#it was so cold and lovely and i'm exhausted to my bones but god was it a good day I need to do this more often

[queerofthedagger]

Late Autumn Graveyard

[kissitbttr]

a very tired miguel who gets home from work and gets babied by his woman

-

It's close to 9pm as you're lying on your bed. keeping your focus on the book you're reading, one that you failed to keep as a part of your routine due to your busy schedule with work. being a fashion designer has it's perks but it also has its dark sides too. especially when it comes to dealing with snobby ass clients

as you are about to flip to another page, you hear the front door opened. keys rattling against the ceramic bowl with a loud sigh follows after. a soft smile appears on your face soon as you realize who it is

“miguel? Is that you?” you softly call out your husband’s name while putting the book down.

"si, mi amor" he appears shortly by the doorway. your tall and handsome fiancee adorned in an unbuttoned white shirt that showcase a bit of his chest and paired with black trousers. a simple work attire but never fail to make your knees wobble. the sight could put any Greek Gods known to a man to shame.

your heart breaks a little seeing how tired he looks. his eye-bags are coming off too strong. a constant reminder on how he has been working himself far too hard despite you telling him to take it easy. but that's just how he is, stubborn.

"how's work my love?" you ask, watching him undress himself, revealing his exposed toned chest before putting the clothes away with the rest of his dirty ones in the bathroom. "I take it, it wasn't a good day?"

"you could say that" he replies tiredly, grabbing a pair of sweatpants off the chair and slipping it on. "trying to get ahold with the new recruits is a fucking job, Peter's been getting on my nerves and I'm working on advancing the technology we have right now in order for it to be easier to identify every single anomaly's DNA we've come across to. But the amount of hypotheses and research I've done are nowhere near close to how I want them to be."

"i would ask Tony Stark for help but que cabron esta muerto" he breathes out a sigh, pinching the thick skin between his brows. "I'm drained, mi amor... i can't fucking do this shit everytime--"

"no hey.. stop" you shake your head, hate having to see your man fronting a distressed look in his face. “come here, Miggy” you pout at him patting your chest for him to lay his head,

he sighs heavily. plopping into the bed and carefully lays himself on top of you. pounding head finding comfort in the warmth of your chest, snaking his big arms around your waist.

you put your arms around him, locking him tightly as your soft lips kiss his forehead making him purr.

“my pretty baby. exhausted aren't you? hm?” you ask in a cooing tone. he hums -- which sounded like a growl to you-- with a nod before nuzzling himself closer. “oh my poor poor baby... my handsome man. always working himself to the bone” another kiss on the forehead

“come up a little closer, hm?” you ask as he barely shifts his body. too lazy and far too comfortable in your arms like this for him to move.

you run your fingers through his soft hair, moving a piece that’s covering his forehead. looking down to see him close his eyes, yet not sleeping.

it’s so funny to see how this freakishly large- broad man who always seems to bring a cold presence that scares everyone off at work—which is technically true— then turns into a huge softie and a love puddle for you in a split seconds.

it’s truly a privilege that you’re the only one who gets to see and feel this

“look how cute you are, baby… do you know how cute you are, hm?” you coo at him, lips kissing his nose and the sharpness of his cheekbone. trying your best to console him in hopes of washing his stress away.

he lightly shakes his head. “no” a curt reply rolls of his mouth, drawing your body closer to him if that's even possible.

you pretend to gasp dramatically at his answer. fingers still stroking his hair lightly. “you don’t?! oh no! we have to fix that! you’re the cutest *kiss* most handsome *kiss* hardworking *kiss* man I’ve ever known” showering him with compliments in between kisses. he breathes out a small chuckle that muffles against your chest.

it’s obvious that miguel rarely gets treatments like this, he’s no one to shy from things but you're his only exception. the only person who truly can get him blush like a little kid when he's shown the slightest bit of affection.

“who’s baby are you hm? are you my baby?” a smile graces your lips as your eyes casting down to his pretty features.

“me. I’m your baby” he mumbles, tightening his grip around you. "always be your baby"

-

inspired by @webslingingslasher their frat!peter work yall is making me [REDACTED] please go take a look!!

[inkskinned]

the car broke down by the denny's where you used to work and therefore could never return to. i am trying to pick out the satisfying parts of my life, one-by-one, like i am 12 and in a frog dissection. everything in my life all viscera and formaldehyde. if i can sort the good things from the bad things, i will have a nice clean pile.

i call you and make it sound like i am happy and hangin' in there! when really i am kicking a rock and i am outside without a jacket and i am so in love with you it makes the little bones in my ear shake. someone called my tinnitus an angel choir. i like that it means i carry the echo of every concert.

this isn't the right setting for love. this is a roadside, and a denny's, and i am nauseous and ashamed i never escaped the town where i grew up. the clouds here are this strange yellow, like spilled sour milk. "someone once told me that the orange coating on the teeth of a beaver is due to the particularly high rate of iron in their enamel," i tell you. "the beaver is the largest rodent native to north america."

your voice is crackly on the other end. i'm going into a garage soon, i might lose you.

what i should be doing is calling the tow truck and explaining that my brother's car (that i'm borrowing) (that i broke now, i guess) needs to be lifted by another, bigger, stronger car (which is love too, i guess).

i shouldn't say so much. i should wait, and let you ask about my mom, and ask if i ever got over that cold, or how it's going at work. i should let you lead the conversation, for once, so the love doesn't leak out of me into the gravel. i open my mouth anyway. "if you had to choose between being a beaver with very few trees or being a tree around a bunch of beavers, which would it be?"

i don't know. your voice always has this warm cast to it when you talk to me, but maybe i am just imagining that - i am a poet, though, so i imagine things sort of chronically. through the static, you sound like you're laughing. are you the beaver?

i know, like, logically, not to fall in love with a girl-that-is-your-best-friend. like, who would i even call if we broke up? you're my best friend, you're the person i'd want to speak to. so what if these last few months we keep sleeping over at each other's houses, calling each other for hours, sending each other poems. so what if you keep wrapping your fingers into mine. no best friends. that is the first rule. what you are supposed to do in that situation is leave the situation.

but my car broke down, so. where exactly am i going to go? the car is a very-old chevvy and also where i almost-but-not-quite kissed you after you'd raised one shoulder and looked up at me and said i don't know, i think i'm straight, but for the right person - i'd try anything. the music had been good and it had been raining and your thick eyelashes had made me feel god crawling up my throat like a spider. and i didn't kiss you, because i am a coward.

anyway on the chevy the whole exhaust pipe fell out, and is now scraping on the ground like one silver finger stroking the back of the highway. recently we were watching netflix in my bed and you pushed my hair back from my face like you were making the slowest, most desperate prayer, and then your boyfriend called. i remember us both jumping. i couldn't look at you in the eyes for like a week after. i kept feeling the heat of your fingerprint; computer science, you'd unlocked something dark in me.

google says the closest tow (joe's pick up) is 50 minutes away and also closed permanently. so that's not great. you live in another state and i should be calling my insurance company. i should be calling anybody else. this is not helping. i need an uber. i need to get moving. instead i say: "i need three words for a poem."

yesterday i said love you, goodnight after our 2 hour call like always and then you just, like. paused. all i could hear was your breathing. and then you'd said what a pretty three-word poem. i love you too, sweet thing. the words made my tinnitus act up again, and i must have some kind of synesthesia, because the sound travelled into my mind until it became the shape wedding rings.

orange, you say. the static is now chewing through most of your words and i only catch - borrowing the chevy -

the call dies. i have 12% battery. i never get the 3rd word, but i know you're still going to get a poem from me. actually this rest stop is kind of pretty, and so is the exhaust pipe, and so is joe's pick up, and so are the clouds. the light here is the color of a glue trap. before you worked at the denny's, we used to get milkshakes every wednesday and called it a friend date. you said you'd wanted to work there because it reminded you of me.

the sign's gone dim. the letters now spell out deny. and isn't that something.

[somanyratsinthewalls]

Your robin and franky fic was chefs kiss but would you be willing to write some solo franky?? Im really into water 7 franky and would love to see what you’d come up with !!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING FOR THIS! YALL I promise you any time anyone requests a Franky fic I WILL BE WRITING THAT SHIT. This is my dream man and no one gives me enough opportunities to write for him! So, I'm sorry I turned this into a smutty nightmare if you wanted fluff... I just need to service the Fellow Franky Fuckers out there.

Pairing: (pre timeskip) Cyborg Franky x Fem!Reader

WC: 2800

Taglist: @generaldaij0bu you might need to see this

Summary: The Sunny malfunctioning is driving you up a wall. You make a request for repairs and end up getting way more than you bargained for in the workshop.

TWs: ROBO-BONING, BABES! P in V sex, unprotected sex (pls don't) sex toy use, forced orgasm, safe words, light bdsm, communication is key and Franky respects it so hard and he's so hot for it, very much dirty talk...

Too Hot (+18)

— — 

It was hot. 

The sun beat down on the Sunny all day and the unwavering heat was barely dispelled after sunset due to the humidity. You lay sprawled on the deck next to Usopp and Chopper, groaning in the unbearable heat. 

“I think I’ll die here…” Chopper groans with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

“I can’t believe I’m going to burn to death after all the horrible monster’s I’ve fought… it’s not fair!” Usopp moans and wipes his brow. 

“Just throw me overboard at this point.” You sigh. 

“But don’t you have devil fruit-“

“I DON’T CARE THROW ME OVER!” You screech at Usopp. 

Before you could murder the cowardly sniped in a fit of heat-induced rage, Sanji steps through the door to the deck from the galley. 

“Okay everyone, dinner’s on. Air con works fine in here.” Sanji calls from the doorway. 

You push Usopp and Chopper behind you as you spring to your feet and sprint towards the galley. 

After entering the swinging door, the cool air hits you like stepping through a cascading waterfall. You sigh in relief. Your bliss was furthered when you see bowls of cool gazpacho at each place setting on the dining room table. 

“Thank gods…” You grumble as you hop onto the bench and start eating. The cold soup alleviated your discomfort from the inside out and you couldn’t help but groan in content. 

“Relax, it’s just soup.” Zoro puts his bowl down next to you and gives you a concerned look. 

“Oh I’m sorry swords-for-brains, did you not notice it’s a billion and five degrees outside?” You scowl at the swordsman seated next to you at the table. 

“Who cares?! This soup is great!” Luffy chimes in and extends his rubbery arms to grab every bowl that wasn’t licked clean and shovels them down his gullet. 

You sigh. 

“Nami please tell me this heat wave will be over soon. I’m getting crows feet ON my crows feet from this sun.” You turn towards your friend and navigator. 

“I wish I had better news but it’ll be at least a few more days before there’s any relief in temperature. We’re just going to have to stay in the shade and inside where the air is working. You’re tough, y/n, you can handle it.” Nami states as she sips from her bowl of cold soup. 

You roll your eyes. 

The dishes were promptly slurped clean by your captain and Sanji cleared the table. The blaring rays of the sun had exhausted so you so you decided to take a shower and head to bed. 

After taking a cool shower, you throw on a t shirt and shorts over your panties and sports bra and lay on top of the covers of your bed. 

“Gods it’s almost like it’s hotter in here than it is out there!” You say to yourself as you lay in bed, sweat soaking through your pillow. You decide to hop up and check if the air conditioning was working. You walk over to the vent in the corner of your room and press your hands against it. HOT air was spewing out from the grate in your room. You walk backwards and fall back onto the bed. 

“Fuck.” You throw your shirt over your head and slip your shorts off and flop back onto the bed. Sweat drips from your chin down your neck to your chest. 

*whoooosh*

Hot air was being pushed out harsher and faster through the grate in the corner of your room. The temperature continued to rise and your sweat soaked through your top sheet. 

“I’m not living like this!” You shout in frustration as you push your way out of your room, without bothering to throw your clothes back on. You head down into the belly of the ship in your underwear. Upon reaching the door you were looking for, you slam it open without knocking.

“FRANKY!!!!!” You yell angrily. 

“Jeez, y/n where’s the fire? I could have been naked in here!” Franky pushes his sunglasses back on his head as he turns towards you from his work bench. 

“You’re always naked!!! Also, more importantly, why is the HEAT ON in my bedroom?! Are you trying to cook me like a rotisserie chicken?!” You pant out, still very sweaty. 

“Oh that’s no good… I’ll have to go check the generators.” Franky rises to his feet, towering over you. “Sorry you were so uncomfortable, little lady. I’ll get this sorted out super quickly. Why don’t you get some shut eye in my bed for awhile? It’s still nice and cool down here.” He gestures to his bed in the corner of the room while he grabs his toolbox. 

You sigh. 

“Honestly that would be great, I feel like I’ve been in an oven all day.” You walk over to Franky’s bed and flop down on your back. Being this deep in the ship, there were no windows on the walls, but you were so sweaty and tired you didn’t care. 

“Alright well I’m gonna go fix this for ya, try and get some rest. Your room will be back to super condition in no time!” Franky leaves and you settle into the pillows and close your eyes. The sweat covering your body began to dry and you were finally comfortable again. You find yourself relaxing into Franky’s bed, smelling slightly of cola and motor oil, and drifting off into a light sleep. 

You wake up to the door of the bedroom closing and you snap your head up. 

“Woah, what do we have here?” You hear Franky’s booming voice as you rub the brief sleep from your eyes. It must have still been late at night. 

“Some dream ya must have been having, huh?” Franky stands above the bed and nods towards your spread thighs. You look down at where he was gesturing and notice a huge soaked patch in your pink panties. It was at this moment you notice the wanton ache in your core and abdomen… you must have been having a very wet dream and were awoken before you got to the good part. You instinctively slam your thighs shut in embarrassment and cover your face with your hands. 

