this little hiccup together. Huh? What do you say?”

“You can go to hell. I don’t know anything about this map, or what you need from me. Any information you're looking for is gone because your moronic sideshow and its excessive force scrambled any memories I had,” you spat.

“Okay gorgeous,” his emerald eyes not breaking contact with your (e/c). “Suit yourself.” 

His tactics weren’t working, he knew it. It was time to change the game. Play from a different angle. You didn’t remember who you were, what you were, he’d help you remember, and maybe add a few memories into the mix. The mind was a fragile place, its chemistry could be changed so easily. Enough of the fear and frustration, it’s always easier to attract flies with honey than with vinegar.

[fairyniceyeah]

🌹🤍Day 18: "My body is one big ache"

@sicktember

Summary: Woosung is feverish, queasy and downright miserable. 

CW: emeto, talks of fainting

Sickie: Woosung/Sammy Caretaker: Hajoon/Dylan + Jaehyeong/Jeff + Dojoon/Leo

Woosung woke up shivering and icy cold.

When he opened his burning eyes he found the room bathed in darkness. It must still be pretty early, he supposed. A glance at his phone revealed that it was barely five am.

He still had about two and a half hours until his alarm rang but for some reason he doubted he would be able to go back to sleep. 

His body shivered again, a full jolt going through every nerve. There was no reason for him to be so cold, it was the middle of summer after all. But his body apparently didn’t get the memo. He was so cold.

It didn’t help that he only had the duvet cover on his bed, having abandoned the blanket itself a few nights ago because he had been sweating so much back then. Now he yearned for the exhausting heat that had coated his body in disgusting sweat. 

Not that he wasn’t sweaty now.

He groaned, realizing that if he wanted to fall back asleep he would need to get up and find the blanket. If he remembered correctly he had put it over his desk chair, right?

Glancing around by the light of his phone he saw that the blanket indeed was only on the other side of the room. He would just need to walk two meters at most and still it seemed an awfully long way. He hoped the warmth was worth it. 

Getting his heavy body in a sitting position was hard enough and he swayed dizzily even as he just sat at the side of the bed. For a moment he just rested his aching head in his hands, feeling how his forehead seemed to be the hottest thing in the room.

It made sense - he wasn’t supposed to be cold in August. If he was running a fever that was a good explanation. But he had no idea where the thermometer was. Did they even have one?

Getting the blanket would have to do. Slowly pushing to his feet so the dizziness wouldn’t overwhelm him was awful. Every part of his body seemed to ache. His head seemed to be full of wool and soupy thoughts. Every limb was heavy. 

He stumbled to the desk chair, nearly falling as he grabbed it to steady himself and it turned away. Crashing into the desk itself was the only thing stopping his fall. His hip bore the brunt of the impact and the throbbing pain brought tears to his eyes. 

Woosung took a deep breath and just held onto the blanket. His only goal was to get back into bed without face-planting on the floor. It didn’t matter to him that the blanket was trailing on the floor; it was less heavy that way. 

He collapsed onto the bed and just haphazardly pulled the blanket on top of himself. It was uncomfortable and tangled, some parts of his body covered and some kissing the cool air. Not that it was much warmer under the blanket.

🌹

Woosung wasn’t sure if he had actually fallen asleep at some point. It seemed like he had dangled in feverish limbo between painful wakefulness and restless sleep for hours. Even if he had been asleep it certainly hadn’t been restful. 

His hand shook as he turned off his alarm. The others would likely get up soon as well, their alarms were programmed for the same time frame. Woosung was pretty sure that Jaehyeong, never somebody who could get up at first try, would have pushed snooze for the third time now. Hajoon, diligent as he was, was probably already showering. Dojoon with all his energy would just jump up the moment his alarm sounded, later than anybody else's and still somehow always the first one ready. Woosung normally enjoyed hitting snooze once and then slowly getting ready. 

That day, however, all he wanted to do was get up and find another member who knew where the thermometer and the meds were. He suspected that out of everybody, Jaehyeong would have some. 

He knew the way down the stairs would suck, he knew that everything would be cold and that he’d feel terrible the whole way.

Maybe Dojoon, whose room was beside Woosung’s on the first floor, would be the easier choice. 

Woosung pushed himself up, nearly falling at the headrush that assaulted him as soon as he changed from horizontal to vertical, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and only stopped for a moment to put on some fuzzy sucks his eomma had gifted him. He all but fell when he lifted his feet to pull his socks over his freezing toes but leaning against his wardrobes saved him.

He stumbled over to Dojoon’s room and knocked on the door, pushing it open before he could receive an answer. His heart sank when he realized that the room was empty. As if to mock him, he then heard the shower turn on in the bathroom he shared with Dojoon. He was too late.

Desperate for relief and not wanting to continue to suffer alone, Woosung decided to brave the stairs. He clutched at the railing with one hand, the other holding the blanket around his shoulders. It had been a stupid decision to put on the socks - he very nearly slipped on the wooden surface with them a few times. 

🌹

By the time he had made it down half the stairs he was sweating like crazy, panting and his vision was turning spotty. Scared he’d faint and fall down the rest of the steps, he carefully lowered himself into a sitting position, resting his head on between his knees, leaning sideways against the wall.

Woosung had no idea how long he had sat there, freezing and shaking, when he heard a voice asking: “Hyung?”

He lifted his head and tried to focus his blurry vision on whoever had spoken. Jaehyeong?

“Sammy?”, Jaehyeong repeated and then suddenly he yelled: “Hajoon-ah! Dojoon-hyung!”

Woosung winced at the volume but the maknae’s cold hand on his forehead was a welcome relief. When he opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - he found Jaehyeong looking at him with worry in his eyes.

“Hey, hyung”, he said, “how are you feeling?”

“Awful”, Woosung rasped honestly. 

“Hm, you seem to be burning up.”

Right, that was why he had decided to come downstairs in the first place.

“Do we have a thermometer?”, he asked quietly. Jaehyeong’s hand on his face felt heavenly. The maknae looked incredibly worried though.

“What happened?”, Hajoon asked, out of a sudden kneeling beside Jaehyeong. When had he arrived? He was only wearing shorts and no t-shirt, water from his shower dripping down his face and back. Woosung shivered just seeing him.

“I found him like this”, Jaehyong explained, a worried and rushed quality to his voice, “he’s burning up.”

“It’s the middle of summer”, Hajoon said with a frown and reached up to feel Woosung’s forehead as well. He winced as his hand made contact. Woosung pulled away and placed his dizzy head on his knees, Hajoon’s hand uncomfortably warm.

“Summer flues do happen”, Jaehyeong said with a shrug, “why don’t you get him to the couch and I’ll see where we put the thermometer and medication.”

Hajoon nodded and Jaehyeong vanished. 

“Can you get up, hyung?”, Hajoon asked, voice overflowing with concern.

“Help me?”, Woosung asked shakily, already not looking forward to the nearly promised headrush.

Out of a sudden a hot flush took over Woosung, who for the first time that day felt warm. It wasn’t as pleasant as he had hoped, in fact it was mostly the opposite. His throat felt tight and saliva gathered in his mouth. He swallowed, hoping feverishly that it would vanish.

Hajoon didn’t seem to notice his struggle, reaching his hand out to Woosung’s shoulder. Before he could make contact, Woosung felt himself retch. It came on so quickly that all he could do was lean over and spread his legs as a rush of vomit splattered between his feet and onto his legs.

“Well, some warning would have been nice”, Hajoon mumbled with a sigh, holding onto Woosung’s shoulder so he wouldn’t fall over. 

“Sorry, I didn’t…”

Woosung coughed a bit, cursing internally as it caused another wave of stomach contents to come up, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For a moment all he could do was stare down at the dirty steps below him, his brain too tired to comprehend what had happened. He felt even worse now than he had before puking.

“Hyung, that’s disgusting”, Hajoon whined a bit, pulling his hand from his mouth. “Let’s get a towel. Jeff, go get some towels, stat!”

As if he had been summoned, Jaehyeong nearly immediately appeared holding the thermometer. His eyes widened in shock. “Shit, okay, yeah.”

“Can we go sit on the couch?”, Hajoon asked worriedly, turning his attention back to Woosung. The singer sighed, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He was so tired and the couch was so far away. But staying on the stairs, staring at his stomach contents also didn’t seem to be the greatest idea.

So he nodded, steadying his head with his hands as everything swam around him.

“Dizzy?”, Hajoon guessed. Woosung waved his hand in a vaguely agreeing gesture and held his head still until the vertigo had passed again. 

Hajoon helped him scoot to the other side of the step he was sitting on, so there was less risk of stepping into vomit. He held out his hands and Woosung grasped them, trying to pull himself up with Hajoon’s help. But all his strength seemed to have vanished and he barely got himself more upright before he had to stop.

“Are you going to faint if I lift you?”, Hajoon asked gently, crouching down to look Woosung into the eyes. Concern was written all over his face.

“Maybe”, Woosung admitted, wetting his cracked lips with his tongue. 

“Let’s move down until we’re at the bottom of the stairs, okay?”, Hajoon suggested, resting his hand on Woosung’s knee. “Less risk of us both falling down the stairs if you do.”

🌹

It was humiliating. Scooting down the stairs on his ass, one step at a time like a child. Woosung wanted to cry, and he would have if it wasn’t so exhausting. By the time they reached the bottom, he was ready to just curl up in a shivery ball of pathetic human and stay there.

Jaehyeong came back but Woosung didn’t dare lift his eyes up to him. There was a mumbled conversation between the two younger members but Woosung blended them out. His head was pounding in his skull and his stomach, now that it had started, felt very unsteady still.

“I’m gonna lift you up from the back, okay? My grandmother used to fall a lot, that’s what we used to do”, Jaehyeong said with a sigh, patting Woosung’s knee to get his attention. 

“I’m ill, not old”, Woosung protested half-heartedly, a bit offended. 

“Yeah, but we still would rather that none of us fall”, Jaehyeong replied, “try to let us know before you faint.”

“Hm.”

Jaehyeong hooked his arms below Woosung’s armpits, carefully pulling him to his feet. Hajoon stood by, ready to catch them should one of them lose their balance. They nearly made it into a standing position before Woosung started to see black spots dancing in his vision and he felt himself start to sway.