“Look at you, so shy but dripping all over my sheets?” Franky continues with a smile, noticing your bashfulness. 

“I-I’m sorry I-“ You stutter and try to explain yourself. 

“It’s okay sweet thing! It’s totally normal. Looks like you’re pretty pent up, huh? I can fix that for ya, if you’re interested.” 

“I.. I mean that would be nice I guess…” You pull your hands away from your face hesitantly. 

“Aaaoooww!! That’s what I wanted to hear! Let’s get started then!” Franky grins and leans down to grab something from underneath his bed. He retrieves a large metal box and pops open the lid. 

“Hmmm let’s see… Some of these… definitely this…” Your robot whispers to himself as he roots around in the large chest. He rises and brings a pile of items out and flops them onto the bed. These were things you’ve never seen before, so your eyes were darting from chain to leather to silicone you had no idea what to focus on. 

“Take that bra off for me baby, I wanna ask ya some things before we get started.” Franky grabs the hem of your panties and gently tugs them down your legs.

You did as you were told and unclasped your bra, tossing it to the side and leaning back again. Franky softly sets your panties down on his bedside table and remarks, 

“I’m keepin’ these.” 

Your body shudders when you hear the sinister tone in his voice.

“Ok doll, now tell me…” Franky traces his hands up and down your thighs, parting them in the process. “How do you like it? I can edge you for an hour or so… or you could cum until you cry… any preference?” Frankly asks casually as he organizes the objects he had turned over onto the bed. 

“I, um…” You were young, not a virgin but not very experienced. This man was almost 10 years older than you, how were you supposed to know what you wanted from him?

“I… I wanna cum… I think…” You eventually squeak out. 

“Ok babydoll, good choice. Can ya promise me you’ll say ‘red’ if you want to stop?” Franky cups your jaw and makes sure you’re looking into his eyes above you. You nod. “No no, tell me you will.”

“I will say it, I’ll say red. I can do it.” You breath out, so ready for him to please you already. You rub your thighs together. 

“And you’ll tell me if there’s anything ya don’t like, hm?”

“Yes of course I promise!” You groan out, impatient to feel Franky’s touch on your skin. 

“Super! I’m going to put you in a spreader bar now, sweet cheeks, so you can’t close your legs on me. It’ll just go around your legs like this…” Franky explains to you methodically as he straps your legs into the homemade device. You tentatively try to close your thighs to see how effective the bar was… and it certainly did its job. 

“OK and these are gonna squeeze your nipples, just like this…” Franky gently attaches the nipple clamps onto your sensitive buds. 

“Oh!!” You cry out as he tightens the screws on them. Franky pulls back and admires his handiwork. You were laid out on his bed, metal clasps squeezing your nipples, causing you to writhe against the spreader bar forcefully separating your legs. 

“Fucking perfect. If you want I can gag you, too…” Franky approaches you with a ball gag in hand. 

“Wait, no. I don’t want that.” You state clearly, even through your lust filled haze. Franky grins down at you. 

“Gods, you’re so fucking hot when you tell me what you want baby. Good idea sweetie, that way everyone can hear how good I’m gonna make you feel.” Franky squeezes your breast, eliciting a whine from your lips. He moves to grab something from the foot of the bed. It a large long, black, wand like device. 

“Spread them for me, I wanna see that cute little pussy.” Franky grabbed one of your knees and pushed it open. 

“I didn’t shave…” You try to cover your face with your arm so you didn’t have to see Franky’s eyes on your most intimate bits. 

“Good! Smells much better like this…” He takes a deep inhale. 

“Fuck,” You sigh out. “You really are a fucking pervert- OH!” The device Franky was pressing against your sex suddenly sprung to life and vibrated against your clit. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced in your life and your stomach tenses immediately. 

“Wait- fuck, Franky! Wait holy shit, wait- ah!” You scream as your orgasm sneaks up on you and takes you out like an assassin. You legs give out and flop against the bed. Franky removes the toy and cups your sex with his free hand. He feels your hole still gently pulsing against his palm.

“Oh poor baby, ya really are wound tight…” Franky coos down at you from your side. “We’re gonna need a lot more of those before you’re ready for me..” He removes his hand and returns the vibrator to your sex. You cry out as he drags it through your wet folds at the lowest intensity. He eventually keeps it at your clit and increases the vibrations. 

You squirm and moan. 

“Hey,” Franky scolds as he pulls on the chain between your nipple clamps, causing you to moan louder. “Don’t fight it, doll face… just cum, I know you’re there again…” He presses the device harder into your flesh and you crash over the edge again. This time it was even more intense, spasms continuing long after the euphoria ended. 

“Franky… It’s so much…” You whine as he leaves the vibrator pressed against your sex even after you’ve cum for a second time. 

“You can take it. I know you can. You know what to say to get me to stop…” Franky meets your gaze and raises an eyebrow. 

You pull your thighs closed to escape the sensation but the bar prevents you from doing so. 

“Come on baby, one more like this, I know you can…” Franky increases the speed of the vibrator. 

“Shit! I can’t!” You arch your back away from the stimulation. 

“Then say it, sweetheart.” Franky increases the speed again. 

“Fuck! I’m- I’m cumming!” You cry out and violently lurch forward on the bed. You grab Franky’s forearm and sob in pleasure. You hear the buzzing of the machine stop and your spasms start to slow down. 

“Think you can take me now, sweet thing?” You are broken from your post orgasm trance by your cyborg lover slipping off the only piece of clothing he had on, his red swim briefs. 

“Mmmhmmm….” You seductively whisper as you roll onto your stomach and push you ass backwards with your knees, exposing your puffy, red wet hole to him. 

“So ready for me, what a good girl.” Franky coos as he strokes down your back bone. “I’m gonna fuck you now, take a deep breath…” 

“SHIT!” You cry out as Franky’s enormous cockhead breaches your hole. You were wildly wet and open after 3 orgasms, but his sheer size was causing your insides to stretch beyond compare. 

“Its- ah” *sniff* *hiccup* “It’s so big, Frank! Ah!” *sniff* 

“I know sweetheart, it’s a lot at first, but you gotta relax and let me fuck you. You gotta open up more baby..” Franky leans forward and places kisses on your shoulder blades. He feels you lessen your grip around him and he pushes in further. “Gooood girl… stretching so nice for me…” He finally pulls back out and shoves himself into you again. 

“Oh!” You cry out in surprise. You continue to yelp helplessly as your powerful cyborg lover drilled into you from behind. 

“Yes there it is mama, cum on this dick. Feels good, huh?” Franky has the audacity to laugh as he hammers into your G-spot. 

You were involuntarily pushed over the edge and sent screaming into yet another orgasm. You sob and Franky uses his massive strength to flip you over onto your back. He enters you again and you moan out in overstimulation. 

“Come on, one more doll, bet you can squirt on me…” Franky thrusts into you from above, holding your hips into his at the perfect angle to hit your spot. 

“No, I- I can’t” You pant out breathlessly, knowing this is something you aren’t capable of. 

“Yes you can baby, come on just try it for me.” Franky pulls back and places one hand on your stomach and the other on your clit. He begins to rub circles into your sensitive nub and applies deep pressure to your lower abdomen, all while thrusting deeply into you with his cock. You snap for the nth time that evening and tears spill from your lash line as your hips spasm in pleasure. You feel different, like some sort of physical release in your bottom half deeper than the normal climax. You look up after catching your breath and see that your fluids had soaked both the bed and your lover’s abdomen and thighs. 

“Hnnnnhhhh” You whine and weep in overestimation. “It’s too much, Frank, please!” You cry out and claw at your cyborg’s back. 

“Almost there mama, take it for me…” Franky rasps into your ear as he reaches his own climax, huge cock buried deep against your cervix. The loudest moan you’ve ever heard reaches your ears and you toss your head back into the pillows. The both of your whine as Franky carefully removes himself from your body. 

You lay there in a daze and didn’t even notice that your lover had left until he returned with a warm towel to dab at your swollen, messy sex. You twitch involuntarily as he cleans your sensitive bits. He unlocks your legs from their hold in the bar and gently pulls the clamps off your nipples, soothing them with the wet cloth.

“You room should be cooled off by now, glad I could occupy your time until the repairs kicked in.” Franky helps you snap your bra back on behind your back. 

“Thanks for the help, and thanks for the distraction.” You reach up and grip Franky’s jaw to kiss it. You slide off the bed bend down to grab something. You hold the worn red pair of swim briefs up to your face. 

“I’m keepin’ these.” You giggle and bolt out of the room with Franky’s bikini. 

“HEY! Those are my only red ones! This is not very super of you!”

—

Xx 

[judasgot-it]

i would like to request what hunting dogs would do when their s/o has insomnia, a lot of hugs and kisses please🥰

Sorry for the inactivity, I apologize everytime and I feel horrible about it :,(

I have horrible insomnia right now (I can't sleep well no matter what I try, it's hopeless) so I'm 100% using this to cope a bit. Also sorry about how messy reader is in Tecchou's part, I just love messy crying. I'm so weak for it.

Scenario: They help you fall asleep (Jouno, Tecchou)

Jouno

893 words

Jouno couldn't tell the time.

Whatever time it was, his body didn't care - it was screaming at him to go back to bed, making his bones feel sluggish with their weight.

Unfortunately, his ears kept pestering him, since no matter how quiet you tried to be, he could still hear you in the kitchen. Doing what? Jesus Christ, who knew.

Whatever it was, it was too damn loud.

It felt nearly impossible for Jouno to make his body move, but by some feat, he managed. He found his feet both on the ground, walking towards the bedroom, out the too-long hallway, and into the kitchen to see what in god's name you could think was worth losing sleep over.

By his guess, it was most probably around 2 in the morning. How horrible.

"Hi."

There was a loud clatter as he heard you drop the dishes in the sneak rather unquietly. Also, you screamed, but that was to be expected.

"Oh my god!"

Is there a God at this forsaken time of night?

Jouno sighed as he leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes out of habit.

"Yeah. I'm right here."

He gave you a moment to collect yourself, your heartbeat still skyrocketing through the roof. He yawned, nearly deafened by the sound of his jaw pulling at his muscles.

"So."

As patient as he could, he waited. There was noise on your end - a clattering of dishes, and he was sure you threw a towel somewhere, but that was of lesser importance.

"So. Jouno."

"Yeah?"

You patted your bare thighs, popping your lips together. Nervous.

"Why are you up?"

You tried to play your words off with a giggle. He knew he probably looked the least bit pleased, but nothing was going to convince him to go easy on you right now.

"Y/n. You know why I'm up. I'm the one asking the questions here, if I recall."

"Oh, right. Because you're 'the greatest hunting dog' and all, right?"

Jouno sighed, covering his eyes. He took a deep breath in, holding it in. It was calming, feeling his lungs slowly fill with air. His head cleared, helping him realize that the headache he had was I'm part due to the tension he was keeping in his body. In that time, he heard your heart beat skyrocket, your breath slowing as you stared.

He tried not to smile as he let go of his breath slowly. If Jouno wasn't exhausted he would have teased you about it.

"'Don't do this to me. It's 2 in the morning, go to bed."

Your laughter was a nice noise to hear. Just not now. God, not now. His body was dragging him to the ground and your laughter was reminding him that he was standing, awake - as if he were in hell.

Your laughter shouldn't be in a place as torturous as this. Like the hell between staying awake and crawling back to bed, because someone thought baking at two in rhe morning was a good idea.

"Sorry princess, but I need to put these brownies in the fridge. I'm trying out this recipe I saw online and I think-"

You didn't get to finish that sentence, as you were instead kidnapped in Jouno's arms. The man didn't care to hear the end of it - he only wanted it to end.

"No." He sighed, pressing his cold nose against your neck. "You're insane, honestly."

He muffled his words into your shirt collar, still restraining you as you struggled against his hold. There was no point, as no matter what way you fought, you couldn't fight against a super-enhanced human - even a tired one.

"This is so ..."

You paused for a bit, looking for the right words. Your brain was tired, although it hadn't registered to you just yet. Your heart still beat fast enough for you to convince yourself that you were awake, even if your eyes and mind were exhausted.

"So ...fun police of you."

The words that came out of your mouth came out sloppy at best, but they got a lame chuckle out of Jouno.

With care, he took you back to the bedroom - dropping you onto the bed like a pile of unfolded laundry. You practically laid there as if you were dead anyway.

"I have no problem arresting and cuffing you to bed if it means sleep is involved."

You giggled, as much as your tired brain could push from your throat. The bed shifted as Jouno dropped himself on the mattress, pulling up the still warm blanket over the two of you.

"What if that meant something else was involved too?"

Jouno groaned, turning back towards you. He could imagine the stupid smile on your face right now.

"Y/n."

"Yeah?"

Jouno took his hand and slowly, carefully, dragged it across your face. He felt as your eyebrows pinched in confusion, and your eyelids fluttered before he finally set his fingertips on your lips.

"Shush."

He felt you nod against his hand, before finally relaxing. Tiredly, he pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair as he slowly pressed his lips against your forehead.

"Goodnight, sleepyhead."

Jouno felt a smile pull on his face at those words. Like an idiot, he let you roam your hands around his body - when really he should have smothered you to death.

Tecchou

739 words

Waking up before you were supposed to was like a coin toss - depending on the mood it's either a great early start, or the worst feeling in the world. Sometimes the body had gotten it's full rest, or it was forced awake by something talked about in horror stories.

Tecchou decided he was indeed not well rested, and that waking up at what could well be 2 in the morning was equivalent to a horror story. Why would he want to wake up to one of the worst sounds a man could hear - his own partner, crying?

Maybe if he was Jouno, but he didn't want to think about that.

He sat up, listening as he tried to decipher what you were doing.

You were rather quiet, trying your hardest to hide your cries behind your blanket (gross, but he appreciated the effort). Opening his eyes, he glanced over to see that you were enraptured by some sort of video on your phone, the blue light illuminating your face (and probably burning your retinas, from Tecchou's guess).

He shuffled closer, trying to peak at the screen while not disturbing you. Whatever you were staring at on your phone had distracted you well enough to not even notice his presence, was slightly concerning to Tecchou - you were very spatially aware.

Shaking your shoulder, he winced when you screamed - right in his ear, with snot blowing right across his face. He elected to not react to it, considering how red your eyes looked.

"Tecchou!"

"Yea. I'm here." He replied while casually wiping off his face with the blanket he was once sleeping peacefully under.

He stared at you, his amber eyes glowing from your phone screen. You looked back, trying to readjust to the sudden change in brightness.

"M'sorry, did I wake you?" You had finally shut off you phone, resting it on your chest - giving yourself a good chance to see his full face.

"Why are you crying, babe?"

His hand roamed around your stomach, softly pulling at the fabric around it. It made you shiver as you felt his legs press against yours, warming you underneath the sheets.

"Oh...um..." You tore your gaze away from his, staring straight at the ceiling. You fidgeted with your phone, trying to stop your trembling lip.

Carefully, Tecchou reached over and wiped away your spilled-over tears, thumbing your cheek as if your skin were made of glass. He pulled you closer, resting your head against his chest, trying to calm you. Adversely, this had the opposite effect, making you start to cry even more onto his naked skin.

There were muffled stupid and sorry between your sobs, although he elected to ignore them for now. Instead, he waited as your body was racked with tears, shaking and holding onto Tecchou as if he were a lifeline.

"Hey, babe?" Calmly rubbing your shoulder, Tecchou waited as you wiped your snot and tears along your sleeve, sniffing as loud as an American bullfrog.

"Can I ask what upset you so much?"

You lightly smacked his shoulder, still hiding yourself within his warmth.

"You already did, ass."

"Right."

He went back to holding you, waiting for your reply. Eventually, when he thought you would have maybe decided to fall back asleep again instead, with the room still cast in pitch-black shadows, you decided to reply -

"I failed my exam."

Silently, Tecchou nodded.

There wasn't anything he could say to make you feel better, at no words that he knew to say. It was easier to simply pull you closer, to make you feel better through his hold than to say anything more.

"It's fine, you should try and sleep. Maybe you'll feel better in the morning."

Carefully, he pulled your phone from your hand, sliding it onto the bedside table, hoping to stop you from looking at your failure once again.

You didn't need to be reminded of it anymore, not when he could distract you right now.

As gently as a man like Tecchou could, he took to scratching at the soft skin at the back of your neck, gently tapping his rough fingernails along your spine. He smiled as felt you begin to relax, breathing out a sigh as his fingertips brushed alongside your bare shoulder blades.

He watched as you relaxed into his form, waiting until you started to breathe slower so he could allow himself to fully fall asleep once again.

Sorry about the months-long break, I didn't mean to abandon Tecchou. Also btw IRLs of mine know about this account so if I start sounding even weirder on here it's because I stopped caring about my employment opportunities

[the-lonelybarricade]

We Bleed the Same - An ACOTAR retelling

The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

HO, HO, HOHMYGOD, plot twists upon plot twists! This is dedicated to my @acotargiftexchange giftee turned anon I've been secretly in love with for... years??? For @belabellissima I really hope you enjoy this, and I'm hoping my mastermind plan to seduce you worked now that we've both unveiled our secret identities

Read on AO3

-

The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice.

Feyre had been monitoring the parameters of the thicket for the better part of an hour, but with the angle of the sun lowering past the horizon and the gusting wind blowing the tracks of any potential quarry, her vantage point in the crook of a tree branch had turned useless. Not that there was much quarry to begin with. For years, the hunters have been saying that the animals were pulling back, going deeper into the woods than most humans were willing to pursue. Even today, Feyre had ventured further than she usually risked.

She’d woken that morning to the sounds of her sisters’ growling stomachs, and she couldn’t bear meeting the hollow stare in Elain’s once bright eyes to tell her that they would spend another day without eating. Desperation had dragged her closer to the Wall than any human should dare—not just because of the faeries who lurked on the other side of the invisible barrier, but because she was now edging into wolf territory. The town hunters had warned her that they were on the prowl again in numbers. But Feyre reasoned that if the wolves hung near, it surely meant there was nearby prey to keep them fed. Unless wolf prey was the very thing she was becoming, delivering herself at their feet as she eased off the tree and stretched her stiff limbs with a restrained groan.

The icy snow crunched under her fraying boots. What little snowfall had melted already seeped through the worn leather, dampening her thin socks, but like many things, Feyre had long become numb to the cold. She wiped her ungloved fingers over her eyes, brushing away the flakes clinging to her lashes. In the woods, there wasn’t time to be cold or hungry. Even as exhaustion gnawed at her, she shoved it away, focusing on her surroundings, on the task ahead. That was all she could do, all she’d been able to do for years: focus on surviving the week, the day, the hour ahead.

Only a few hours of daylight remained. Given how deep Feyre had ventured, if she didn’t leave soon, she would have to navigate her way home in the dark. And while she might have been foolish enough to stray closer to the Wall, even she understood there was no chance of besting a wolf in the dark. Or, gods-forbid, one of the faeries that lived in the Northern parts of their land.

Whispers were becoming commonplace on market days—tales of strange folk spotted in the area, tall and eerie and deadly. Traveling peddlers had begun sharing accounts of distant border towns, left in splinters and cindered bones. In the eight years Feyre’s family had lived in the village, they’d never witnessed such an attack. But if a faerie did decide to soothe its immortal boredom by playing with one of the townsfolk, it would need to cross through these very woods to fulfill that whim, and Feyre would be the first to cross its path. Even so, she couldn’t go home. Not yet.

After a few minutes of careful searching, Feyre crouched in a cluster of snow-heavy brambles. Through the thorns, she had a half-decent view of a clearing and the small brook flowing through it. A few holes in the ice suggested it was still frequently used. Hopefully, something would come by. Hopefully.

Her family wouldn’t last another week without food. She wore that knowledge in the weight of the quiver looped over her back. Each of the arrows was a reminder that if she failed, if she missed or came home empty-handed, then Nesta or Elain or their injured father might not survive the winter. And she would break the promise she made to her mother all those years ago.

Feyre sighed through her nose and eased into a more comfortable position, calming her breathing as she strained to listen to the forest over the wind. The snow fell and fell, dancing and curling like sparkling spindrifts, the white fresh and clean against the brown and gray of the world. Once, it had been second nature to savor the contrast of new grass against the dark, tilled soil; once, she’d dreamed and breathed and thought in color and light and shape.

Feyre couldn’t remember the last time she’d done it—bothered to notice anything lovely or interesting. Stolen hours in a decrepit barn with Isaac Hale didn’t count; those times were hungry and empty and sometimes cruel, but never lovely. She went into the barn to forget, to lose herself for a few hours in the feeling of another living, breathing being. To remind herself that something existed beyond the perpetual numb.

But it never mattered how long she stayed in that barn. The cold always seeped back, and Feyre was no longer convinced it wasn’t a part of her. How else could she be crouched in the center of the lethal winter and find herself struck by its beauty? The snow fell lazily now, in big, fat clumps that gathered along every nook and bump of the trees. Mesmerizing—the lethal, gentle beauty of the snow. She should hate it, but maybe that would feel too close to hating herself.

The howling wind eased into a soft sigh. Soon, she’d have to return to the muddy, frozen roads of the village, to the cramped heat of the decrepit cottage where her sisters waited for their next meal. Some small, fragmented part of her recoiled at the thought of returning.

Then, a pair of bushes rustled across the clearing.

Drawing her bow was a matter of instinct. Feyre peered through the thorns, and her breath caught. Less than thirty paces away stood a small doe, not yet too scrawny from winter but desperate enough to wrench bark from a tree in the clearing. A deer like that could feed her family for a week or more. Feyre’s mouth watered.

Quiet as the wind hissing through dead leaves, she took aim. The doe continued tearing off strips of bark, chewing slowly, utterly unaware that her death waited yards away.

Feyre was already contemplating how she could dry half the meat, and they could immediately eat the rest—stews, pies … the skin could be sold or perhaps turned into clothing for one of them. Feyre needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed.

Her fingers trembled. So much food—such salvation. She took a steadying breath, double-checking her aim.

But there was a pair of golden eyes shining from the adjacent brush.

Feyre stilled.

The forest was silent. She hadn’t realized how unsettling the quiet had grown until the wind died, and the snow paused, and even the trees seemed to hold their breath, a riveted audience as the wolf inched closer from the brush.

He was enormous. The village hunters had said as much about the wolves that prowled in the northern territory, had spoken of animals large as ponies with an unrivaled stealth. She’d assumed their stories were embellished. No animal that massive could be so quiet.

Now, she witnessed it stalk forward, unheard, unspotted by the doe. His gaze was set on her, a sentience behind those glowing eyes that caused her mouth to dry. Her lips began shaping a wordless prayer to a nameless god, begging mercy from whatever divine power might be watching this clearing.

The voice that whispered to her was innate. He looked like a wolf, moved like a wolf. Yet she knew no animal of the mortal realm could possess such stillness, such intelligence. But a faerie could. Was it paranoia, her fears becoming unbridled and taking hold? Or was that voice in her mind the work of some primal, long-forgotten instinct remaining from the days when her people were kept as slaves?

Fae, the voice whispered. Not a wolf, a faerie.

She found herself reaching over her shoulder for her heaviest and longest arrow. An arrow carved from mountain ash, armed with an iron head. She’d purchased it from a traveling peddler during a summer when she’d had enough spare copper for extra luxuries. If legend were true, the ash wood could deal a mortal wound to the otherwise invulnerable fae.

The only proof humans had of the ash’s effectiveness was its sheer rarity. The High Fae had supposedly burned all the trees long ago. So few remained, most of them small and sickly and hidden by the nobility within high-walled groves.

For three years, the ash arrow had sat unused in her quiver while Feyre deliberated whether the overpriced wood had been a waste of money. Now she drew it, praying that the rumors were true, that she wasn’t staking her life on fiction.

Faerie or not, there would be no outrunning him. She could let him kill the doe and sneak away while he was distracted, but then she would be returning to her family empty-handed. This was winter, where ruthlessness was all she could afford.

And if it was indeed a faerie’s heart pounding under that fur, then good riddance. Good riddance, after all their kind had done to humans. If she let him live, then she risked him creeping into the village to butcher and maim and torment.

She would be glad to end him.

Yes, that instinctual voice agreed. The fae are dangerous. The fae are merciless. End him now and save your village from slaughter.

A prickling sensation along her back struck Feyre with a new fear—that he wasn’t alone. But she couldn’t hazard a glance over her shoulder to be sure, not without taking her eyes off the wolf. Feyre gripped her bow and drew the string back, training the arrow on his powerful, silver body. She had only one ash arrow, which meant she couldn’t afford to miss.

The wolf sank onto his haunches, preparing to strike. There was no time to second guess. He shot from the brush in a flash of gray and white and black, yellow fangs gleaming as they wrapped around the doe’s neck.

Feyre fired the ash arrow.

She swore the ground shuddered as the arrow found its mark in his side. He barked in pain, releasing the doe as his blood sprayed onto the snow—so ruby bright, not any different than her own. He whirled towards her, those yellow eyes wide, hackles raised. His growl reverberated in the empty pit of her stomach as she surged to her feet, snow crunching beneath her, another arrow drawn.

The wolf merely stared, his maw stained with blood, the ash arrow protruding so vulgarly from his side. The snow began falling again, and he looked at her with the sort of awareness that made her fire a second arrow. Just in case—just in case that intelligence was of the immortal, wicked sort.

He didn’t try to dodge the arrow as it went clean through his wide yellow eye.

Only once he collapsed to the ground, legs twitching, did Feyre notch another arrow and turn towards the thicket at her back. Her eyes anchored on the point of the arrowhead as she swept her aim blindly between the trees for any sign of that looming presence she’d sensed.

There was only slow-drifting snow, skeletal trees, and the soft whine of the dying wolf.

Alone, that residual intuition told her. Safe.

Feyre eased the arrow off the bow before turning to face the carnage. Her hands shook at the sight of the blood gushing from the wounds she’d given him, staining the snow crimson. He pawed at the ground, his breathing already slowing. The snow swirled around them, merciless as the arrow through his eye, almost to the goose fletching. She stared at him until that coat of charcoal and obsidian and ivory ceased rising and falling.

A wolf, she told herself. Only a wolf, despite his size.

Still, she couldn’t shake the creeping sensation of being watched as she crouched beside both animals. If nothing else, it encouraged her to work quickly. She couldn’t carry both animals back to the village—even the doe alone would be a struggle. But it was a shame to leave the wolf. His pelt would fetch decent coin or at least make for a nice cloak to fight off the winter chill.

Though it wasted precious minutes—minutes during which any predator could smell the fresh blood, if there wasn’t already one circling—Feyre skinned him and cleaned her arrow as best she could.

When she was finished, she wrapped the bloody side of the pelt around the doe’s death wound before hoisting the deer across her shoulders. Grunting against the weight, Feyre grasped the legs of the deer and spared a final glance over her shoulder, past the steaming carcass of the wolf to the forest beyond. Wind whistled against the hollow branches, obscuring any sound of nearby creatures.