He didn’t even need to say anything as immediately Hajoon was there, lifting Woosung under his knees and below his back, hefting him up to his chest. His vision went black but Woosung was sure he hadn’t really passed out. He dropped his head on Hajoon’s shoulder and let himself be carried to the couch. 

The cool leather was soothing against his burning skin for just a few seconds before it became uncomfortable. He curled into himself, trying to minimize the space where his sensitive skin touched anything. 

“Hi, hyung. Can you look at me for a moment?”, Hajoon asked gently, brushing back Woosung’s hair back. The older opened his eyes - since when were they burning? - and blinked up at the two Hajoon’s he saw until the left morphed into the right one.

“You’re really out of him, huh? Let me take your temperature.”

Hajoon placed the thermometer under Woosung’s tongue and entangled their fingers while they waited. 

“39.1°C”, the drummer read, “sounds about right.”

🌹

“What’s going on here?”, Dojoon’s voice suddenly called from the steps. “Who’s sick?”

“Sammy”, Hajoon replied loudly, causing Woosung to wince at the sound. A shushed apology followed. 

“Oh, hey”, Dojoon greeted as he rushed to the couch, falling to his knees next to Hajoon and instantly starting to caress Woosung’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

“My body is one big ache”, Woosung mumbled and sighed. It was true. His head and stomach were both hurting in equal measures. His skin was still prickling and uncomfortable everywhere and his muscles were incredibly sore. He just wanted to cry, if he was honest.

“Sammy-ah”, Dojoon cooed, “you’re really not feeling well, huh?”

Woosung shook his head. 

He was so tired too, he noticed when his eyes slid shut. He wanted to sleep so badly, wanted to not feel miserable anymore. 

“Hey, stay awake for a second, okay?”, Hajoon asked tenderly, squeezing his hand. “Do you think you could take some meds?”

Woosung shook his head again. He didn’t think he could keep anything down with the way his stomach was aching. He was sure he would be sick again in the near future but he really hoped he could just sleep.

Dojoon sighed and then stood up. For a moment Woosung thought he was going to leave - and why did that make him want to cry? - but then Dojoon lifted Woosung’s upper body into his lap, letting him curl up there. It helped the aching skin tremendously and the small head massage Dojoon started at his temples felt amazing. He was about to drift off again when a voice spoke up again.

“I’m going to put the bucket here by your head, okay?”, Jaehyeong said. Woosung wasn’t sure when he had returned but he appreciated the gesture. “We’ll call the manager and cancel the schedules. You just rest.”

Woosung sleepily nodded and closed his eyes.

Notes: Big thanks to @sickiecloud who beta-read this and gave me the plot idea in the first place!

Masterlist links: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's Sicktember 2024

[bellarkeselection]

We already had tony with a pregnant wife, now can we have tony and the wife having a beautiful baby boy? I'm totally in love with your tony

Mini Tony Stark

Tags @mcugeekposts @underoostarks @rosie-posie08 @makeshift-prime

Most people never imagined Tony Stark as a father. He had quite a reputation of being a billionaire playboy that would spend most of his spare time in his lab or be off saving the world as Iron Man. But no matter what his next project was he has been there for me through all the steps of the pregnancy even if I really didn't think he needed to come sometimes. Tony rolled me through the hospital hallway while my fingers were death gripping the handles of the wheelchair. "Athony, urgh!...you have no idea how much I hate and love you right now!"

"Listen, baby, I know you want to rip my head off right now. But think about all the preparations we have been doing for the baby. We get to bring home a little bundle of joy that is all our own." He rounded the chair with the nurses coming on either side of me helping me up into the bed with me baring my teeth in pain down my back.

Once I was settled on the bed and changed into a hospital gown it was quite a few hours of painful contractions. Honestly I just wanted the contractions to be over with already. This was our first baby and I was completely terrified and excited all at once. "Tony....please tell me you did not go get a cheeseburger." I grumbled not being able to have any food since I was now induced into the hospital labor. So my heightened senses could almost clearly locate that he was hiding the fact that he had left the room to get some food.

"Maybe....but don't get mad because I saw these in the store and thought you would like them." He opened a bag revealing a blue tea shirt with iron man on the front and another shirt that was pink for a girl that looked like Natasha as Black Widow.

Wiping away some tears that were falling down my face I was so excited for either option. "Awe Tony....ah geez shit!" We decided to not know the gender until the day of so we were losing our patience on this baby coming.

"It's okay, Y/n. It's gonna be alright I'm not going anywhere." He dropped the bag immediately coming over to grasp my hand in his. We had gotten married basically the day after he announced he was Iron Man but I wouldn't change anything about it.

A doctor and some nurses quickly came into our room coming to see if I was ready to push since we had been at the hospital for almost two days but I still hadn't given birth yet. "Good news, Mrs. Stark. You're now where we want you to be. You can start pushing in a few moments here."

"Tony, I'm scared. What if something goes wrong. What if we lose the baby. What if-" He cuts off my nerves cupping my face in his hands so I'd stare into those deep brown eyes that I could get lost in if I so tried every second if the universe would let me so.

The superhero shakes his head trying to remain calm for me. Yet I could read that he was more nervous than I was. He didn't have to worry about just the little human we created inside of my belly. No, he had to also worry about the love of his life too. He runs his fingers through my hair getting it out of my eyes seeing that the doctor and nurses were now dressed for the birth. "Alright Mrs. Stark you can start pushing now."

Gripping my husband's hand in my right I moved my left to death grip the bedsheets on the other side of me beginning to push which was honestly the hardest thing I have ever had to do. There was heavy sweat coming down my forehead and I had lost count by how long I must have been pushing for. My throat was raw and sore from the screaming. "You're doing great honey. The baby is almost here." Tony was doing his best to reassure me.

"Until you have to push a human being out of where you pee I don't think you get to say how good I am doing - oh you-" I cut myself off almost passing out from how tired I was. Laying my head against my husband's chest the doctors were giving me a quick moment to breathe but the baby still had part of its body inside of me sp I wasn't out of the woods yet.

Tony opened his mouth to say something but he paused until an idea popped into his genius head that he knew he would be getting into trouble for later. He turns my chin so I was looking at him and not the medical people seeing that they were stressing me out more than I already was apparently. "Awe come on Y/n. You don't remember the night we conceived this little boy or girl. I mean I think you were more than enjoying yourself when you said the words, oh Tony faster. Don't stop I need you to make love to me. I want you to-"

"Anthony Stark, how dare you talk about our martial life in front of - oh..." I quickly shut up, wanting to slap my lover across the face so much. My face fell like it had become even redder before he ever brought the night of our wedding that we first slept together. Giving the last few big pushes that I could the doctor finally caught our baby raising to hand the infant off to the nurses so they could clean it and tell us the gender.

"You did amazing, sweet wife. I love you." Tony dropped down on his at my bedside pressing his lips onto my forehead then giving me a kiss on the lips to calm me down.

Leaning into the kiss I gripped his shoulders breaking the moment and flinging my arms around his neck sobbing tiredly into his shoulder blade. "I love you too...is the baby okay?" He wrapped his arms around my waist glancing over in the direction of the infant.

Pulling slightly away from my husband I could see that he was crying more than I imagined he would be. "Actually honey I think we have twins. So we get to have two new member members of the Stark family."

"Congrats, Mr and Mrs. Stark. You have a boy and a girl." The nurse declared handing one of the babies to me and the other to my husband.

Moving my gaze downward I smiled through tears watching the baby boy in my arms. "I know a name, Tony. We should call him Robert."

"And this should be Morgan." He gestures his head at the sleeping baby girl in his arms grinning the biggest smile I had ever seen. Tony sat down on the edge of the bed handing me the other child or ours. Laying my head on his chest he mumbled before I fell asleep. "I bought you some cheeseburgers too."

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[pavlovleowrites]

From @jegulus-microfic prompty for August 22nd Vulnerable (588 words)

When Regulus gets hit by the bludger, he knows right away from the searing pain that he is about to pass out. A few hours later, as he wakes up inside the Infirmary, groggy and sore, it still gives him a sense of satisfaction to know he was right.

As his eyes flutter open and adjust to the lack of light, Regulus realizes three things : first, it is the middle of the night, two, that he must have had several broken bones that are currently mending — thanks to Mrs Pomfrey—, three, that James Potter is asleep in the chair next to his bed.

Of all these things, the one that twists his stomach the most was the presence of the sleeping boy. James is breathing softly, head falling forward on his chest and arms crossed, still wearing his Quidditch uniform, the golden Captain badge shining with the lowlights of a few candles lit around the Infirmary. He’s got a slightly disheveled appearance with his tousled brown hair and the way his glasses dangle dangerously at the end of his nose. His face is scrunched in discomfort. He looks so open and vulnerable at that moment.

WIthout thinking about it, Regulus finds himself reaching for the boy’s glasses, hoping to be able to put them on the side to avoid them falling off. The sharp pain that pangs from his elbow all the way to the end of his toes made him whine in distress. The sound must have been louder than he attended, because James' eyes shot open suddenly, and he surges forward to help him adjust.

«Don’t move, love, I’m so sorry, Marls got you bad. »

Regulus' only answer is a hum of pain, trying to reign him the awful tingling sensation that is cutting through his body like an army of knife leaving him defenseless.

« I’m so sorry Regulus, it was a dick move, I told her, I’m sorry. »

Regulus can see the distress in James’ big doe eyes, the hazel of his pupil shining brightly, tired.

« Why are you here ? » Regulus finally manages.

« I know you don’t like to wake up alone, and I figured it was my fault, my players, my responsibility you know ? »

Regulus inhales sharply, trying to process the pain as much as James’ words.

« Oh love, I’m so sorry, I was so worried. »

« You shouldn’t let people see how worried you are. »

James frowns but still asks softly, indulging, « why is that, love ? »

« They’ll know your weaknesses. »

The smile that splits James’ face is blinding. His whole gorgeous face lighting up.

« Oh but love, that’s why I’ve got you, when I’m vulnerable, I know you’ll be my strength. »

Something warm and pleasant spreads from through Regulus’s veins, his heart beating a bit quicker at the statement.