And though nothing emerged from the trees on the other side of the clearing, she swore something in the vacant space stared back. Curious. Patient.

Feyre swallowed before sparing one last glance at the bloodied snow. Maybe she was unsettled by the gore, by how little remorse she felt for the dead thing. Grief was too heavy to hold with a doe around her shoulders and several miles separating Feyre from her cottage. Maybe she told herself something was watching so it could bear that burden in her place.

And maybe a creature so capable of mourning would be equally capable of forgiveness, so that when Death inevitably arrived on her doorstep—be it days or months or years—maybe the eyes that fell at her back would mourn for her, too.

-

The trampled snow coating the road into the village was speckled with brown and black mud from passing carts and horses. Elain and Nesta did their best to dodge the particularly disgusting parts as the three of them trekked their way along it.

Feyre was aware that her sisters had only decided to accompany her because she’d be selling the hides today. It was market day, which meant that the meager square in the center of town would be full of whatever vendors had braved the brisk morning. The snow had cleared some in the night, leaving Feyre hopeful that traveling peddlers had gambled the journey. She found they usually offered her a better price than the local merchants.

From a block away, the scent of hot food wafted towards them—spices that tugged on the edge of her memory, beckoning. Elain let out a low moan behind her, and Feyre’s mouth watered. Spices, salts, and sugars were rare commodities for most of the villagers. It had been a long while since Feyre and her sisters had eaten anything besides bread and game meat.

She fought the temptation to stare too long at the food vendors as they strode into the busy market square. Spring was still a long way off, and the forest had been particularly unforgiving this year. They needed to be smart with any excess coin, even if the scent of fresh tarts drifted towards her from the doors of the passing bakery. They were luxuries of a time before.

“I’ll meet you here in an hour,” Feyre said to her sisters, not giving them a chance to respond before she slipped away into the crowd.

Feyre took her time to assess her options. There were her usual buyers: the weathered cobbler and the sharp-eyed clothier who came to the market from a nearby town. She could feel the eyes of the cobbler and clothier on her, sense their feigned disinterest as they took in the satchel she bore.

Fine. She slid her eyes past them dismissively, searching the crowd for unfamiliar faces, someone who might be inclined to buy a wolf hide. Like the tall, raven-haired man sitting on the lip of the broken square fountain, without any cart or stall, but looking like he was holding court nonetheless.

It was hard to place him at first. He was handsome, ungodly so, and smiling to himself like he knew it. She might have pinned him as a lord’s son for the swaggering arrogance that radiated from him, but the clothes were off. He bore well-made leathers and a fur cloak. Not the finery of a lord, but from his full cheeks and glowing skin, he didn’t strike her as someone scraping for his next meal, either. He turned, and the pommel of the sword strapped across his back answered her question. A mercenary.

It wasn’t his sword that stilled her approach, though its silver scabbard was polished with enough care that it reflected light even with the overcast sky. It was his eyes, turning to meet hers. Such an interesting color—not quite blue, but a deeper shade, almost violet, and like his sword they were brighter than seemed possible in the bleak winter. They twinkled with amusement as he beheld her.

Feyre’s mood immediately soured. She didn’t have the patience for condescension today. She might have turned around, but he’d already seen her, and the coin purse strapped to his weapons belt looked heavy enough that she decided to stay. Mercenaries were well-paid in this territory.

“Well met,” he said, nodding his head in a gesture of greeting as equally foreign as the lilt to his voice.

She pegged him as anywhere between twenty-five to thirty years of age. His sensual, swaggering grace spoke of youth. But there was a hardened edge to him, one that said he’d been in this trade long enough to expertly wield the sword at his back, and to adequately punish anyone who made an inconvenience of themselves.

Feyre didn’t want to linger and find herself on the opposite end of that sword, especially before knowing if he was interested in buying from her. She sucked in a breath to offer her pitch and found herself blurting, “Where do you hail from?”

His brows raised. She suppressed an exhale of relief that it was intrigue sparking in his eyes, and not disapproval for wasting his time. “That depends.” Feyre couldn’t draw her attention away from his violet stare, even as it flitted over her shoulder, making a quick assessment of the passing villagers trying their best not to gawk. “Will my answer impact your willingness to do business with me?”

She supposed that meant others in the village had turned him away already. A surprise, given his exceptional beauty, but she supposed that amounted to little in the face of prejudice. Feyre knew well enough that a person’s circumstances didn’t define them, and that the judgment cast by the village was harsh on its best days. With the added rumors of neighboring villages being ransacked, she could imagine the wariness they might pay a stranger with a sword. Even a beautiful one.

“No,” Feyre said. “I’m just curious. I’ve never seen you here before.”

I would have noticed you, she thought.

In part because he was massive, even sitting down. A mark of the trade, she supposed. No one would hire a mercenary who looked like her—gangly from hunger and drowning in her layers. Unlike her withering figure, he was broad and well-muscled. Strong. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt that way.

As he contemplated her response, his gaze snagged on her arm and his smile faltered. “Are you a painter?”

The question caught her so off guard that she bristled, her weight shifting onto her back foot in case she needed to cut and run. The mercenary laughed, softly, and nodded at the fleck of paint on the sleeve of her tunic. Paint that had to have been there from three summers ago, damning evidence that this tunic was old and rarely washed.

She swallowed, apprehensive at his observation. Why it was relevant to someone like him. “I like to paint,” she said, because she wouldn’t go as far to call herself a painter. Her skills were rudimentary, at best. “Does it matter?”

An odd look crossed his face, as though he was retreating to some distant memory. Then he offered another of those arrogant smiles and mimicked, “No, I’m just curious.”

Fair enough. One personal question in exchange for another.

“I hail from Illyria,” he said. At her blank look, he added, “A tribe of people nestled in the steppes of a far-away mountain range.”

On the continent, she filled in. There was nothing like that here, at least not on this side of the Wall. When the land was divided all those centuries ago, the faeries had allocated a slim strip of plains and woodlands to the humans. Anything so majestic as a mountain range was left to the fae above the Wall, but at least these lands were hospitable without magic.

“No wonder the winter doesn’t phase you,” she said, gesturing to his cheeks and nose, which lacked the rosy flush that was surely painted on her own. “This weather must feel mild in comparison.”

“It’s been many years since I’ve returned to the Illyrian Mountains,” he said. He kept his voice light, but Feyre sensed they were treading towards unwelcome territory. “And the conditions in these lands have been harsh, but they may be letting up soon.”

Feyre frowned, glancing toward the sky. “You think so?”

There were at least two months remaining before winter yielded to spring. But perhaps wherever he came from, the weather changed sooner.

When she glanced back at the mercenary, he was staring at her, a smile playing on his full lips. “Things look promising from where I’m sitting.” Was he… flirting with her? Feyre must have spent too long debating it, because the mercenary drew her out of the thought by nodding at her satchel. “What business does a pretty thing like you have with a mercenary like me?”

It was absurd to feel flattered by his words. Feyre couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to pay her that sort of compliment. Certainly not Issac, who was inclined not to speak a word during those moments she found herself undressed beneath him. That was perfectly fine with Feyre. She preferred silence over a lie.

She fought to hide her scowl, but from his laugh, she thought it was unsuccessful. Pushing aside her rising ire, she said, “I have a wolf pelt and a doe hide for sale. I thought you might be interested in purchasing them.”

He ran those remarkable eyes down her again. Feyre coaxed herself to remain steady, to lift her chin as he crooned, “Does that make you a huntress or a thief?”

It was difficult to determine which would be more impressive to him. Feyre held his stare as she answered, “I hunted them myself. I swear it.”

He would not understand what it meant to her, that vow. After their world had been cleaved by the fae, humans had deserted their religions and holidays. In Faerie, they relied on magic to bind a person to their word, but they had no such tools here, no Cauldron or Mother or any other deities to swear upon. Here, a person was only as good as their word. To Feyre, and to many of the villagers, a vow was sacred. But if he fashioned her a thief, he may not consider her word as bond.

“A huntress then,” he purred. His attention fixed on her satchel. “Let me see.”

Feyre pulled out the carefully folded hides. “I was only after the doe, to feed my family. But the wolf got to her first. And I made sure I was the one who left the clearing alive.”

The mercenary gave a low whistle as he examined the hides with an expert eye, running his hands over and under. She expected to be met with incredulity, but she marked awe in his voice as he praised, “Impressive kill, little huntress. You must be a good shot.”

“If I weren’t, I’d be dead.”

That truth sobered him. Sobered them both. He assessed her for a long moment, then lifted his gaze over her shoulder, where Nesta and Elain were doing their best to eavesdrop without being spotted.

He pursed his lips. “I’ll take them,” he said, before naming a price that would have sent her staggering if she didn’t keep a tight grip on her composure. He was grossly overpaying.

Feyre leveled her shoulders. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes darkening. “But you need to stay out of those woods, and I know you won’t keep out of them if your family is starving.” The question must have been plain on her face. He pitched his voice lower. “I think you know that this wasn’t any ordinary wolf. It won’t take long for its kind to come sniffing, and you may end up leading them right to those sisters of yours.”

She refused to glance over her shoulder and offer merit to the fear he was trying to churn in her gut. He wanted her to look at her sisters and see their slight figures, so fragile and defenseless against a creature like the one she’d encountered yesterday morning. Her stomach roiled despite her efforts. “Are you trying to scare me so that I hand the coin right back to hire your protection?”

The mercenary chuckled, but it lacked any warmth. “My services have already been bought by a local lord. I’m just trying to warn you, from one hunter to another. You go back into those woods, and you’ll be courting your death.”

She wasn’t brave enough to ask if he was speaking from experience, if he’d once been hunted by the fae after killing their kin. If she was smart, she’d heed his words and use his coin to get her family on a boat headed south, somewhere far away from the Wall. But would they believe her, would they be willing to go?

“Think on it,” he said, as if she wasn’t already. She held perfectly still as he reached into his heavy cloak to withdraw his coin pouch. She let him count, her mind far away while she plotted their different options of escape, including the scenarios where she had to drag her sisters kicking and screaming from their beds. It was preferable to a vengeful faerie doing the same.

Maybe it was for the better. The land left for the humans in this realm had always been an afterthought, and the governing queens had never paid much attention to this small colony of villages. She’d heard things were better on the continent, the land warmer and more fertile. Elain could garden, and Feyre could learn to make paints from the petals. It was a nice thought, a comfort against the more dangerous one—if she didn’t convince her sisters to leave, a faerie might come seeking revenge for the one she felled.

Feyre’s awareness was jolted back into the cold market square by the press of metal against her palm. She blinked, and violet eyes filled her vision, creased in feint amusement.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

The weight of the coins felt heavy. She knew if she glanced at her sisters, she’d find them drawing closer, sensing the transaction was over. What would he do with her name if she gave it to him? She couldn’t imagine anything good could come of it.

“Tell me yours first,” She countered.

That errant smile grew. And she understood why he had chosen to become a mercenary. Feyre only hunted in the woods out of necessity. If tomorrow she discovered she would never need to raise her bow against another breathing creature, she would feel relieved. But from the way his eyes sparked, fascinated at this new game afoot, she knew that he was the kind of man who hunted for thrill. That this information, basic and inconsequential as it may be to the rest of the world, had become his new quarry.

He raised a hand, offering it into the space between them.

“Rhys,” he said.

Wind played at his raven hair, swiping pieces across his forehead. Feyre stared at his outstretched hand. Broad and flecked with the odd scar, his hands were more elegant than she’d expect of a mercenary. They wouldn’t have looked out of place against the ivory keys of a pianoforte or gripping fine cutlery at a Lord’s dining table. Maybe that was the danger of him—the charming smile and the clever eyes. Perhaps his foes saw a pretty face and underestimated what he could do with that sword. Maybe the poor mercenary was one littered with scars, whereas Rhys walked away from his battles unscathed.

“No family name?” she pressed.

“They’re not needed in my trade.” Rhys leaned forward, flexing his fingers in invitation. “And you, little huntress? What name might I inquire after to ensure you’re still alive in a week’s time?”

Rhys. She had no way of verifying if that was his true name. Maybe he changed it every place he went, never assuming the same identity, never leaving a trail. If a faerie found him one day and demanded to know where that wolf pelt had come from, what would stop Rhys from revealing her name? Especially if it could spare his own life.

He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t think it would be useful to him one day. She wouldn’t delude herself by buying into his purred words and bedroom eyes. Feyre took a step back, steadying herself.

“There’s only one huntress in this village,” she said. “They’ll know who you mean.”

The mercenary lowered his hand, slipping it casually into his pocket. “I told you mine.” Velvet as the melted chocolate being sold by the cup two stalls away, Rhys leaned closer and whispered, “That makes our debt uneven, love. I may seek payment for it one day.”

A shiver crept down her spine, though she couldn’t determine if it was from the threat of the words or the sultry promise in his voice. Feyre curled her hand around the strap of her satchel, fingers tightening over the worn leather like she didn’t trust he wouldn’t try to snatch it from her. “I have to go,” she said, her tongue feeling thick. From the cold, she reasoned.

He waved a hand over her shoulder, smirking at whatever caught his eye. “I wish you luck, then.”

Feyre turned, expecting to find that Nesta finally summoned the courage to yank her away. But the mercenary’s lazy smile wasn’t directed towards Nesta and Elain, ducked conspicuously behind the clothier’s wagon. It was aimed across the square. Where, leaning against a building, arms crossed over his chest, Isaac Hale watched their interaction through raised brows.

More of that wicked amusement spread over Rhys’s face. “Friend of yours?”

Friend was both an understatement and too generous of a word. They’d vaguely known each other since Feyre’s family had moved to the village, and one afternoon they wound up walking down the main road together. Their conversation had been inane and perhaps a bit awkward, but a week later, she’d pulled him into a decrepit barn. He’d been her first and only lover in the two years since.

Their trysts were erratic and haphazard; sometimes they’d meet every night for a week, others they’d go a month without seeing each other. If recollection served, it had been almost six weeks since that last frantic shedding of clothes and shared breaths. He has grown lean since the last time she saw him, his brown hair a bit shaggier.

There was no love between them. There never had been. But the last time she’d seen him, Isaac told her he’d soon be married. A piece of her heart had sunk at the news, and she’d avoided seeing him since. Now, she weighed the apprehension in her chest against the reprieve of company, that bit of selfishness that made their bleak and wretched lives more bearable.

Feyre blew out a breath, watching Issac incline his head in a familiar gesture and amble off down the street—out of town and to the ancient barn, where he would be waiting if she decided to join him.

“Yeah,” Feyre said. “A friend.”

If he believed her answer, he didn’t press. She didn’t imagine her pathetic love life would be of much interest to someone like him. There was no room for wives and children in his lifestyle. Perhaps the occasional love affair, though he likely didn’t stay in the same place for very long. Maybe that was why there was understanding in the way he nodded. Like he, too, needed the occasional warm body to remind himself that there was life outside of the daily horrors.

“Just try to stay out of trouble.” His eyes gleamed in a way that suggested staying out of trouble meant staying far, far away from him.

She didn’t get a chance to respond before a slender hand clamped onto Feyre’s forearm, dragging her away. Elain waited beside the clothier’s wagon, shivering despite her cloak as she watched Nesta pull Feyre away from the mercenary.

“Mercenaries are dangerous,” Nesta hissed, fingers digging into Feyre’s arm. Even Elain’s face had gone pale and tight. “Don’t go near them again.”

“He was fine,” Feyre said, yanking herself free. “Generous, even.”

“They’re brutes, and will take any copper they can get, even if it’s by force.”

The silver coins in her pocket said otherwise. Feyre glanced at Rhys, still sitting on the fountain. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. She glanced away, feeling her cheeks warm, knowing she’d made it obvious they were talking about him.

She shoved a hand in her pocket, suddenly desperate to escape this market and those piercing violet eyes. She pushed a twenty-mark copper towards Elain, not bothering to look at either of them as she said, “I’ll see you at home.”

They didn’t protest. Feyre thought it was miraculous how swiftly a mercenary’s business became acceptable if it meant a new pair of boots, but she held back the sharp words on her tongue. Her sisters wandered off, already whispering about what they should buy.

Like an arrow trained at her back, she could feel the mercenary’s gaze tracking her as she wove through the market stalls, not even bothering with subtlety in those rare moments when she gathered the courage to glance over her shoulder. He merely grinned at her, shameless.

She intentionally left down the same street as Isaac, just so Rhys might assume she was on her way to meet the farmboy. And think twice about following her. When she reached the ancient barn, she paused. Isaac would be waiting to undress her on the other side of the splintered and peeling wood. She could already feel the hot breath on her spine, the hay straws biting into her palm, her knees. Maybe it was better to see him in case Rhys didn’t think twice about following her. And maybe because she could feel a pit in her chest yawning open, and she thought Isaac’s strong, work-roughened hands might be able to hold it closed for just a little longer.

Just enough to feel warm again, for an afternoon. Before she returned to the cottage and remembered that she killed a faerie yesterday. And might very well have put a price on her head—on her family’s head—because of it.

He’s married, a small, rational voice reminded her. Maybe it’s time to move on.

Besides, the last thing she wanted was to get him killed.

Feyre walked past the barn. She ought to feel proud of her dignity, but it didn’t soothe the pit in her chest, a tempest of ice and darkness that slowly seeped out with every step along the frozen path back to the cottage. No amount of stuffing her fingers into her armpits could banish the cold. It was here, it was her.

She sighed, watching the breath expel in a cloud of frosty air. There had always been an undercurrent of darkness that drew her and Isaac to each other, but now she wondered if she was too frozen, too hollow, even for him.

And as she walked, she found herself thinking about Rhys, unflinching at the bite of winter. And how, for that short time she’d been drenched in the heat of his gaze, his eyes the first vibrant color she’d seen since winter had overtaken the village, she’d forgotten what it was to be cold.

-

Hours later, after another dinner of venison, Feyre’s family gathered around the fire for the quiet hour before bed. She watched the flames flicker in the fireplace, absently bathing in the precious heat before she and her sisters would retreat into the bedroom, where they’d huddle together for warmth beneath threadbare blankets.

Nesta and Elain whispered and laughed together about some encounter they’d had with a handsome apprentice in the marketplace. There was the odd lull in laughter, in which Nesta would slide her eyes to Feyre as if daring her to make some comment about Tomas Mandray, a woodcutter’s second son who would allegedly be proposing to her any day now. They’d fought about it the day prior, but it felt like centuries ago.

All evening, she’d been trying to summon the courage to admit to her family where that wolf’s pelt had truly come from. What it had come from. She wasn’t certain how they would react or if they would even take the warning of the mercenary seriously. Father might. He’d once traded one of his wood carvings for the wards etched around their cottage’s threshold, supposedly meant to protect their home against faerie harm. It was one of the few things he’d bothered to do for them. If the fae scared him enough that he’d barter with a charlatan for those useless engravings, maybe the threat would be enough to rattle him into action again.

Except he was dozing in his chair, his cane laid across his gnarled knee. And she suspected she would get nowhere with her sisters without his aid. He had no sway with Nesta, but Elain would listen to him. And wherever Elain went, Nesta would follow.

Tomorrow, then. She would speak privately with her father and worry about convincing her sisters later.

Tomorrow was a nice idea.

But then a roar cleaved through the still night. The cottage door burst into splinters. And her sisters screamed as snow flooded into the room, flurrying around the enormous, growling shape that appeared in the doorway.

[lendeah]

Hey I saw ur recent thing about astarion/durge w scars and I raise to Astarion/Tav with a shit ton of scars they actually do have stories for (either really dumb or really cool or kinda traumatic) and astarry just lovingly traces them and asks about them

YES!!! I love the idea.

Here you go, I hope you enjoy it and thanks for asking! 🤍🫶🏻

Astarion loved tracing the little scars dotting your body. Even in moments of exhaustion, as you both lay on the bedroll after a arduous day of battle, he would gently trace the intricate lines of your skin with lazy fascination.

"Now, I bet this one has a story worth hearing," he drawls, caressing with his finger along the long scar on your arm.

You let out a small chuckle and decide to humor him. "This one here? That was from a sword fight. I was trying to protect my brother because he had been having an affair with a married woman, and it got pretty intense. I ended up taking a pretty bad hit, but luckily I lived through it."

The vampire cocks an eyebrow, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "So let me get this straight," he drawls, "you got this scar defending your brother's honor from a scorned lover? Sounds like your brother could have used some self-defense lessons."

You shrug "I guess, but he is my brother. I couldn't just let him struggle on his own. Besides, I'm the better fighter of the two of us." you say with a smirk.

A mischievous chuckle escapes his lips, "Always the hero, huh?" he lets out a resigned sigh, but his eyes glint playfully. "You know, your stubborn selflessness isn't the most attractive trait."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh really? And what is my most attractive trait to you?"

Astarion chuckles, then brings his cold fingers to your forehead, gently brushing the skin there, "This scar above your eye? It's quite the attractive feature. Really adds to your whole intimidating aura," he purrs, "I must hear the tale behind it."

You roll your eyes, trying not to let his teasing get to you. "Ugh, that one gave me nightmares for weeks." You say with a grimace. "I was being chased by an angry tabern owner because I may or may not have stolen some of his ale. Anyway, he caught up to me and I fought him off as best as I could, but he still managed to get a knife to my face." You shudder at the memory and the thought of your mother's scolding afterwards.

Astarion chuckles, "Oh darling, you? Stealing? And ale, of all things? Positively scandalous. I find it hard to believe."

You give him a playful glare, "Oh please, I was young and reckless. Plus, the ale was really good."

He shakes his head in disbelief, but the fondness in his eyes is unmistakable. As he takes your hand in his, his soft fingers tracing over the familiar lines and curves, you feel a warmth spread through your chest. His thumb gently traces the jagged scar on your palm, "This one looks like a fish bone" He says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes "Yeah, well, I got that one in an attempt to save my friends when I was young." you say "We were out at sea enjoying the warm weather, when suddenly a massive creature emerged from the depths. It had razor-sharp teeth and writhing tentacles, and before we knew it, our boat was under attack. I reached out to help my friends and next thing I know, I'm tangled up in this thing's grasp. Thank the gods a wizard happened to witness our struggle and put down the beast. Lesson learned: never underestimate the power of the ocean's creatures."

He rolls his eyes back, "Of course the heroic, strong, selfless and pretty one would make something like that sound like a normal and not crazy thing to do." He looks back at your hand, "But no worries, darling, your hand is just fine. In fact, it's quite charming in its own rugged way." He says, taking your palm to his lips, making you shiver. Despite his teasing, there is a genuine admiration in his voice that warms your heart. His hand then moves up to cup your cheek. "You certainly have an interesting collection of scars."

You can't help but blush at his words, feeling a mix of happiness and vulnerability. No one has ever taken the time to truly listen to your stories before, let alone find them interesting. But with Astarion, it feels different, like he sees you for who you truly are, flaws and all.

"Back home, some people said I was a monster because of them" you say, gesturing to the marks on your body, "but I like them, I think they all have a story behind them worth telling."

Astarion raises an eyebrow, "People called you a monster? What foolishness."

You shrug, "It's just how things were back in my hometown. They were afraid of anything different or out of the ordinary."

A playful glint dances in his eyes and his sharp fangs glisten. "Oh, I'm sure I'm a real nightmare to them," he quips with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, "Well, it's not every day someone meets a charming vampire like yourself."

Astarion leans in closer, his warm breath tickling your skin. "You know, I never tire of hearing your stories. You always manage to surprise me."

You feel your cheeks flush at his words, but before you can respond, Astarion leans in and presses his lips against yours softly. It's sweet and gentle, but also filled with unspoken words and emotions, and you can't help but wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as you both lose yourselves in each other.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, breathless and smiling. "I could listen to your stories all day," he murmurs.

"Well, lucky for you I have plenty more where those came from." you reply with a teasing grin. "Ah, but what about your scars?"

Astarion's playful smirk returns as he starts tracing your skin again. "Oh, mine? They come from a life of bloodlust and and danger."

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So it seems like your requests are open? Cool! I have an idea for COTL! Lamb! Reader is Narinder's chosen vessel rather than the Lamb, and they're EXHAUSTED after everything that's happened. So when Narinder summons them, they say "what if I say "no?"" Narinder just goes, "what?" And they respond "listen, I just died, watched my entire race die, and have been running for my entire life. Can I at least have a break before I get thrown into this?" I just thought it would be funny XD

"Come closer. Fear not, for though you are already dead....I still have need of you."

Standing silently in the white void, you gazed up at the giant feline bishop--a god chained as you, a sacrificial lamb, were now. His arms were stripped to the bone, iron clasps keeping him shackled to the ground and preventing him from freely moving them around too much.

Yet despite him being imprisoned like some caged beast...he seemed no-less revering, and you couldn't help but admire him..

Even if he is the reason you were sent to your death.

Lambs all over the Old Faith were murdered in cold blood, their children snatched and butchered and their villages sieged by the fanatics of the five ruling Bishops. You had been on the run for weeks, without knowing why exactly they targeted your kind specifically.

What did such peaceful wool-covered creatures ever do to deserve this sort of horrible fate?

Only after they have captured you did you realize you were the last living lamb...and that the Bishops put all the others to the blade for one reason:

A prophecy.

A prophecy that spoke of their banished brother--the "One Who Waits"--being freed from his chains by a lamb who'd serve as his vessel and destroy the ways of the Old Faith from the inside out.

For that, the Bishops left none alive in hopes of stopping the prophecy from ever taking place, wanting to ensure the "heretic" stayed in captivity forever.

However after your execution, their plan seemed to have gone awry...considering you, a lamb, stood before the very person they desperately didn't want you to see.

"Those foolish Bishops thought they could keep you from me in death, but instead they sent you straight to me!" Narinder boasted. "I will give you life again, but at a price."

You nervously gulped. "And..what would that be?"

"All I ask is for you to start a cult in my name. Do we have a deal?"

".....what if..I said no?"

"....what?" He narrowed his eyes in confusion, surprised that you didn't readily agree to his offer like other vessels before you. They all jumped at the chance to come back to life..but not you. He began to feel a little insulted.

"Do you take me for a liar, little lamb?" He sneered. "Have you no desire for vengeance against the ones who senselessly destroyed everything you knew and loved? Believe it or not, I can give you that power-"

"I-I absolutely believe you, my lord." You quickly backtracked, kneeling down in respect. "I want that more than anything. It's just...so much has happened all at once. My village burning down, my capture, my death...I haven't known peace until I was sent here. I think..t-taking a small breather first would help me feel better prepared to start a cult in your great name..."

You felt like you rambled a bit too long for his liking, seeing as his stoic expression didn't once waver. Even the smaller cat guardians flanking him hadn't moved an inch, although the one in a white cloak did open his eyes, flashes of concern in them.