« Is that what you’re doing for me here ? »

« Oh no, don’t worry, love, even in your sleep there’s nothing vulnerable about you. » then with a cheeky smile, as one hand cradles Regulus’ cheek softly « there’s only one time I’ve known you to be vulnerable. »

« Oh really, and when was that ? » Regulus’ tone is quiet but playful as he leans into the feeling of James caressing his face.

« Maybe i should remind you if you forgot… » and the feather light brush of James’ lips against his own quickly dissolves into something more pressing. It numbs all the pain in his body.

In James’ arms, Regulus might be defenseless but he’s never felt so safe.

[autumnslance]

Year of the OTP - May 2023 - Illness

((Prompt List Here. A sick fic, but I avoid details on bodily fluids. 3200 words; a bit shorter than last month! ARR Late Patches.))

Thancred woke coughing, stomach heaving and head pounding like Amalj’aa war drums. His tongue was a slab of sandpaper in his sour mouth, and his stomach spasmed again, the acid rising.

“Here,” a familiar voice said, gentle hands guiding him toward a bucket just as another wave hit. What came out was mostly liquid, and tasted even worse than when it had gone down the night before.

The hands held him steady as he spent a few minutes retching, his minder rubbing the back of his neck.

And not the person he had been expecting.

He took the offered towel to wipe his mouth as she set aside the bucket. He didn’t want to look at her just yet. Not in this state.

“Water?” she asked.

“Please,” he answered. “Not quite ready for my coffee yet, I’m afraid.”

She huffed a brief laugh and stepped away, leaving him leaning over his knees. Sitting up, let alone standing, seemed a terrible idea. He heard the tap running in his little washroom.

From the direction of his fireplace, a piercing whistle sounded, the noise splitting his head, and she cursed in her native tongue as she rushed to stop it.

“What the hells was that?” Thancred asked through the renewed ringing and pounded in his skull.

“Tea kettle. Here,” she said, setting a tray on the nightstand.

There was a glass of water, and a cup of tea steeping now; it took him a moment to identify the scent. “Is that a ginger?”

“For the nausea. Start with the water, I’ll return soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

She gently squeezed his bare shoulder—someone had gotten his shirt and boots off—as she pressed the waterglass into his hands. Then she walked away, his door opening and clicking shut again.

Hells.

He sat on the edge of his bed and sipped the water, slowly, mindful of the empty bucket left nearby; she must have also dealt with that when getting the water. He wasn’t as observant as usual this morning.

So when Aeryn returned a few minutes later, he was sure to look up to give her at least a weak smile. As awful as he felt, she didn’t look much better. Her midnight hair was falling out of its cord, strands wisping around her drawn-in face. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her tanned complexion seemed ashen. She obviously hadn’t changed clothes recently, her rumpled red shirt in need of a good wash. She wasn’t wearing her usual tall boots, and he realized they had been left by his desk, her jacket slung over his chair.

She carried something steaming on a tray, and the scent of chicken broth set his empty stomach to rumbling.

“You’re too kind,” Thancred said. “Were you here all night?”

She set the tray down. “I helped Riol guide you here, but then he was called away on Braves business. You passed out before we got your boots off. I told him I’d stay, since Minfilia’s out.”

A cold sweat broke over him; he didn’t remember her arrival in the Rising Stones, didn’t remember returning to his room, didn’t remember because he had passed out…

“Can you eat?” she asked.

“I…I think so,” he managed to say, swallowing bile of another sort threatening to rise. “Is this…chicken soup?”

She nodded. “Had F’lhaminn make it. Chicken, hard-boiled egg, vegetables, noodles, salty broth, plain toast to help soak it up; all one needs to recover from a hangover. So say the alchemists back home.” Aeryn shrugged. “Always worked for my Papa, anyroad.”

He raised a brow at that as he stirred the broth; it was still rather hot. “A hard drinker, your father?”

She didn’t answer right away. “For a time, after Mama passed. Rashae—my eldest sister—convinced him to stop.”

“I see. Apologies, if I roused painful memories.”

Aeryn shook her head. “It just was.”

He cautiously ate a few spoonfuls. F’lhaminn had outdone herself on so simple a dish for his wretched sake, and his weakened stomach made it easy enough to eat slowly and savor it. He remembered the tea, and took a few sips there, too.

Thancred recalled why it had been so damned easy for Moenbryda to goad him into drinking that strange dark liquor she’d wheedled from a Mamool Ja trader.

“I thought you were in Thanalan?” Preventing yet another attempt at Ifrit’s summoning, that he yet again could not help with.

Aeryn nodded. “Soon as we’d dealt with Ifrit, we received word of Harriers moving a large number of crystals near Whitebrim, so made sure Iceheart wasn’t calling forth Shiva again. T’was a false alarm, thankfully.”

“Still, you must be exhausted, between all the fighting and teleporting.”

She smiled weakly. “I’ve had better weeks.”

“You don’t have to tend to me,” he said.

Aeryn gestured for him to keep eating the soup and drinking the tea, which he did. “You let Moen goad you.” The ‘again’ was unsaid, but present in her tone. “And you asked not to be left alone when you get too deep in your cups. So I stayed.”

It was usually Minfilia, or Yda; once Y’shtola, and she had been gentler than he had expected or deserved. He couldn’t bear to ask F’lhaminn, Papalymo, or Tataru, and he didn’t trust their newer members. Alphinaud was out of the question, when the lad was even present and not tending to his new Grand Company. Alisaie likewise wasn’t an option, even if she weren’t in the Waking Sands most often between her investigations. Urianger, too, was not present often enough, but had stayed the one time he could.

Not that Thancred tried to allow this to happen too often.

He had never dreamed of asking Aeryn to tend to him when he over-indulged. To try to keep him from going too far, imbibing too much—and failing that, helping him keep from losing more time, more memories, more of his control…

Aeryn collected his empty soup bowl and tea cup, passing him a refilled water glass. “A few more bells of rest, and you’ll be fine,” she said.

“Indeed; I feel much recovered for your ministrations already,” he said, giving her one of his more charming grins. It triggered the expected blush on her dusky cheeks, and if anything, showed how wan she herself was. “I shall take it easy today, but you must also promise you will take your rest, my friend.”

She nodded, stifling a yawn. “I have need of a shower and a long sleep myself.” She paused, looking at him biting his lip. “Go on, make your jape.”

He pretended to be affronted. “What? Surely you don’t expect me to suggest we save time and water by showering together! Why, t’would be untoward, my lady!” He gave her an exaggerated wink.

Her blush deepened and spread up her ears as she laughed. “Yes, you’re all right.” She collected her boots and jacket. “Oh, I did manage to find a new book in Coerthas—one of the merchants we aided had it on hand. Mayhap this evening we can give it a look.”

Thancred grinned. “Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. She smiled in return, and took her leave.

A plan to keep him occupied and not get into another drinking contest with Moenbryda. He bit back the uncharitable thought; Aeryn, being Aeryn, likely was simply thinking of their similar literary interests and the lively debates they tended toward. It would be a welcome distraction, from both their lovely colleague’s formidable stamina, and from Aeryn and her too-few blessed comrades facing off against such threats as primals for their sakes yet again.

—

Thancred bathed, changed his bedsheets, and slept more, having found that the extent of his capabilities—gods, what was in that western liquor?

He had no nightmares of cruelly laughing Paragons stealing his days and puppeteering his actions; just dreams of the ocean waves outside Vesper Bay, drowning out the Scions’ conversations, though their laughing camaraderie was visible from the distance he kept himself.

By evening Thancred felt sentient enough to make it to the common room. Moenbryda was thankfully not in this evening, apparently off to consult with Urianger. In fact, it seemed a good number of his colleagues were away, leaving him alone to sit at the bar as F’lhaminn came out of the kitchen.

“Hello, Thancred; feeling better?”

“I am, thank you. Next time Moen ropes me into a drinking contest, please stop me.”

“That’s the third time you’ve asked, and I’m sure you’ll again ignore any attempts on the fourth,” she replied dryly. “Feel up for dinner?”

“Please,” he said. “Have you seen Aeryn this eve? I should thank her, and she mentioned a new book besides.”

F’lhaminn shook her head. “Haven’t seen her since passing her that soup she insisted upon for you. I am glad it seems to have worked.”

“As am I.” He masked his disappointment; Eorzea’s champion was ever in demand for her time and attention, after all.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, chatting with his old friend, and eventually getting into a card game with some of the off-duty Crystal Braves. Thancred stuck with water, not even trusting a common ale after the previous night’s antics, and retired just slightly earlier than his usual post-midnight hours, and fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

—

When Thancred finally shuffled out of his room at what the rest of the world incorrectly considered a “reasonable hour”, he turned the corner and paused at seeing Aeryn slowly moving through the hall herself. Normally she was already far too full of far too much chipper energy at even earlier hours than this.

“Good morning,” he said as cheerily as he could manage before coffee. “I’m sorry to have missed you last night.”

She turned toward him, about to speak, but swayed so alarmingly he automatically reached out to grasp her arm.

“Are you all right?”

“‘M fine,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”

“Right as rain, in no small part thanks to you.” He could see how flushed she was, a light sheen of sweat on her skin though she shivered, and her eyes seemed almost glassy. He put the back of his hand to her cheek and then her forehead, with no flinch nor protest from Aeryn.

“You’ve a fever,” he said. “Back to bed with you.”

“I know, but I needed to get food and liquid…”

He turned her around and walked her back to her chamber. “I’ll handle that; I do owe you, after all.” He tried to sound charming and light about it. She made a weak sound of protest, but otherwise did not fight him. “I’ll be right back,” Thancred said.

Aeryn nodded, leaving the door unlocked. He actually had to make sure it latched properly.

Thancred strode with renewed purpose to the common room. “Ah, there you are,” F’lhaminn said. “I nearly put the last of breakfast away.”

“Set some aside if you wouldn’t mind,” Thancred said. “And do you have more of that soup from yesterday?”

F’lhaminn tilted her head. “I do, why?”

He pitched his voice lower. “Aeryn’s ill; bouncing from Thanalan to Coerthas and then home again seems to have taken a toll on even her resistance.”