Yet Narinder's silence was most discomforting, as you feared that you've angered him and he was going to revoke the offer.

Bowing your head even lower, you squeezed your eyes shut, trembling. "Forgive me, I-I spoke out of turn. I..don't think I'm the right fit to be your vessel-"

However you stopped all movements as you no longer felt the weight of the chains holding you down. And you realized they had disappeared, allowing you to move your arms freely.

Although your neck still ached tremendously...at least the clasp wasn't crushing it anymore.

"No. You are the one I need...for it cannot be anybody else." His voice purred, causing you to look back up at him. This time his gaze seemed softer. "I seldom know what has transpired in the realm of the living..seeing only mere glimpses of certain events. But you've given me better understanding of your tragic circumstances. So I will allow you a brief moment of tranquility to prepare you for your task ahead."

You lightly gasped, smiling as you jumped up into a standing position, hands clasped together in relief. "Oh, thank you so much-!"

"Do not assume I shall always be this charitable." His voice went right back to being condescending. "Take gratitude that I permitted this...and do not ask me for anymore favors henceforth. When you lead a cult, you may not always get "breathers"."

"..I-I understand." You rubbed your neck bashfully. "I appreciate this a lot."

"So I reckon we have a deal? When you're ready, I will guide you on what must be done, and you shall take the Red Crown atop my head to fulfill your mission."

"Very well. I shall gladly serve you and repay the debt I owe."

Narinder blinked, silent for a few long moments, before he grinned wickedly, sharp teeth spreading from ear-to-ear. All three of his eyes seemed to glow brighter.

"Excellent. You understand what must be done and already show such strong devotion to me...you'll be my finest vessel yet."

[cryptidcorners]

Fire's Your Friend ~ — Billy Burn x GN!Reader

Description: You meet your boyfriend Billy after weeks of radio silence. Luckily, he's still the bastard you know and love.

# No Request

# A.N: I wrote this before I watched the film and it's been rotting in my notes LOL!!! enjoy

Media: Burn [ 2019 ]

Character: Billy Burn

Tags: Events Take After Burn, Established Relationship, Slightly Suggestive? If You Squint, Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, Sweet Talk + Reader is !GN.

Warnings: Mentions of Blood/Injury, Smoking

TOS. Billy Burn Master List {TBW}

The sunset was red in the clouds and cold, ill air was sinking into the emptying lot, while a few silent pedestrians roamed to watch the light flee, it was still lonley in your eyes. 

Billy's lighter was busy in your hands, as you found mindless entertainment in flicking the steel trap and running your fingertips in it's maze-like design. Though, toying with a relic from a phantom wasn't widowing away your impatience.

You cupped your face reluncantly due to the ice trailing on your cheeks as nighttime brimmed into the silent square. The wild, warm colors from buzzing advertisements and wasping vehicles flickering like holiday lights on a street a few yards away (which were walled with barbed wire) hadn't even distracted you, since your cocky companion was fresh in your mind. 

You set the lighter ablaze, eyes fixed on the fire. It reminded you of your life, reminded you of the outside, reminded you of Billy. He was so dangerous, yet you found yourself on his porch every night enjoying his company. Though, you hadn't entirely gotten used to his trips. He'd pack nothing but a few dollars for gas, a firearm and some fake ID from God knows where. You prayed he'd come back in one piece, hopefully not with mobs on his tail. 

"Don't you know it's dangerous to put fire so close to your face?" A voice said with a wry chuckle. "Or, is it nothing you've felt before?" Billy, with a great sigh, sat next to you. He looked breathless, as if he had ran a marathon, twice. Relief filled your bones and you felt weak already, "Billy." 

Then, your eyes flickered wildly. 

He turned his head, revealing his scarlet soaked side glittering under the moonlight. 

"Oh, my God. Is that blood? Billy—" Your concern was icy. Billy immediately tensed and shook his head, 

"It's nothing. It doesn't hurt, it's just . . . there." He assured with a sloppy attempt to grap your shoulder. "It's been a while." 

You knew he had a short fuse, and he looked tired enough. You bit back another pester, "Yeah, it has." 

Billy's warm grasp shock your fingertips as he gently took his lighter back, purposely caressing your hand just to tease. To your annoyment (and his amusement), it had worked and you felt your face warm. Billy sighed and eyed a pack of cigarettes slipping out your pocket. He then shook his lighter in front of you, "Mind giving me a smoke?" 

You laughed softly. "Really? You want me to do it for you—again?" Billy groaned playfully, throwing his head back lightly with a low giggle. He then teased, "It's been a long night. And I'm just so tired, you can give me some hospitality, can't you?" Billy added. "I know you're soft for me." 

"Careful now." You ruffled his hair affectionately, "I'm just lighting a cigarette." You set the cigarette between his curved lips and you lightly pushed him upwards, nails trailing down blue jacket. He chuckled again, gaze softening. "Don't leave me waiting."

"You've left me waiting for a week." You remarked with a waving the lighter in circles. "I can go as slow as I want to, but I won't—at least not tonight anyway." and you began sparking flashes of firelight on the edge of the coffin nail. 

He held back another chuckle behind the smoke, already melting into your touch and leaning more foward than he needed to. Smoke filled the air, and after a long inhale, you pulled the cigarette back and let him flood his pent out exhaustion with the most fragile exhale you've ever heard in your life. You flared as he brought himself dangerously close, "I missed that. Smoking didn't feel worth it without you when I was away, I couldn't bring myself to do it." 

"Were you feeling sendamental or do you not know how to light a cig anymore?" You quizzed. His cheeks flushed with another cocky smile. You ran your fingers across his red face, which had earned a massive flinch. Your pressure eased and you reeled your fingertips down to his chin.

Billy sighed, speaking between the smoke as his eyes domesticated into something soft. "You know, fire isn't so bad. Hot, dangerous, pretty." 

"Are you seriously talking about yourself?" You couldn't help but giggle, tucking his slick locks between his ears as you melted into his gaze. 

"Am I wrong?" He teased and you felt his fingertips lightly trace across your cheek. Billy signaled you to take the cigarette back, and he blew a cloud into your face with a devious chuckle. You coughed, "Dick." 

He rubbed his neck, "Sorry, I couldn't resist. It's funny seeing your face get all sour like that." and he planted a sweet kiss on your forehead — delicate and short as it was, it still made you feel all fuzzy. Billy noticed, "I'm sorry I've been so absent. There's been so much on my ass and . . . God, I'm sorry." 

"Look, look it's okay." You hushed. "I'm just glad you came back in one piece," Then, you mumbled, "But, you seriously need to tell me what happened to you." 

He said slowly, "Gas station." 

"A gas station? Is that—all you're going to tell me." 

"If you light me another, I'll give you three more words for context." He offered. And you didn't even think about resisting.

[sweet-lost-husbands]

Seek Forgiveness

Prompt from @marchtothefuckingsea: you all like the trope of character being so delirious from their injuries that they don't realize someone on their team trying to help them, so they fight back, but I offer you: Character, delirious, weakly fighting someone trying to help them, but they finally recognize who it is and they fight even harder.

Hurt/Comfort

I absolutely loved writing this! Hopefully you enjoy reading this, please feel free to give any advice as well.

Word count: 3k on the dot 🫠🫠

Summary: Reader gets hurt on a hunt and she is forced to rely on someone who has hurt her in the past, to save her life.

Warnings: Serious injury, blood, broken bones, extreme gore, restraints, potions, accidental torture?? but only to save her. Reader is scared of Castiel.

No usage of y/n.

Italics are the character's thoughts

It was a simple mistake- and yet an unforgivable one. That was the irony to it. 

I limp forward, slowly catching my breath as I walk. I hold my cold hand against my abdomen, Warm blood leaking through the gaps in my fingers and the fabric of my clothes, coating my body like a blanket as gravity beckons it down. I know I needed to put more pressure, but I can’t bring myself to do it. 

I take another sharp painful step, when something crashes into my side, and I'm thrown to the unforgiving floor. I hear the snaps before I feel the hot pain that explodes in my ribs. My lungs gasp for a single breath of air but it seems to fall short.  

I have been in this situation once before; it gives me back memories I try deeply to forget.  

Then something is on me, clawing at my flesh. I recognise that smell anywhere, the blood thirst- the unholiness. A vamp. 

I fumble with the machete, begging my numb fingers to work. My heart pounds in my chest and ricochets of skull, so loud that I plead for moment of silence. 

My fingers grip around the handle and gain just enough leverage to sever its head with one flick of the wrist.  

I collapse backwards, coughing and spluttering as the world spins and blurs. An all too familiar metallic taste erodes my mouth. All my limbs ache with exhaustion. My eyelids feel heavy, and my mind begins to drift into unknown places. 

I almost reach the blissful darkness when an agonising burst of pain brings me back. I scream, thrashing against the sudden pressure on my abdomen. My muscles tense and I arch upward, whimpering as the force increases.  

Take it away take it away takeitaway 

Water brims in my eyes; I twist my hands up and latch around the unknown arm, in a weak attempt to pry it off. My vision smudges and I can't see their face. They take the moment to increase the pressure even more, so that now I'm sure they are pushing their whole weight against it. I let out a strangled cry and can’t stop from writhing beneath them. 

Stop it, pleaseee 

“Shhhh, I know it hurts.”  

I barely make out the words because they are clouded by a layer of fog. Briefly, a feeling of warmth floats over my forehead, then disappears again, followed by some faint muttering.  

“Leave. Me. The. Hell. Alone.” I pant, continuing to push at his arms, anything to get away. When all fails, I start to turn in on myself, but he manages to keep me in place.  

Please 

“Hey, easy, easy, don’t move!” 

I can’t.  

One hand continues to put too much pressure on the wound while the other starts skimming over my skin, looking for injuries before coming to rest on my shoulder. 

“Oh god, your cold. We have to get you out of here.”  

Before I can protest, he pulls me into sitting and drapes my arm over his shoulder to support my weight. I let out a weak sob at the movement, doing what little I can to resist. A moment later, I am hoisted up. 

It starts with a few steps, but my side screams at me, and I try to double over and lay back on the ground.  

“Crap.” I hear him say, as he repositions my arm to keep me standing.  

He reaches under my knees and across my back and pulls me into his chest. I weakly shove at it, squirming from the shift in my ribs. 

No no no no 

“I know, I know.” He says something more, but I don’t mange to make it out. 

The next few minutes go by slowly. Each step moves me, and I can't do anything to stop it. At some point my eyes flutter shut. Yes, darkness. But a sharp pain blossoms as he purposely jolts me awake.  

I gasp, once again trying to free myself but he only tightens his grip.  

“Stay with me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.” 

“No....” 

“Yes.” His voice is firm like an order. “Yes, and if you don’t, then I'm going to have to force you back again. And you don’t want that do you?” 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

Eventually I feel him ease his arms that secure me and delicately place me down on something soft. Hopefully a bed but I'm too tired to care. Where am I? 

Hands glide over my face and cup it. I try to wave them away, but they don’t budge. A blurry figure is pulled into my eyesight and just for a second, I am able to focus enough to recognise the face. Cas. 

Damn it, I should have realised earlier. Not him. Anyone but him. He’s going to hurt me again. 

Suddenly I pull every tendril of remaining energy from my body to fight his grasp and propel myself away. The cool floor meets my face and I scramble weakly along it. Whimpering and curling up in a ball, tears adding to the already blood-soaked floor as my limbs finally give out. I’m aware that I'm shivering but its only when I look ahead and see a mirror, do I realise how pale I actually am. 

A finger taps my shoulder, and I can sense his presence next to me. 

Please don’t hurt me 

“Go away!” My voice strains. 

“You know I can’t do that.” He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face and forces our eyes to meet. It almost catches me off guard; I see something there that I have never seen before. Pleading. 

Why? 

“Don’t you dare.” I whisper but he ignores me and tries to slide his fingers to the hem of my shirt. I bat his hands away once more. 

“Stop fighting me!” His head is tilted in pure concern. 

Why does he care, why is he different? 

I start to mumble a response, but a coughing fit quickly wracks my torso. Cas acts quickly, bringing my head up to rest on his lap until it subsides. From there, he lifts me onto the bed and lays me out flat, which I instinctively start to curl.  

“I can’t heal you but let me help.” 

“No, g’t aw’y fr’m me. Anyth’ng b’t your help.” I slur. 

“Okay.” His voice is laced with remorse and heartbreak. “Then you leave me no choice.” 

First, he grasps my arm and gently tugs it away from me, securing it with rope; the next is my other hand and then both my legs, until I am fully outstretched. I almost can’t stand it; the pain intensifies. I feebly yank on the restraints, trying to get free myself, but they are unyielding.  

I only notice that Cas had left the room when he returns, holding a med kit. He sets it down on the bed-side table and starts taking things out and positioning them in a certain way. “I’m sorry but I’ve already caused you enough pain and if you die and I had a chance to save you......” He trails off. “I won't be able to forgive myself.”  

He pauses, taking out a wad of gauze and a bottle of alcohol.  

In the haze, I almost miss the stray tear making its way down his cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“You d’d.” I rasp, narrowing my vision on what he is doing, with an expression of horror on my face. Don’t put me through more pain, just let me go, why can't he let me go? Surely, he can see that I don’t want this. Surely.  

I pull at the restraints again. 

“I know.” He purposely hides his face so I can’t see the sadness in his eyes, “And yes, while it may have been true that I was under a spell and couldn’t help it; I am sorry. I will do anything to make up to you, but first let me help.” 