“Poor dear; I’d wondered where she was. I’ll get her food and juice—some of that mint tea she likes when feeling poorly—and medicine and see to her. Thank you for—”

“Actually, I can take the victuals and medication to her, whilst you tend to your other duties.”

F’lhaminn’s coral eyes watched him over the rim of her glasses. “You’re hardly one to play nursemaid.” She then sighed. “This isn’t your fault, you know.”

He suppressed a wince. “Perhaps not, though I certainly didn’t help, and I do owe her. So if you don’t mind…?” He gave F’lhaminn his sheepish charming smile, the one she knew he used when wheedling a favor from her but often gave into anyroad.

“Very well; we can start with what’s available now, and I’ll bring more later on.”

Thancred nodded, and soon enough had a full tray to carry down the hall, balancing carefully to knock on Aeryn’s door, wondering—but doubting—if she had fallen asleep.

“Come in,” was the faint reply, and he quickly stepped inside.

She might have changed back into her sleeping shift, but it was difficult to tell as she was wrapped in a blanket. She sat upon a furnishing he wasn’t sure to call either a large armchair or a small sofa, set in front of her fireplace.

He had never actually been in here before; not since they’d each claimed their rooms and moved in, at least.

“You ought to go to bed,” he admonished, setting the tray down on the low table next to the sofa.

“Cold. But can’t get the fire going.”

“F’lhaminn will stop by with more, but for now there’s a draught for your fever and a light repast.” He turned to get the fire going for her.

Aeryn was dutiful about her medicine, downing half the tall glass of juice with it. “Thank you.”

“Of course; ‘tis the very least I could do. Is there aught else you need right now?”

That little crease between her eyebrows formed as she thought. “I could use the pillows from my bed. If you don’t mind? I don’t want to move if I mustn’t.”

“A far better patient than most,” he noted, walking around the partition splitting her bed from the rest of the apartment. “Dear gods!” She made an interrogative noise. “Commenting on the frankly obscene amount of pillows you keep.”

“It helps me sleep.”

“Well I’m not bringing all of them,” he said, choosing a couple of the large ones. “This ought to do, if you won’t lie down.”

“I can rest here,” she said. “Now that I have all I need, and you’ve got the fire going.”

“Huh. Usually around here it’s a fight to keep anyone abed when they ought to be resting.”

“Drives me up a wall,” she muttered, adjusting her pillows and blankets. “Risk more harm with injuries, prolong illnesses. S’stupid, for such a smart group.”

He laughed. “If nothing else, this fever has loosened your tongue.”

She blushed, ducking her head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, the candor is refreshing. ‘Tis an unusual mindset for an adventurer, I’d think.”

“Wasn’t always,” she said, propping her chin on her hand as she watched the fire. “I studied magic, but everyone thought I ought to formally study alchemy, ‘specially after nursing my mother.”

“Ah. Got used to taking care of others that way, then?”

“And myself. I didn’t,” she hesitated. “I don’t like to be a bother.”

“My dear, the last thing you are is a bother,” he said sincerely, and smiled as she blushed again. “And on that note, is there aught else you need at the moment?” She hesitated, that blush deepening and spreading further. “Come now; out with it. You’ve already seen me at my worst, if it helps.”

“S’nothing like that, I just…Um. Could you maybe…stay? And read with me? I’m not going to be able to sleep yet but dunno that I can focus well enough on my own and I don’t wanna be bored and…” she shrugged as she trailed off.

“Rambling, even, with this illness,” he teased. “But very well. I must admit, I was disappointed we missed our reading last night, but we can make up for it now.”

She smiled gratefully. He brought the desk chair over, found the book with a little direction—her pack was more of a stuffed mess than he’d expected—and ended up doing most of the reading, as Aeryn listened and offered her comments and opinions as usual.

F’lhaminn checked in, bringing more soup and tea for them both. She said little except a reminder that Aeryn needed to rest, and debating character motivations and plot impacts in a novel stopped counting with as animated and argumentative as the pair could get.

“She’s not wrong,” Thancred said after F’lhaminn left, as Aeryn sipped her tea. “I should let you get some sleep. We can talk more when you’re feeling better.”

Aeryn made a face, but nodded. “Thank you, for staying.”

“Of course. Need anything before I go?”

“Make sure the fire lasts, if you don’t mind? I’m just going to sleep here.”

“Very well.” Thancred said, checking on the logs and prodding them into a longer, slower burning arrangement as she adjusted her nest of blankets and pillows.

“Thancred? Might I ask a…delicate question?” she asked, already sounding drowsy.

“By all means.”

“I’ve been wondering, since yesterday…does it bother you?”

He tensed. “Does what bother me?” He thought of the dark gap in his memory of the night before last, and of the few others preceding it, and before that the too long, too dark loss of time and control and…

“The scar.”

He frowned. “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” He recalled that his shirt had been removed along with his boots; he had not always had an easy life, the reminders of that scattered across his skin. It was not the first time he had been bare-chested before a comrade, but he didn’t have anything recent that was particularly interesting or eye-catching.

“The one I left on you. When,” she hesitated.

“…Ah.” That one.

Part of his waking and realizing how much time he had lost, what all that bastard had done, had been finding out how damaged his body was afterwards; Lahabrea had neglected to do much eating or sleeping, and it had taken its toll.

There was also a magically-enhanced rapier cut on Thancred’s chest, from when Aeryn had driven the Ascian out of his body.

“Happily, the Elder Seedseer and Y'shtola are rather adept with healing magics. Though I must say, obtaining such an impressive mark from the Warrior of Light and having lived to tell the tale is quite the boon when speaking to ladies,” he said, keeping his tone teasing.

“I just…I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be; I shan’t ever be able to repay what you did for me.” He continued to poke the fire. “You know, I’ve never asked; did I leave any marks upon your lovely frame?”

“That was Lahabrea,” she said through a yawn. “You’d never willfully hurt one of us.”

He sucked in a breath, a sharp ache in his chest at that trusting response. “I’d like to think not,” he said quietly. “Yet I was the tool which he used. And you did not answer.”

She still did not. When he finally turned to look, her eyes were closed, though he was certain she was not actually asleep yet.

“All right,” he conceded. He made certain she had water near at hand, and turned down the lights. He paused at the door to look back, and was fairly certain even in the dim light that she was surreptitiously watching him. “Rest well, Aeryn,” he said as he left.

He stood outside her room for a long moment, knowing it was only late afternoon, perhaps early evening. Part of him wanted a drink. A greater part of him knew that was a bad idea, especially with one of those few he trusted to watch over him now ill herself, after already tending to his inebriation.

Perhaps a sparring match with Hoary would serve as a distraction. Thancred ambled down the hall, rubbing at the spot on his chest where under his shirt sat the scar from the friend that had pulled him out of the dark.

[actualbuckybames]

Hey! I saw the art you posted for the Bucky time-travel fic and I was wondering if you had more stuff in the works for that?

Hey! Thanks for taking an interest. No art on the docket, but here's a good chunk of the first chapter if you're interested.

---

Bucky drags his eyes open and lets his gaze roam the room, or what he can see of it from his back. Nothing about it is familiar. If Steve carted his unconscious ass back to London, why not just stick Bucky back in his hotel room? Or, more likely with how awful he feels, in a nearby hospital?

He takes in an old wardrobe missing a door, a dark doorway, an occupied chair, and a window with the curtains drawn and a small chest of drawers resting below it. Peeling wallpaper. Patchy rugs. Pretty quaint. Rustic, even. Nothing about it makes him think London. There’s daylight seeping in around the curtains, though, adding to the firelight that’s making the stranger’s shadow move all over the wall even though the man himself is completely still.

Bucky blinks. Occupied chair. Stranger. He’s not alone, and hell, he must be utterly fucked to not have realized that until now. His heart starts to pound. He’s under covers and he’s pretty sure he’s only in pants. His weapons are nowhere in sight. The most dangerous thing in reach is a pillow.

“You survived.” The stranger’s voice is low, rough, but oddly familiar in a way Bucky can’t place. Upon hearing English, though, he finds himself relaxing, even though the guy sits across from him with shoulders bowed by the weight of the world. Bucky can’t make out his features in the flickering light with that shoulder-length brown hair in the way.

He blinks and it takes effort to open his eyes after they close. His eyelids scrape like sandpaper and his tongue is heavy, but now that he knows he’s not alone and not with Steve he fights off the alluring pull of sleep.

“Who are you?” He licks his cracked lips. “Where am I?” His voice rasps in his throat and the stranger stands. Bucky tracks him as he disappears into a small side room. There’s the sound of a door opening, and—several seconds later—a shiver-inducing rush of cool air that the fire can’t immediately banish. Did…did he just leave?

Well, Bucky’s alone now. Maybe the guy’s going to get a doctor now that Bucky’s awake. Maybe he’s some kind of double agent and Bucky’s about to have company. Either way, he’s not going to have a better chance to escape than this. No telling how the mission turned out, but Steve and the others are probably still looking for him. He’s gotta let them—let Steve—know he’s okay before Steve does something stupid.

He throws back the covers pinning him down, swings his legs around, and braces himself to stand with his left hand. Only, nothing takes his weight, and after a split second of disbelief he topples onto his left side. Agony explodes from his shoulder and he cries out, confusion and pain swirling together into a haze that threatens to pull him under. Vaguely, he’s aware he’s hit the floor. He tries to breathe, tries to will away the black threatening to pull him under. His mind is a fraying rope pulled taut; he curls in on himself until the line slackens and the black recedes.

Sweat beads on his brow. His every breath makes his chest ache so badly it brings tears to his eyes but he can hardly stay hunched in on himself on the floor. How long until the stranger comes back?

He gets his right arm under him and pushes himself up onto his knees. Dizziness sweeps through him and he leans back against the bed he’d fallen from until he’s sure he’s not going to fall again. Only then does he let his gaze slip to his left side.

For a second, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Rather, he doesn’t understand why he’s seeing it. He shouldn’t be able to see the floor right there. His arm should be there. His arm…isn’t there.

He tries to flex the fingers on his left hand. Twinges of pain shoot out from his shoulder and his brain tries to tell him that something moves, but his eyes see the truth. Vertigo rocks him again, this time partnered with overwhelming nausea. Oh, god. His arm. His arm.