Nothing manages to leave my throat as he turns back to me. Was that true? Was it not his fault? I feel the blood drain from my face. Last time he had tortured me and left me for dead, I was lucky that Dean made it to me in time. After that I became a hunter to stop things like what happened to me. But maybe Cas wasn’t a monster- not anymore. 

“Stay still.” He says and gives me a sad smile; like he hates what he is about to do. I feel his gentle fingers at the hem of my crimson-soaked shirt, and he carefully lifts it up. 

He grabs a few things. “This will hurt...... I am truly sorry.” 

There is a slap of elastic gloves being put on and then he nears. I feel as he places one hand a couple of inches above the wound, which I realise is to keep me in place.  

The moment the alcohol-soaked gauze skims over my tender skin, I screech, lashing out, fighting the rope bound around me. It burns like my whole abdomen is lit aflame. 

Can’t get free can’t get free cantgetfree 

My body trembles as Castiel begins to push it in further to clean it. I struggle against him, pushing back into the bed as much as I can, but it doesn’t help. Nothing stops him from taking his time to thoroughly sterilise it. I jerk at every movement of the gauze- back and forth, pushing in the skin, not failing to get right into the corner. Each inch forcing it way through my tender flesh. I cry from the pain, still tugging at the restraints and recoiling against Cas’s hands, completely helpless to free myself. 

“Easy, easy, almost done.” He says as he wipes the wound one last time and pulls away. 

Sweat trickles down my forehead and I visually relax, panting. 

“I’m sorry but that had to be done.” He says over his shoulder as he fiddles with something else in the med kit. “Dean and Sam will be here by tomorrow evening, but you’ll bleed out long before they get here; I'm going to have to stitch it.” 

“Nooooo pleaseeee.” I whine. 

He lays a comforting hand on my shoulder and starts rubbing soothing circles. “Trust me, I don’t want to do this either. I would give anything not to have to hurt you again.” The way his words quiver like there is a lump in his throat, sells the line. 

He waits a little longer and then lets my shoulder go and brings the needle and thread to the bed-side table. 

“C-cold.” I stutter. 

“I’ll get you a blanket once this is done.” 

Castiel places the same hand on my chest again but this time, he applies a little more pressure. “Don’t move if you can help it, it could cause me to stitch all wonky. I know this isn’t ideal, but we can’t waste any more time. Please forgive me.” 

I flinch the first time the needle pricks my pale skin, then still. I stifle my groan which soon turns into a quiet sob as he continues relentlessly. I am barely aware of him muttering hush apologies to me at every groan, cry and beg. 

The pain expands though my side with each new stitch, constantly lingering. I try to focus on the ceiling, but it doesn’t distract much, since there is no way to not feel the movement of the needle. God I hate needles. 

"Stop tensing the area I'm trying to stitch." Cas orders and clamps his hand down a little more. 

“Yeah, well if you, AAGH.” He hits the spot which is the deepest and it causes me to jump. 

“I told you to stop moving!” 

I nod and clench my hands until the knuckles are white, to stop myself from wriggling. 

“You know,” He starts his next stitch and pinches the skin together, ignoring my wince. “You are quite remarkable; a thousand others would’ve passed out long before this step.” He threads it through and ties it.  

My skin is so tight around the wound, and it feels like a white-hot sting that won’t go away.  

“Holy Shit!” I swear, as a sudden burning rushes through the wound. He puts the alcohol on the table and gives be an apologetic smile. "You could have warned for that." 

He shrugs. "Sam says it’s better without a warning."  

I whimper as he places a large bandage over the top and starts clearing everything away. 

“It’s done for the time being.” He comforts, and lightly kisses me on the forehead. “You can sleep now.” 

I feel my head finally lull to the side and I allow myself to drift off. 

~ 

When I open my eyes, my head throbs and the world spins. I see Cas and for an instant my mind takes me right back to when he was a monster, and I bolt up. 

He rushes to my side and to pushes me down with his angel strength. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. Slow down.” 

I relax in his arms once I realise.  

“There.” He soothes, shifting so that I am lying flat, but his voice soon turns serious. “Stunts like that could tear your stitches.” He peels the bandage back and takes a look. “But thankfully it hasn’t.” 

He pulls the blanket back over me and carefully holds a glass of water to my lips. “Slow.” He says and tilts it a little. 

I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was and start to lap it up. He pulls away and I chase after it, but he continues to hold my clamp down on my shoulder with one hand. 

“Slow.” He repeats and brings the cup back. I do what as he says until it's gone. 

I wiggle my feet enough to find that he must have taken the restraints off while I was out. 

He takes a seat next to the bed and squeezes my hand. It's so warm. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like I've been stabbed.” 

Cas smiles. “How do you really feel?” 

I sigh. “Tired, everything hurts.” 

“I’d assume that’s normal considering what you’ve been through.” He tilts his head towards my ribs. “When you're ready, I need to take a look, okay?” 

I swallow thickly. “Okay.” I chastise myself at how the words break in my throat, I know he's only trying to help. 

A shudder escapes my lips as Cas’s warm fingers skim over my ribs. I hold back a choked cry as he presses into them, testing the bones. By the time he finishes, I am as far away from him as the bed allows. 

“A couple are broken; I'll go get you an icepack.” 

When he re-enters and positions the icepack over my sides, his face has saddened like he isn’t telling me something. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

He doesn’t hold back. “There’s been a slight delay with Sam and Dean, they won’t be here for a few more days. We are in a small cabin out in the woods, it's not safe here. The vampire's that did this to you could be back with the rest of the nest.” 

“Oh.” I manage to say. 

He wipes a finger over my face to stop the tears. “We need to leave but we can’t do that with the condition you're in now. And I can’t heal you because they used a blade warded against angels.” 

“So, what do we do?” I take his hand and intertwine our fingers. 

“You know I don’t want to put you in more pain than I have to.” I can feel him shaking now; he's scared. 

“Cas.” My tone is slightly louder than I wanted. 

There's a pause. He readjusts his trench coat like its uncomfortable. “There may be a healing spell that could help but I'm told that the procedure will be...... unpleasant, to say the least.”  

His whole face screams regret but I surprise him with my answer. “Do it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah..... I trust you.” 

~ 

“Okay.” Cas says, more to himself than me. He places the neon purple potion on the table and undoes his belt. “Open,” he commands, “It should help with the pain.” 

I reluctantly take in the leather and bite down. 

“I have to restrain you now. If you mess with the potion even a little, it could prove faulty and there is no way in hell, I'm putting you through this twice.” 

I give a slight nod and he starts tying my limbs with rope. I get more scared by the second, I can already hear the rhythmic beat of my heart. This time he also adds some rope over my thighs and chest so I can move even less than before. 

Once he’s finished, he fetches the potion and hovers over me. 

“If you have somewhere you find soothing, go there in your mind.” 

Then he begins, first removing the bandage to expose the wound then pours it in. 

A blazing burst of pain explodes through my body, everything feels like it's on fire. Then his hands are on me, rubbing it as deep into the wound as possible while I strain and fight to get away from the hands that are hurting me. He manages to shove it through the gaps in the stitches so it can travel deeper. I scream and cry around the belt, every muscle tensed so much that it cramps. I can feel as every rib welds itself together and every cell in the wound presses until it's all combined.  

When all the pain finally simmers, relief washes over me. Cas whispers comforting words and praise as he undoes the restraints and pulls me into a hug. I am too weak to resist the movement, but I don’t want to, its sweet and warm. He saved me. 

“You did so well,” He soothes. “I am so proud of you. Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” I answer simply, “I am now, and I forgive you.” 

[thesongweave]

Kidnapped

It had started with a few sniffles, and some lightheadedness a day or so after entering Rivington.

Part I

ACT III

(sickness, kidnapping, angst)

Gale x Tav ( Alathea, "Thea" )

Thea frowned as Gale shook his head, trying to cover a cough. "Love, are you all right?" She closed the gap between them, her small, delicate hand lifting to his face - first his cheek, then his forehead. The elf's frown deepened, concern clear in her features. He was usually fairly warm to begin with, but not like this.

"Oh, no, I mean yes -- I'm fine, of course." Gale forced a smile, but there was a tiredness behind his eyes. Thea dropped her hand, only to cross her arms in front of her chest.

It was early morning; most of the camp was awake by now, preparing for the day. Most were already geared up and ready to go, already finishing breakfast. Those that weren't going with Alathea chatted amongst themselves about what they planned to do, now that they would have access to a proper city.

Thea looked Gale up and down with a critical eye and a frown. "You're catching ill."

"Am not."

"Wizard." Usually, it was a term of endearment, coming from the bard, but this time there was a bit of a stern sharpness to it. Just as quickly. Alathea softened her features, green hazel eyes full of worry. "If you need to rest, love - by the gods, stay and rest." She took his face in between her hands, tilting him just so as to look at her. "Please?"

Gale hardly had it in him to argue. He was bone-weary, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and bricks. The wizard knew he would not be much use should there be a fight if it came down to it - he felt slow like he was moving through molasses.

"Very well - though I hardly think I'm going to do you any good from here -- "

"Gale. Love, light of my life. I will sic Jaheria and her teas on you if you do not go lie down."

That earned her a scoff and a smile before he shivered. From not far off, Jaheria could be heard with a loud, "I heard that!"

He was definitely catching a cold. Damn. Gale sighed before pulling the small elf to him, kissing her forehead. "Ever wiser than I am, it seems."

"Only when it comes to your health."

Gale grumbled incoherently, leaning forward, arms still wrapped around Thea's smaller frame, resting his too-warm forehead against hers. "What are your objectives for the day?"

"Get into the city, firstly. Get a measure of Gortash, since we procured the invite to the coronation...and find that investigator. Who knows, maybe we can even scrounge up proper lodgings for a change." Thea's eyes fluttered shut, relishing in the feel of him - it would be odd, leaving Gale at camp rather than having him at her side. But she'd rather he rest and be well than...not.

Before, it would have bothered the bard, showing so much affection for someone, especially amongst their varied group of friends. She valued her privacy as much as Gale did - but as their relationship became known, both were pleasantly surprised at how generally accepted it was by all.

So there they were, standing by the fire pit in the middle of the camp, standing in each other's arms, dragging out farewells for the day.

Thea opened her mouth to say more, but Karlach's voice boomed over her. "C'mon let's GO!" The elf looked over to Karlach and Jaheria, who were feigning (mostly) some impatience.

"Karlach, grab Halsin, would you? Gales staying back today."

Karlach tilted her head, shrugged, and jogged off to fetch the druid.

"Thea."

Her attention immediately turned back to Gale. He smiled, all exhaustion and weariness. "I love you." He murmured to her before pulling away.

"And I love you."

~*~

It was hot.

Much too hot.

Gale kicked the blanket off in frustration. Sleep had been fleeting, fitful at best. He tossed and turned, coughing.

Now he was cold.

With a grunt, the wizard pulled the blanket back up to his shoulders. He tried to settle down and get some rest.

What time was it? Cracking an eye open, sunlight poured through the cracks between the tent flap - much, much too bright. Probably midday, at the latest.

Thea and the others wouldn't be back for hours yet. Gale groaned, head and muscles aching.

Perhaps a trip to the nearby stream would do him some good. Cool off, wash away the sweat, if nothing else.

Groggily, he stood, gathering a few bathing supplies before heading out.

As he exited the tent, Wyll and Shadowheart, who had elected to stay in camp, looked up from ... well, whatever it was they were doing, to eye him with concern. Scratch and the owlbear cub, whom Thea had dubbed as 'Chubs', napped nearby.

"Thea said you were ill. Are you sure you should be up?" Shadowheart commented with a frown.

"Just...going down to the stream to wash up. I will return shortly."

"Very well." The cleric hummed, watching him go.

It was a short trip, though it felt as if it took much longer than necessary. Gale situated towels and soaps close to the bank so he could grab them as needed.

Just as he began to disrobe, a strange sensation came over him, as if he was being watched. With a frown, the wizard turned, looking about. The wooded area had grown ominously silent.

"Look at it... wallowing about in the mud." A chill ran through Gale's spine before something struck him in the head, and all went black.

[carpathianspaceprincess]

Wintering (The Irish Poem) - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel reads a favourite poem of yours, and reflects on the subject's similarities to you.

Rating: E. minors dni.

Pairing: Joel Miller x SeasonalDepression!Reader (F)

Tags: Irish coded reader. a little bit of Gaeilge. One Shot. Happy Ending(™). FLUFF. Sickening fluff. Soft!Joel. Established relationship/situationship. No smut in this but could be in the future.(❀❛ ֊ ❛„). Book a dentist appointment my friends, you will probably have cavities after reading this.

CW: brief mention of suicide and overdose attempt, mentions of seasonal depression/mental illness symptoms, mention of SSRIs. 

WC: 2.4k

A/N: Happy late St. Patrick’s Day! This work was inspired by an Irish poem called “Geimhriú” by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh. The translation came from this post, and I only have a little Irish but it seems right. The Irish language is beautiful and I love it dearly, so I wanted my first posted work to celebrate it (i'm terrified of sharing this btw lol). I wrote this bc culture and language is nearly always left behind and forgotten in survivalist worlds like TLOU, and it’s rarely a theme in fics, but is an essential part of survival, especially for Irish communities. I may potentially expand this work to a series to explore more aspects of Irish culture as part of the story if it's well-received and I feel like it. btw this is not beta-read and idk how to format anything - this is genuinely my first time posting so there are likely mistakes! please comment if you find one, or have constructive criticisms, and of course like/reshare and interact if you had a good time reading this, it would mean the world to this little Irish gal.

(♡ ὅ ◡ ὅ )ʃ♡ enjoy!

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊.