There’s a bucket in front of him. He doesn’t know how it got there and he doesn’t care; he retches and heaves, tears finally falling from his eyes from both the vomiting and the fresh pain it causes. His stomach is empty so the only thing that comes up is acrid bile. It burns his throat, his tongue, his lips. When the waves subside, he spits, but the taste won’t leave.

“Drink.”

Watery eyes reduce the world to a blur but he grabs the thing offered to him. A glass—of water. Icy cold water, he realizes when he takes a sip, but he grimaces through it to wash out his mouth. Most of it he spits out into the bucket. Then, realizing how parched he is, he drains the rest. His stomach flips at that and he leans over the bucket with his stomach in his throat but manages to swallow it down. Everything tips and swims for a second before resolving into a pounding behind his eyes. He hasn’t felt this at war with his own body since—

Since Kreischberg.

He wipes away the snot he’d collected on his face for his efforts with a shaking hand and peers up at the stranger, who looks way too calm for a guy who just walked back in to find him vomiting into bucket.

“M-my arm,” he manages. He can’t even voice the full question. The man’s face is blank. He understands, right? There’s no hint of sympathy or hostility in his eyes. But he spoke English earlier, and he did it with an American accent, and the water was helpful, so he’s gotta be an ally. Right? Down an arm and so weak he’s trembling at the thought of standing, Bucky prays that’s the case because there’s not a damn thing he can do if the man’s anything else.

“It’s gone.” The man takes the bucket and sets it aside. Bucky, now very mindful of how unbalanced he feels, uses the bed to lever himself to his feet with his arm. His one arm. He promptly collapses backwards onto the bed, but it’s an improvement from being on the floor. The stranger doesn’t offer help; he simply moves, manhandling Bucky until he’s leaning upright against the headboard. “You need more water. And food.”

He takes the glass and leaves again. There must be a pump outside. Probably woulda been better to use the bucket for stocking up on refills…the bucket that’s currently filled with puke. Right. Probably not the bucket.

Closing his eyes, he finds himself in the shallows of the river, feeling its insistent tug as it laps at his shins. If he lets it take him, he’s not waking up anytime soon. But he needs to stay awake. Needs to know where he is. Where Steve is. Steve-who-couldn’t-reach-him-in-time. Steve-who-watched-him-fall.

When he opens his eyes, the stranger is back, this time with a plate. He’s not holding a glass, but Bucky sees a full one on the nightstand. Had he fallen asleep? Idiot.

The stranger offers the plate. Bucky goes to take it with muscles he doesn’t have any more and his ruined shoulders spasms with pain. Sparks dance across the room and he manages to choke down a scream into a strangled groan while he hunches over, right hand twitching near his left shoulder but afraid to touch. Afraid to feel.

Eventually, someone else’s touch on his right shoulder eases him back into the pillows against the headboard. “I’ll hold it.”

Exhausted indignation gives him the strength to hold up his right hand. He’s not a baby. He can, in this tiny stupid instance, take care of himself. “I can hold it.”

His voice is so scratchy and threadbare that he barely gets the words out before he breaks into a coughing fit. Water first, he tells himself, and when he recovers he sees the stranger has exchanged the plate for exactly that.

He glares the stranger down until the guy—still maintaining that damnable equanimity—acquiesces. The glass, when it’s in Bucky’s remaining hand, is covered in condensation and remarkably shaky. He wills his hand to steady to no avail. Before the stranger can say anything, Bucky brings it to his lips and takes a few short sips. Though water spills over the edges and runs down his chin, most of it gets where it needs to go. It flows down his throat and pools like ice in his stomach, making him shiver. At least none of it threatens to come back up.

He lowers the glass to rest it against his leg, where it’s a bit steadier. He reflexively attempts to bring his other hand over to hold it, earning for his efforts another eye-watering ache throughout his chest.

“You’re near Bucharest,” the stranger says. There’s something…wrong with his eyes, now that Bucky’s looking, now that he’s speaking. Nothing physical, but. Something. “What do you remember?”

He looks away from those empty eyes and frowns at his lap. That’s not an easy question to answer. This stranger isn’t dressed like a soldier, and even though his features look really familiar—Bucky’s positive he’ll be able to place him once the fog in his brain decides to lighten up—there’s no guarantee he’s trustworthy enough to tell about the Commandos’ operation to capture Zola. He tries answering with a question to see if he’ll get an idea of just who this guy is.

“Bits and pieces. You rescued me, right? You know who I am?”

The stranger nods, eyes flicking to where Bucky’s tags rest under his shirt. “James Buchanan Barnes.” Okay, well, that’s not helpful. Does this guy know him as James Buchanan Barnes, injured American soldier with a convenient nametag around his neck, or James Buchanan Barnes, injured Howling Commando? “You serve with Captain America.”

Finally, an answer. “Yeah. I do. Where is he? Is he safe?”

The stranger glances out the window, a look Bucky can’t interpret rolling across his face before it clears and he looks back at Bucky. “Enough.”

Cryptic. Concerning. “He’s alive, right?”

“Yes.”

“Looking for me.” It’s not a question. Steve would look. He’d finish the mission and he’d—

“He thinks you’re dead.” It hits like a punch to the gut, leaving Bucky speechless. The stranger stares down at his own gloved hands, voice monotonous, like he’s somehow had reason to say this before. “Even if he could’ve retraced his steps and tracked down where you landed, the Russians would have found you first.”

Dead. Steve thinks he’s dead. “He didn’t…Azzano.”

For the first time, the stranger’s expression cracks, but it’s smoothed over as soon as it shows. “That was different.”

Even though Bucky knows he’s lying down in a bed, he feels the room swaying around him. There’s gray at the edges of his vision creeping in, ice over water. Dead.

The last thing he feels is the tug of the stranger taking the glass before his slackening grip can let it topple over.

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

All paths lead here. Part seven

Master list

A little more Smut in this one but not loads.

Conflicted Anakin.

Morning came too fast, the bright sun beaming through the open curtains. You groan at the sound of a communicator beeping in another room. Anakin shifts beside you, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He looks back at you, a smile forming on his face. This was right. He thought to himself. A feeling of an incoming presence catches his mind. Anakin dresses quickly.

"My Padawan is approaching. You should dress my love." He kisses your hair before marching into the living area. His Padawan stands by the elevators.

"Good morning Snips." Anakin bounced over to her.

"Master, are you…um Master Kenobi is on his way up." She looked around herself.

"Good, I need to speak to you both." He shows Ahsoka to the sofas and asks if she would like some tea. The fourteen year old accepts and waits, knowing in her chest her world will shatter at any moment.

You awake and dress stepping out to the living area.

"Good morning Ahsoka. Excuse me, I have some work I need to get on with." You leave them for your study. There was no work to do, but you could feel the tension in the room between them.

The lifts ding and Obi-Wan steps into the apartment. Anakin took in a long breath, searching for the right words. His master stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"We have unfortunate news this morning. Where is the Senator?" The elder man asked. Anakin kills his thoughts of leaving the order when his master explains the situation.

"Padme gathered intel that new battle.droids are being made on Geonosis." Obi-Wan explained, "we have to go."

"If you're going to war, how can I go with you? I have no skills for battle." You don't want to panic.

"We will teach you, there will be plenty of clone troopers. Yoda has agreed to assign you your own garrison. They will protect you but also train you in the use of blasters and battle plans. Anakin and I can teach you other things," his eyes flick momentarily to Anakin, "you will be safe."

You agree.

"We will also not be the only Jedi fighting." Obi-Wan finished.

"Very well. I will make myself ready," you stand from your place on the sofa.

"The Chancellor has requested to see you both before we leave." He indicates to you and Anakin. The latter stands to walk with you.

"Wait, what did you want to tell us?" Ahsoka calls out. Anakin meets your eyes briefly.

"It can wait." He mumbled, guiding you to the elevator with a hand on the base of your spine. When the doors close and you are finally alone you lean into him. Anakin shifts, making you stand back on both feet.

"What did I do?" You blurt.

"Nothing, we just…we can't do this right now." He folds his arms over his chest, effectively cutting himself from you. You mouth an 'oh', stepping further away from him. You can't stop yourself from scratching your palm and biting the inside of your mouth. The rest of the journey to the Senate building is quiet. You speak only when necessary. Anakin holds his hand out to help you into the speeder but you ignore it. A pain in his chest twinges.

The Chancellor welcomed you both into his office, quickly ushering everyone else out.

"Wonderful to see you both. Listen I am not best pleased that you are both going to Geonosis. It frightens me that you'll be in such an awful place so soon after your ordeal y/n. I have fetted the clones for your squad and they are of utmost skilled and loyal men."

"Thank you Chancellor. I appreciate that." You reply before excusing yourself from their present. Palpatine turns to Anakin.

"Is everything okay my boy?" He asks. Anakin slumps his shoulders and falls into a chair.

"I've done…things I should not have."

Palpatine circles his desk to sit beside the Jedi.

"You and I both know in this war and this galaxy some rules must be bent. For the good of the republic."

"I'm not sure if it is the republic I do them for."

"I understand. The heart is a strong muscle and can often over power the mind. The things I would have done for my own love had she returned my feelings. Alas I was unlucky in matters of the heart." Palpatine nostalgically thought back to his younger years.

"I am conflicted. As a Jedi should I always follow my mind? What if my mind aligns with my heart, even though I know it is wrong?"

"Anakin, my dear boy. Your heart is what brought you here to start with." The office doors open and you walk back in, "well, I have much work to do. Please stay here, I will have the squad sent to you momentarily. Anakin, your body knows exactly what you should do." He pats the youngest hand before leaving the room. You shuffle awkwardly forward.

"Anakin, I don't know what I did to upset you-" he cuts you off by slamming himself into you. His lips are crashing into yours and he pushes you until your back hits a wall. His hands feel like they are everywhere, pulling the hem of your skirts up to your waist and digging into your thighs.

"I panicked, I'm sorry. You did nothing wrong. I love you." He panted between words. You can feel his erection pressing against your heat and wetness coats your underwear.

"Kriff." Anakin growls out, one hand raises and flicks the door lock across the room. He pulls his fully hard dick from his trousers and lifts you up, your back still against the wall. He is using the force to hold you so he can use both hands, pushing your underwear aside and lining himself up. You're pulled down onto him and he fills you quickly and completely. There are no niceties from the night before. No gentleness in his movements. This is not the making love of your first time but a pure passionate display of his need and want of you. His breath pants onto your neck as he thrusts into you. Your hands clutch at his robes and hair trying to gain anchorage to him.

"You're mine, now." He purrs into your ears. "No one else will ever have you now."

Your moans are enough to confirm your agreement. Is he….he is….Anakin Skywalker is using the force to stimulate your clit as he fucks into you, sloppy kisses left on the exposed skin of your neck.

"Anakin, I'm going to-" you don't get to finish the sentence, your orgasim hits like a train, bursting from you with a cry of his name. Anakin fucks your through the pleasure until his own end comes and his seed spills into you once more. He doesn't pull from you straight away. Holding your body to the wall he leans against you further.

"We shouldn't be doing this." He whispers, "but I'm not going to stop. I want you to marry me, y/n."

"Yes, of course I will. Anakin I love you." You're gripping onto him, legs shaking with the effort of still being held against the wall. As Anakin's dick softens it slips from you and you feel the combined slick drip down your thigh.

"I should see a doctor before we leave. It could be difficult to explain a child." Your words strike something in him, a yearning he was unaware of. A wicked smile creeps along his face.

"No, I…I'd like to have a child with you. If you would want that, I mean."

You can't decipher the emotions in his eyes but they fill your stomach with flutters of excitement and fear.

"Well, if it happens then." You say.

"I love you." He smiles once, it drops and then reappears brighter and wider.

"I love you too Ani." You whisper.

Tag list : @nyenye @tahliac11 @gr-rm @pureluna @harsimrit-k

[constant-mason24]

The Fall of Raccoon City- Chapter Eight (Leon Kennedy x reader AU)

Good Morning! What did I miss?

Prev Chapt | prologue | Next chapt

A blinding headache was a very unwelcome greeting as (Y/n) awoke once again. The bright lights pounding down on her face certainly weren’t helping, and she winced at the painful assault on her eyes as she tried to sit up. 

“Whoa, whoa, there!” A voice gently soothed her as a hand urged her to lay back down. (Y/n) reached for her face, trying to shield the light from her eyes as she pried them open. She must be in a hospital room, judging by the obnoxious white of everything around her, and the man in a long white coat leaning over her. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, but I have to ask you to take it easy.”

“I’m… alive…” Her throat felt coarse and dry as she attempted to speak. She felt as if she was choking on thin air. The doctor gently handed her a glass and helped her position her bed up for her to drink from it.

“You are. And doing very well, I’m happy to report. Now, that doesn’t mean you can go rushing back into the fray just yet. We’re gonna keep you here a couple more days, and if you continue to do well, we’ll let you leave under strict rest until further notice.”

(Y/n) nodded. “How long was I out?”

“It’s only been two days since you were brought in under the RPD’s care, officer.” The doc looked over his notes. “Nasty gunshot wound, but you’re not the first to survive such an ordeal. We just want to make sure you don't have any other, underlying issues.”

“Feels like I've been asleep for months.” She muttered, settling into her pillow. 

“Well, I hope you feel rested now. As much as I don’t want to cause you any unnecessary stress, Chief Branagh wants to speak with you as soon as you’re coherent enough to do so. And how are you feeling?”

“Like I took a bullet. Again. But I’m okay.” The doc nodded, noting something down on a clipboard before moving to the door.

“We’ll send him in, then.”

“Right now?” (Y/n) asked, raising a brow.

“Well, I did say immediately.” The doctor chuckled, opening the door and stepping out. (Y/n) let out a soft sigh, cutting herself short at the pain shooting through her torso at the movement. She was only kept waiting a moment before a soft knock came at the door, and Marvin came in.

“Chief.” She nodded politely at him, and he waved her off.

“Marvin, please.” He corrected. “We’re not at the station. And I’m worried about you, as an old friend.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Fine?” The man scoffed. “This is the second bullet you’ve taken in less than a year.”

“And both bullets were gifted to me ever so lovingly from a superior officer.” She fixed him with a playfully accusing glance. “You just here to finish the job?”

“Of course not.” He laughed, though it was humorless. He moved one of the chairs nearby closer to her bed and placed himself in it, looking solemn as he contemplated what he needed to say. “Wesker was a double agent-”

“Yeah, no shit. Bastard shot me!” She rolled her eyes. “Working for Umbrella, yeah?”

“Yeah…” Marvin sighed deeply. “I thought we were done with this whole shitty situation, but Umbrella still had their greasy claws wrapped tight around the RPD…”

“You think this Op runs even deeper still?”

“Hard to tell.” He leaned back, moving his hat to run a hand over his head. “First Irons, and now Wesker. Can’t help but wonder who else is working to fulfill some ulterior motive.”

(Y/n) didn't respond, just nodding as she thought it over herself. Who could they trust now that two police members had betrayed them so badly? Everyone looked suspicious if you thought about it too hard.

“So what's gonna happen?” She asked.

“Well,” He sighed again. “STARS is being disbanded-”

“Aw, I just got promoted!” She whined, flopping back and wincing in pain at the sudden movement.

“Be careful, (L/n).” Marvin chastised. “It doesn’t make sense to keep that team running now. You still have a job, just without the fancy title. And on top of that, the entire police department and everyone in it will be investigated by the feds.”

“The government’s stepping in?”

“State government, yes.” he continued. “This incident has been swept under the rug, but Iron’s involvement with Umbrella is still big news. The state wants to nip this in the bud before anything else happens.”

“Right. Seems logical to me.” She nodded, watching as Marvin stood again. 

“Well, I just wanted to check on you with my own two eyes and give you a little bit of an update.” he smiled at her, stretching as adjusted his hat. “Besides, I can’t monopolize all your time today. Someone’s been waiting to see you.”

“Aw, another surprise visitor?” (Y/n) smiled. “Who is it?”

♦♣♥♠

Leon sat in the waiting room, flippantly paging through a tabloid magazine while the chief went to see (Y/n). There were plenty of other people at the RPD eager to talk to her and see if she was okay, yet he was the one Branagh chose to bring along. Though Leon wondered why, he certainly wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was relieved to hear she was alive but horrified to hear she had been shot. For the last two days, he’s been impatiently waiting to see her again. He wanted her to know he was worried. He wanted to know she was okay.

He jumped slightly in his seat as Marvin’s laugh broke his train of thought.

“You’ll put a hole in the floor, bouncing your leg like a jackhammer there, rookie.” He chuckled, and Leon sat up straighter.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be.” He waved the younger officer off. “Room 403. Go see her.”

“Right.” He stood, taking a deep breath and wiping his hands on his pants. Leon made his way down the hall, passing a couple of chattering nurses on the way. He stopped in front of room 403, where the door was open. He peeked in, seeing (Y/n) sitting on the hospital bed, gazing at the iv stuck in her arm. He knocked softly on the doorframe as he entered, and a grin spread over her face as she saw who her visitor was. 

“Well, if it isn’t my rookie.” She cooed, tilting her head as he walked in and stood beside the bed. “What brings you here on this beautiful day?”

“It’s raining, actually,” Leon mutters, and (Y/n) shakes her head.

“Who says that makes the day any less beautiful?”

“Fair enough.” he chuckles, sitting in one of the chairs and scooting closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, not that bad.” She examines her nails as if she were in a manicure spa and not a hospital bed. “It’s only my second time getting shot. By someone I looked up to, no less.”

“Yeah, quite the track record you’ve got going there.”

“No kidding.” She laughs softly, smiling at him again. “All jokes aside, it stings a bit but I know I’ll live. I think my psyche took more damage than I did.”

“What do you mean by that?” Leon frowned, leaning forward to be closer to her. 

“Did anybody tell you what happened in that mansion?” Her expression was different now. She was concerned. Frightened.

“No,” he shook his head. “No one except Marvin and the survivors know the full story. We were just told shit went sideways. Bad.”

“Shit! Survivors!” Her hand flew to her head, and the heartbeat monitor at her side picked up its pace a bit. “Who made it out? Is Chris okay? He saved me-”

“Hey, calm down.” He placed a hand gently on her arm. “You don’t need to get worked up right now. Chris is okay. So are Jill and Rebecca.”

“No one else?”

“Brad and Barry. But that’s it. It’s just you six.”

“Goddamn.” She leans back, eyes closed tightly as if she were holding back tears. Leon winced awkwardly, not knowing how else to comfort her but giving her arm a gentle squeeze. It seemed to work, as her other hand came to rest on his in thanks.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what the hell happened?”

“If I tell you,” she whispered, opening tearful her eyes and looking at him. “You can’t repeat it to anyone. You have to pretend you don’t know because I have a feeling this is going to become a big cover-up operation.”

“I won’t tell another soul.” He assured her, and she nodded, swallowing thickly.

“The mansion was sitting above a laboratory. An Umbrella laboratory.” She sighs. “There were these… things there. People who weren’t really people anymore. And dogs-”

“Dogs?” He questioned, eyebrow raised.

“Those fucking dogs.” She shivered. “They were doing something there. I bet you more than anything that it had to do with those fucking emails between irons and that scientist…”

She shivered again, much more violently, and leaned towards Leon with determination in her body and eyes. She held onto him and he nearly felt the desperation in her grip and her voice.

“I’m telling you, Leon. There’s something extremely fucking wrong with Umbrella.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as the doctor came back. 

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but miss (L/n) needs to be checked over quickly.” he smiled kindly at the two, as (Y/n) leaned back into her bed, taking a breath.

“That’s alright. I should get back to work, anyway.” Leon gave her arm one last squeeze before standing. He stepped over to the bedside table and picked up a pen and a napkin, jotting down his phone number. “You can call me if you need to. Or if you want to.” He smiled at her. “Do you have a ride home when you get discharged?”

“No.” She shook her head as a nurse brought a rolling cart over to her other side.

“I can get ya.”

“I’ll take you up on that. Thanks.” She smiled, and he nodded, leaving the room as the doctor began speaking to her. 

As he walked out of the hospital, back to the waiting patrol car in the parking lot, he couldn’t shake her desperate plea from his mind.

Something’s wrong with Umbrella.

[nightcrawlerspidey]

Pelipper mail! A nightmare!

You awake to a bucket of water being splashed on you.

You look to the glowing red light of what you assume to be a camera, and the blurry silhouette of what you assume to be a policeman.

"No dozing off," barks the blurry policeman.

Huh? You dont remember falling asleep. In fact, your head feels full of cotton. What the hell...?

You panic, and desperately try to shake your handcuffs against the chair you were cuffed to, trying to free yourself. The too-tight handcuffs dig into your skin, scratching and blistering your wrists the more you struggle.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

No! You don't get it at all! You knew you were going to be arrested, but... this?

"Give it up!"

The policeman kicks you square in the gut, knocking you and the chair over. You cough and wheeze. Ow. That hurts.

The policeman steps on your head, shouting, "Come on, cooperate! Or what, you want another shot?"

Shot?! Wait... is that why everything feels cottony...?

The policeman begins to dig and twist his heel into your cheekbone, and presses the sole of his shoe into the side of your head.

You look at the glowing red light, trying to gauge how damaged your lenses were, and trying to ignore the pain. You can't show weakness here.

"Huh? What about the camera?" The policeman says, stepping off of you. He picks you up by his hair and taunts, "Are you thinking it could be used as video evidence?"

Camera? What camera? "What do you mean...?"

"You still haven't figured it out?" The policeman lets go of your hair.

"There are no laws here that will protect criminals like you!" He shouts, kicking you in the chest. You start coughing and gasping.

And for a brief moment, you wonder if you’re going to die here. You can't die here, you don't want to die here, you have a plan to carry out!

Everything feels hazy, and you can't make out much of the list of charges the policeman was reciting. You do hear a "manslaughter too, yeah?"

Bullshit! You've never killed anyone!

"To think that all of those crimes were led by a punk like this...And you seemed to be enjoying every second of it, huh?"

The tears wouldn't stop streaming down your face. Dammit. You didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing you weak like this. The salt from your tears burned your scratches, the scratches you didn't even know you had. Everything hurts, and you wants to curl up and disappear.

"You should know your place."

You tense up, ready for impact, when someone else walks in and releases you from your handcuffs. You begin to scratch at your scabbed and blistering wrists, hoping for temporary relief.

As soon as you let your guard down, you’re shoved to the floor, and a clipboard is waved in front of your face.

"Sign here. It's a confession under your name."

You swat the clipboard away. You don't want to sign it! You never killed anyone!

"I see," The policeman remarks, standing up. "I need your hand to sign this, but..."

And you feel something stomp on your leg with a sickening crunch. You scream.

"I don't care if you end up losing a leg," He taunts, twisting his foot deeper into your leg, as you scream more.

He steps off of you, and shoves the clipbaord in your face again. He hands you a pen, and then leans close enough for you to clearly see his face. Though, there aren’t any features on his face.

"Don't expect to walk out of here in one piece. We're going to make you understand that one must take full responsibility for their actions..."

You grab the pen, hold the clipboard 15 cm from your face, and sign "Ren Amamiya".

[He screams this time, bolting up so hard he launches himself out of bed and sticks to the ceiling. It’s almost like he can still feel the pain, and it’s awful. He sobs as he clutches himself, curling into a ball on the ceiling and looking around the room in a panic.] nono no nonono nononononono no nonono no not. i can’t.

[genuinehc]

Challenge: @mediwhumpmay 2023 Fandom: Six of Crows Modern AU Prompt: Day 8: No Pain Relief Tags/Warnings: hurt/comfort, medical whump, emotional whump, Modern AU, Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa

Inej would punch Kaz if he wasn’t so pathetic. 

He’s propped up in a hospital bed, right leg swathed in bandages and a complex web of tubes, drains, and other things that Inej can’t immediately identify. He’s connected to a monitor that he’s trying to disentangle himself from, but his normally clever fingers grasp uselessly at the lines. The perpetual dark circles under his eyes have their own bags and his hair is a right mess. 

She makes a tutting noise under her breath, the same one she makes when she’s chiding the roof crows to stop jostling each other when she’s feeding them, and Kaz immediately stops trying to free himself. One pale, scarred hand falls to his belly, the other to his side. 

“Well?” she prompts. 

Kaz frowns, dark brows knitting together. He winces, draws a shallow breath, then clearly forces a deeper one. For a moment, Inej wonders if he’s lost the question, but then he purses his lips and meets Inej’s eyes. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Ravka?” he asks peevishly.

The desire to do violence rises again, no matter how pathetic he is. Inej drops into the visitor chair beside his bed. “Aren’t you supposed to stop keeping important things secret from me?”  

He looks away and it’s a sign of how much pain he must be in that he shows how close that blow landed. 

Inej closes her eyes, takes a breath. “Yes, I’m supposed to be in Ravka. But I’m not, because you’re here, in hospital. Our positions were reversed not that long ago-” She touches the scar under her shirt, the one that still aches, that pulled when she was climbing through the window. 

“That’s different. That was-” his breath hitches and a fine sheen of sweat appears on his brow. “That was different.” 

“How?”

He doesn’t so much turn his head as allow it to loll towards her, supported by the pillow. His heartbeat, betrayed by the monitors, is speeding up and Inej worries for a moment whether she’s overstepped. 

“I did that to you. I hurt you. And now I’m doing this to me. I didn’t tell you because this is mine to carry alone,” he says, rock salt rasp turning to gravel. 

Inej gapes at him, a thousand competing thoughts clamoring to get out. 

Are you kidding me?

Who in the saints’ names do you think you are?

Did you learn nothing from the lengthy talk we had after I had been stabbed about the importance of finding our own paths, but knowing that we can rely on each other? 

Why do I love you? 

Do you actually love me? If you do, why would you do this?

How are you getting home from hospital? Don’t they usually require someone to come pick you up and give, like, medication instructions to that person while you’re on the heavy drugs?

And then an awful, horrible thought occurs to her. She sits up straight. 

“You are asking for and receiving pain meds, aren’t you?” she asks and knows the answer as soon as his eyes slide away. The sweaty brow, the hitches in his breath, and the particularly mulish look he gets when he’s hurting a lot. 

“I don’t need them,” he mumbles.

Inej launches from her seat to search one side of his bed and then the other for the self-medication button, pulling on a pair of exam gloves she finds in a box near the bed. When she eventually locates the device marked PCA, she lifts Kaz’s hand and maneuvers the button under his finger. 

“You’re only hurting yourself. If you’re in pain, it will take longer to heal-” 

He half snarls and she tries a different tack. “I hate seeing you like this-”

“Then you shouldn’t have come!” 

Inej puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. “I thought we always came for each other. Isn’t that what we do? Always keep fighting?” 

“You left-” he whispers.

Inej forces herself to stay where she is. “You know why I had to,” she murmurs. “But I always come back. Right? That’s what we agreed to. You don’t close me out, and I come back.”

Kaz is silent for a long moment. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he mutters at last and Inej has to stifle a bitter laugh.

“It’s too late now; I’m here and I’ve seen you. Take the meds, Kaz. Do it for you, do it for me, do it for the Crows - I don’t care. But don’t keep hurting yourself. Martyr isn’t a good look on you.”

[multifandomrandomgirl]

The Ropes That Bind Us PART TWO - Peter Tork x Female reader

Masterlist

Part One

Back at the pad, the other three Monkees had begun to worry about their bandmate. It had now been seven hours since the bassist set out to buy a loaf of bread, he hadn’t returned by dinner which was unusual and a cause of concern.

“Peter never misses a meal, even when he’s ill! Something must have happened to him.” Michael paced back and forth, fiddling with the pom-pom on his green wool hat.

“You’re right, but what this time?” Micky threw himself onto the couch dramatically, causing Michael to roll his eyes, although he knew that the younger man was trying to lighten the mood, he really didn’t have the patience for humour right now. Their bassist was missing, poor Peter who couldn’t hurt a fly had disappeared. He could be anywhere, and knowing the blond boy’s luck and naivety, he had most likely been kidnapped again, he could be getting tortured. 

Michael felt a pang of pain and fear in his chest, he and the other two had taken ages to notice that Peter had gone missing, he knew that Pete would be scared, he was probably alone, being hurt. Peter often ended up in these situations, but everytime, Michael managed to remain calm with him. He knew that Peter didn’t mean to end up in trouble but a lot of the criminals that abducted him realised just how kind he was and took advantage of him that way in order to take him.

The last time it happened, six months ago, Peter had been taking a walk on the beach when an old man (who had turned out to not be that old at all) had pretended to fall over, Peter being Peter immediately ran over to help the man and offered to walk him home so that he didn’t get further hurt, anyone else would probably have seen through the awful disguise, however, Pete had fallen straight into the trap, the abductor was initially shocked at how easy it was to take the lad, but either way, he’d won and tricked him into coming back with him.

Once they’d reached the ‘elderly’ man’s house, Peter had been grabbed instantly, he was hit and kicked and then tied to a chair and gagged because he wouldn’t stop rambling to one of his torturers about the piano and how much he loves dogs.

When the boys had finally found him, he was a mess, covered in bruises, cuts, and rope burns. He also had a few cracked ribs. He had a few large bruises on his face, his lip was bust and his eyes were black. Michael remembered having to carry Peter to the Monkeemobile after they rescued him, he remembered Pete’s arms around his neck, face buried into the Texan’s chest whilst sobbing. He didn’t think he was ever going to see his bandmates again. 

Mike remembered his heart shattering as Pete kept apologising, they all reassured him that it really wasn’t his fault at all, but Peter refused to believe it (“If I wasn’t such a dummy-” he had started before Davy cut him off). Michael’s heart broke again that evening when he went to check up on him, Peter was curled up in his bed, his hair spread across the pillow just enough for Mike to see his tear-stained face, he looked so vulnerable in the moment, he looked just like a child. Michael sat at the edge of Pete’s bed and he gently brushed his fingers over the older man’s face before placing a small kiss on his forehead.

----

“Mike? Hey, Michael?” Davy snapped his fingers, gaining the attention of his bandmate.

“Shit, sorry Davy. I just - I’m so scared it’s gonna be like last time, he was so hurt, Davy. He doesn’t deserve- he’s so sweet and adorable. Who the fuck could look at Peter and want to hurt him? He was so broken for so long after, he really wasn’t our Pete. What if it’s worse this time? What if he’s dead? Guys, last time was so bad, it can’t happen again. We have to find him. I can’t handle him being that hurt again. I’m terrified something really bad could happen to him.” Mike stormed over to the table and grabbed the keys to the Monkeemobile before gesturing to the guys to follow him to their car.

They drove around for hours, shouting Pete’s name at the top of their lungs and stopping and asking various people whether or not they’d seen him - they had no luck at all, Mike got out of their car and slammed the door, before kicking so rubbish aggressively, Micky and Davy glanced at each other, they were worried for Peter too, but Michael was like everyone’s mum, and a complete worry wart.

“Michael, listen, we’ll find him. We always do. We just need a plan.” Micky got out after him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Right, a plan.” Mike sniffled, Micky could see the tears forming in the guitarist's eyes and pulled him in for a hug, which only made Michael cry harder. Micky glanced over to Davy, this was a whole new level of concern. They’d rarely seen the Texan cry, Mike was brilliant at bottling up his emotions, but this, this was different. Michael was really upset about this, Micky knew he blamed himself as Michael had let him go out alone. Micky rubbed circles on his friend's back in an attempt to calm him down.

“We’ll find Pete, don’t you worry.”

[umbral-archives]

i have had the phrase "i didn't want to hurt you, darling, but you just wouldn't listen" bouncing around my head for the past 2 hours. take it and go

[I've had this in my drafts for 2 months because it doesn't fit my characterization of Murdock, considering he'd never hurt Reader- unless the reader is a kinky little shit and they discuss it extensively beforehand. I've recently had a few ideas come up, which I'll detail in 2 scenarios.]

Scenario 1 CW: Threats, Drugging (Truth Serum), Kidnapping [Crossroads!Damien is not a good man.] Scenario 2 CW: Drugging, Kidnapping Lite, Murdock being Awful (Non-sexual Edition) [Murdock lightly drugs reader and cuffs them to their bed because they reached a breaking point and refuse to 'hear him out' about his murder man machinations, which is- what any normal fuckin person would do. The stress of it.]

Your vision swims, head pounding as the world tumbles around you. Above the sound of blood rushing through your ears, the frantic pulsing of your heart, you can hear Murdock off to your right, snarling like a man possessed- promising the worst pain imaginable to the man who placed you in this predicament.

"A dog barking at the end of its chain is not a threat to me, Murdock. Hold your tongue, lest I do much worse than this." Damien's voice drifts from somewhere above you, and the threat of further torment rips a fearful hiccup from your throat.

You hear the clack of his dress shoes against the marble floor, unforgiving against your crumpled form- then the pressure of a leather shoe against the side of your head, moving your gaze to the ceiling. Blinking your tears away, you gaze blearily up at the man, who peers down at you like you are a science experiment to be dissected.

Damien sucks his teeth, languidly crouching down beside you, a mean little tilt joining his smirk when you flinch away. "I didn't want to hurt you, darling," he croons mockingly, "but you just wouldn't listen."

He glances up in Murdock's direction, that grin turning mean as he reaches forward to card his fingers through your hair and yank you closer, making you cry out in pain. "You and your mutt, dancing around each other instead of talking it out like adults- I grew tired of waiting, tired of the what-ifs and the possibilities."

Your cry of pain incenses Murdock further, and the sound of his struggling against his restraints, the bodyguards holding him down makes Damien laugh. "You would not bring your 'little fawn' into the loop and set them in line, Mutt, therefore I must gather this information myself."

He looks to you then, relaxing his grip just enough to tilt your head up so he can properly see the glaze setting in your eyes. "Besides, a little truth serum never hurt anyone."

You whine weakly, finally falling limp against the floor as a haze settles over your mind. Damien hums in satisfaction, letting your head fall to the floor with a sharp thump, triggering renewed struggling and swears from Murdock.

The businessman sighs, waving a few unoccupied guards to heft your limp body up by your shoulders and sitting you in a chair. "Securing their loyalty would have prevented this, Kilgrave- yet your foolish notions about their free will… as if they'd willingly defect to your side? With what you do?" He laughs. "That's not what normal people do, Mutt."

Murdock does not respond, though you can faintly hear the clacking of teeth- like he's trying to bite a guard, followed by a sharp impact and a low groan. You faintly feel worry for him, but that's overwhelmed by the next question Damien asks you.

"Now… how much do you know about my… business, and Murdock's involvement in it?"

You blink a few times, swallowing thickly, pupils dilating wider as the drug takes full effect. "… Just that- he does jobs for you. Some… the murders that he does on his own, sometimes you… ask him to do that."

Damien hums, "What is your intention with this information?"

"… Nothing. I don't want…" you shake your head, tears starting to gather in your eyes again, "too much risk, too dangerous… can't- I don't want to die for that…"

He smiles cruelly, tapping his chin for a moment before an idea strikes him. "What is your intention with Murdock? How do you feel about him- what he does, his obsession with you?"

Your mouth opens and closes a few times- as if you're trying to fight the serum like you don't want to answer that question. Eventually, the drug wins out over your own will, and you force out a grating "… I don't… know."

The businessman lights up, not expecting something this juicy to come from this interaction. "Oh? Whatever for? He's been so devoted to you for so very long… why wouldn't you want that?"

His words are meant to be a dig, mocking and cruel, and you flinch from their intensity. You try to look back to Murdock, but only find a guard's crotch in the way. "I want… I want him, I care- I think I love him but… he's…"

Damien only leans in further, tilting his head to the side and motioning for you to continue.

The tears in your eyes finally fall, your voice quiet as you warble brokenly. "… W-What he does is… monstrous."

With that revelation, the businessman can only laugh, clapping his hands slowly. The room falls into silence for a moment, and all you want to do is go to Murdock- but you can't even see him.

"I wanna stop-" you whisper, trying to worm your way out of the guard's grip. "Please-"

Damien tuts, biting his lip, eyes alight like a child who just found the Halloween candy stash. "Oh no, we have plenty of time for more… questions."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scenario 2 CW: Drugging, Kidnapping Lite, Murdock being Awful (Non-sexual Edition)

[He drugs Reader and cuffs them to their bed because they reached a breaking point and refuse to 'hear him out' about his murder man machinations, which is- what any normal fuckin person would do. The stress of it.] The sensation of cotton in your mouth is starting to fade, along with the numb weight in your limbs. You can hear Murdock muttering to himself- see him pacing back and forth across your bedroom floor from the corner of your eye. 'He's going to wear a hole into my floor if he keeps doing that', you think, lifting your head up weakly and coughing. Your activity makes Murdock pause, observing you silently while you start to come back to yourself. There's a second of hesitation before he moves to your side when you try to sit up, encouraging you to lean on him when your arms almost give out. "Try not to overexert yourself," he mutters, smoothing the hair from your face. "That stuff has a strong come-down. Do you want some water?" All you can manage is a soft whine, nodding weakly while reaching up to rub your face, but your hands never meet your cheeks. The decisive clank of metal hitting metal is what you get instead, startling from the sound- the force against your wrists. You finally focus on the handcuffs binding them together, linked to the bedframe at the foot of your bed by a length of chain. Chain. Handcuffs. A sobering chill races up your spine as Murdock moves away to watch you again, a dozen different emotions playing out on your face. You finally settle on incredulous anger, betrayal curling in your throat. "Murdock, what the hell?!" The Killer holds his hands up placatingly, a kind of understanding in the furrow of his brow, the grimace on his face. "... I know what this looks like, but you need to trust that didn't want to do this, Sweetheart... but you just wouldn't listen-" "Listen?!" you scoff, making a noise somewhere between a snarl and a sob, yanking the chains for emphasis. "There's no fucking conversation you could have with me right now that would save your ass- you've got me chained to my fucking bed-"

Murdock stands up, moving to the front of the bed and out of your reach. He can't have you making decisions you'll regret later. "This is a precaution, y/n. I knew you'd run off before we got a chance to talk, before you'd let me explain everything. I'm not going to hurt you-" "You're not being very convincing right now-" you rasp, tears already starting to collect as you lean away from his hands, tugging on the cuffs.

"Stop doing that, you'll hurt yourself-" he admonishes softly, reaching out to properly take your hands, relieving the pressure against your wrists. "I didn't want to do this, but you didn't leave me any other choice, sweetheart-"

You get up onto your knees, volume rising, feeling emboldened by the cocktail of drugs still flowing through your system. "There's always a choice!" Murdock's mouth snaps shut, gauging you for a beat- panting, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide in anger and fear, face flushed. Part of him thinks it's adorable, but he doesn't have time to entertain that right now. "Just give me a chance to explain, Sweetheart, and you'll see-" Something hits you- something that has been bothering you since before you found out, but you didn't want to face it, to give those thoughts a voice. A suspicion that had built up over time, and now it stares you dead in the face. Just how wrong you were, just who you should have listened to. "David was right about you," you whisper, shaking your head with a rueful laugh. "God, I'm such a fucking idiot-"

There's a flash of fear in his eyes, quickly smothered by denial. He can't entertain the idea that he's losing you. "You're not, I would never hurt you, I haven't hurt you—"

"It's not about me!" you counter, voice higher than it's ever been. "It's about all the other people you've hurt, the people you've killed!" "It's only about you! You are all I care about!" A beat passes between you, heavy breaths shared in the space separating you. Murdock searches your face for something, anything that would tell him that he's broken through at least one of your walls. You merely stare back in confused silence, eyes unable to meet his, unable to digest what he'd just admitted. "... Well, you have a twisted fucking way of showing it." The Killer closes his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh and stepping back, releasing your hands. "Fine." You lose your balance without him holding you up, flopping back onto the bed with a grunt and looking at him in confusion. "W-Where are you going?" He glances back at you by the door, a mixture of emotions making his expression unreadable. "You're going to sit here for a little while. When you're ready to have a civilized conversation, call me. Until then? Look back and think about all I've done for you, what we are. Maybe that'll check your attitude." With that, he steps out of the room, leaving you to your thoughts and the ticking of the clock.