Even at the end of the world, in the fucking apocalypse, in this shitty, godforsaken place, you were still somehow suffering from a seasonal affliction. 

Depression, that is. 

Joel saw it immediately, the way you took a little longer to answer the door when he came for you in the mornings, the bags under your eyes just a little more pronounced as the days in your district grew less colourful and the dry leaves wilted to the sodden earth. He also saw how you tried to hide it and for a while, tried to respect your clear denial of something being very, very wrong. 

To your credit, you did what you could; soldiered on. Ate and slept more than usual, like a bear. Before the outbreak, you’d been on Zoloft, then Wellbutrin, but the chances of any SSRI medication still existing were so slim you knew you didn’t need to bother checking. 

Even so, it frustrated you every morning, the fact that you weren’t like Joel. That you couldn’t just get up and get on with your day, that you needed some stupid chemical to make your brain work just because the weather was cold and the sky was churning furiously, gnashing it's teeth on nothing but grey, day-in and day-out. 

You couldn’t make sense of it. You were living in near constant poverty, under a dystopian military dictatorship and in the middle of a civil war every god-damned fucking day whether the sun was shining or not, so why did the fields being barren and slick with sleet make you viscerally despise life so much more than seeing them full of fresh flowers and humming with bees? You’d still be hungry at the end of the day. Exhausted. What should the seasons matter to you now? There was no difference. No future. Not then.

You had hoped that maybe eventually, living in constant survival mode might, y’know, actually make your brain want to survive. But it didn’t. You hated it. But what you hated about yourself most of all was the fact that you desperately needed help. It was pathetic. Weak. 

Joel didn't see it that way. Well, he didn't now.

At the start he thought it hadn't been too serious. Maybe you were 'just tired'.

But then winter had nearly taken you from him that year. The sudden and shocking bone-chill of Boston post-October had him practically dragging you out of your own bed every morning for the “supply run” he had taken to bringing you along on; silently begging you to get up and keep going for his sake if not your own. Telling you if a man from Texas could survive it, you’d better get your sorry ass up and do the same. 

He’d found you then, in late December, the dead of night, throwing up and barely breathing. You’d collected enough opioids to kill a horse and tried to take your own life. You’d been lucky to see the next sunrise, and that was the last time he’d allowed you to sleep on your own. And the first time he’d heard of “Seasonal Depressive Disorder”, or whatever it was. 

You’d explained that before all this, you’d had medications that would have stopped this issue for you; so Joel, having then appointed your fragile well-being as his responsibility, had looked for some. But of course there was nothing. So much to everyone else's delight, he spent the winter just like you; because like two really fucked-up peas in a pod, if you were in a foul mood, Joel’s was never far behind. With the QZ being overcrowded, freezing, and insistent on working you both to the bone, you were always in a foul mood. 

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

So now he can admit to himself that he likes this; likes seeing the glow of your rosy, apple cheeks in the tangerine afternoon rays of a tired day. The way the sunlight dapples the colour of your hair; the lazy smile that breaks across your gentle mouth as the cool breeze caresses you both. This wheat field is completely abandoned, high bland stalks swaying quietly. The rush of the little river nearby. A perfect place to take you; you who were beaming so joyfully, could’ve replaced the goddamn sun itself as far as it concerned him. 

He feels the embroidered spine of your book in his hand, holding it away from your reach. The one you always had open on the same page, the one he caught you reading when you were supposed to have your hands on your rifle and your sharp eyes looking for guards and raiders.

“Let me read it.” he grins without realizing it, stretching a little further away as your fingers grab for purchase, pointlessly. You're too short to even touch the cover as he leans over you. “No!” You reiterate, and he frowns, a finger coming to his lips to remind you of your surroundings. Still careful. “Why not, huh? Can't be that bad if y'like it so much.” 

A slow blush stains you as you huff, dropping your arms to your sides. Like a petulant child. Admitting defeat.

“Fine, but it’s not even in English.”

He quirks an eyebrow at that, and keeps your gaze as he flips the faded, worn pages open to find the one he’s looking for. “You won’t understand it.” You whisper. But he doesn’t need to understand it, he just wants to see. It makes perfect sense to him that you're bilingual, he doesn't know a lot about you, but he knows you're smart, and sharp as a tack...as long as something interests you.

The paper of this page in particular is dog-eared to the point of severe damage, and marked to all hell, but it isn’t dusty at all. Whatever this is, he sees that it’s well-loved by you. Well-read. His curiosity gets the better of him as you make one last reach for the precious item and he, with ease and very quiet glee, denies you. 

He doesn’t try to read it aloud though, the words roll around on his tongue unfamiliar, tangled up in the calculator of his brain that is so used to the anglo-saxon american structure of speech. But he scans it quietly all the same, to your surprise. 

Ná labhair focal,

ná féach im threo,

tá duifean ar mo chroí

nách n-ardófar. 

Géillim don ngeimhriú

Ní aithneofar mé 

go péacadh na mbachlóg. 

Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh.

He clears his throat, and runs a finger along the last line of text; “This the author?” 

You peer over, nodding. He hums in acknowledgement, filing the information away for later. Then he graciously hands the book back to you, brushing your fingers with his, and you snatch it away; folding it closed against your lap. A low gust of wind makes the hair that frames the sides of your face dance delicately. You lean back on your arms then, to appear relaxed. Trying not to think of the delicious electricity sparkling under your smooth skin at his touch. Failing. You're hot, now. The humidity doing nothing to cool off the desire pooling in your belly as you look up at him through thick lashes. He's chewing a thought in his mouth, you can see it.

“Gaelic?” 

You are actually taken aback, but smile and shake your head good-naturedly at the attempt. “Gaeilge.” 

A look of confusion crosses his brow and a laugh, golden and sugary, pours from your chest. It squeezes him with violent affection for you. “Gaelic is Scottish. This is Irish. Gaeilge.” You repeat, cocking your head. “They’re different.” 

He nods slowly. He wants to ask you how you came to speak it, and is that why you have a lilt in your accent? did you come from there? From Ireland? And how did you manage to keep speaking it after the outbreak?

 But, he thinks those questions can wait til later. You'll tell him your story on your own terms when you're ready, and he respects that. What he does know is that this must be important to you somehow, and he's happy to focus on that for now.

 “You gonna tell me what it’s about?” 

“I could...but those are meant to be read and understood in the spirit of the language they’re in. They’re not meant to be in English.” You season the last word with some disdain, teasing.

He gives you a dry look and you laugh again. Rolling his eyes and pretending to fall over, he pops back up and props his dozy head with his elbow against the coffee-brown and burgundy leaves that have scattered and broken on the ground beneath gale-swept branches. Then he waits. 

You take him in in all his intensity, the way his curls ruffle against his hand. The sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows, muscles and tendons flexing and taut, brown in the sun and from working outdoors.

You guess you do owe him one. Reaching your free hand towards him, he turns his face into your gentle touch on his jaw, and you just about explode. How could you deny him anything when he looks like this?

“Alright,” You give in, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world.  

The book opens once more, and his pretty eyes follow your slender finger against the printed words with his gaze; you feel observed; shy. And you begin, your voice unsure of itself. But his hand on your thigh is cosy, encouraging.

“Don’t say a word,

Don’t look in my direction,

There’s something on my heart 

That can’t be lifted. 

I give in to wintering 

You won’t see me

Til the buds begin to blossom”. 

“Til the buds begin to blossom.” He repeats slowly, intentionally. 

“You a man of literature now, Miller?” 

He exhales sharply. “Not at all, ma’am. Just a curious one.”

The corner of your lips tugs upwards at this easier side of him - and you hum as you close the book and set it down with care, next to you. You each settle against the other comfortably then, taking in the sights and scents around you. A tranquility has made home inside your bones, with the feeling of his warm front against your back and you raise your face to the rays of sun; still beaming onto you from the early evening sky. Your whole body rests now, soothed by his presence.

Comfortable silence blankets over you both, for a few minutes. 

“So, d’ya like the view?” He asks all of a sudden, kicking his feet back and stretching against the massive tree he’s got you both behind - completely hidden from the view of the gate patrol. He’s been scoping this place out for weeks, he knows it’s safe. 

You feel his shirt ride up against your back and it ignites something that quickly dwarfs anything mellow or peaceful inside you.

“Do I like it, Joel Miller?” You repeat incredulously, turning around and crawling onto his lap; with only a little grace. His rough, calloused hands instinctively come up to your hips, and the denim of your worn jeans suddenly feels far too tight and restrictive for the kinds of lovely, fuzzy messages your body is giving to you. You straighten up, leaning in to breathe; a faint hint of whiskey, lot of smoke. Lot of man. Yours. Your man. 

Before you can unleash the teasing reply you had tucked away for him, an unwelcome thought sobers you. He notices the shadow cross your pretty face, the terrible memory flickering away in the back of your mind. Calling back to your thoughts before, you realise very abruptly that you do owe him one. In fact, you owe him your life for this very afternoon. The seeping heat on your skin and the pastel wildflowers. The gorgeous vermillion colour of the sky. The rush of contentment in your heart.

“I never would have even seen this sunset if it wasn’t for you.” You murmur, lowly enough that he has to strain to hear it. A grumble rumbles in his chest but he says nothing in reply, so you stay quiet, and take his larger hands into yours. Trying to convey how grateful you are with your touch. Hoping it'll osmosis or something. Knowing you can never repay him for his selflessness, his friendship, his sacrifices. 

He clears his throat then, to get your attention, and you lock eyes with him; searching and deep. Knowing. 

“You know I love it.” you whisper, appreciating the deep brown irises framed by spectacular eyelashes. The eyes you’d know absolutely anywhere. “I love it more than anything.”

You’re not talking about the view anymore. 

 He knows it, too; lines softening at the complete adoration on your face, the vulnerability; the way you’re giving it all to him. And he wants it even though he really shouldn’t. He wants you exactly like this for the rest of your lives. Warm and happy, tucked up next to him in some butt-fuck middle of nowhere place in the sun, tending to your garden and reading your books and your poems, unbothered by the harsh realities of the world revolving around you. Away and safe from the sickness and cruelty of the cities.

 He watches carefully the radiant glow that’s touching your expression, and he can’t help but understand then, why you like that poem. 

It’s you. 

In moments like these, when you’re pressed up against him and smelling so sweet he feels heady and drunk, it’s much harder to shove away those very domesticated thoughts he’s been having; of you and the kind of things he wants to give you. The kind of life he wants you to have, together. Although he couldn’t tell you out loud, not yet anyway. He’s working on it. 

You wonder what he's thinking about, leaning to press a soft kiss to his chin to bring him back to earth- closing your eyes at rough stubble brushing against your cheek. You feel an earth-shattering smile and wish you could see, but it’s gone by the time you raise your head again. 

What you do see is a tanned arm reaching behind you to pluck something from the soft earth.

It’s a sunflower. Bright and plush and golden. 

 Like you, he thinks. 

Firm fingers gently and deftly push your strands aside, carefully slipping the green stalk of it right behind your left ear.

Leaning back to peer at you and admire his handiwork, he tucks his hands behind his head.

 He compares what’s in front of him now to his memories of last month; your face tear-tracked and pale in his bed, telling him you didn’t want to live. Him never knowing how to help you, spending those bleak evenings with fear poisoning his every thought, constantly worrying he would come back home to you cold and still. Wrapping himself tight around you in his bed late at night in the hopes he could somehow just piece it all back together by holding you. The memories the experience brought up for him; the ones fuelling his terror of failing you, like he failed her. 

And now you here, surrounded by spring buds blossoming in the sweet change of the season. Wildflowers, peonies, just like you, so easily pleased by the sun and the green of the forest and the view from the top of your apartment building once the snow had begun to melt. Softened by just a little bit of warmth and a lot of love. A lot of care. He's proud of you and how hard you've worked to drag yourself out of the place you were in.

He’s suddenly finding it difficult to control the way he wants to cry with relief. 

You don’t know any of this, of course. But the way he observes you so deliberately sends little shivers down your spine, despite the humidity and haze. You do feel kind of silly sitting like this though, so you reach up to pull the flower from your hair, but his fingers grip your wrist hard and fast before you can get to it and they tell you otherwise, pressing indents into your skin that you'll remember later tonight.

“Don’t.” He says softly. “I like it.”

You try to stop the grin from breaking out but fail miserably, and he's dazzled by it. One smile, and he’s completely and overwhelmingly filled with love for you.

 Yes, he thinks; even at the end of the world, even in this shitty fucking place, this apocalyptic nightmare, you still somehow manage to blossom in the sun.

[aceofwhump]

whump combos are the shit!!! we all love and adore stab wound + infection, flu + hypothermia, magical exhaustion (nosebleeds and fevers are a classic). it seems that fevers just make everything better. but i think we should also appreciate concussion as one of those whump tropes that elevates everything.

in short, i just want yall to consider this : imagine your blorbos concussed, depressed, and infected. or imagine them concussed then dealing with vertigo and a head cold. or imagine them- okay i think i should let everyone daydream for themselves.

You are SO RIGHT nonny!! Whump combinations are the bomb! It's like a little extra whump for my whump. I'm imagining it. I'm loving it. I read a fic the other day where the character had a few broken bones, had been shot and had the flu on top of it and god it was great. Concussed and injured along with the flu or a head cold is such a great whump scenario. You're so right nonny.

[fangruninsimp]

Post Canon Fics

⚠️Spoilers ahead⚠️

my heart is buried on speer by miyawaki (Chaghan/Altan, 195)

once, chaghan found altan's body.

when it's cold i'd like to die by miyawaki (Chaghan&Qara, 240)

chaghan can't stand the cold.

your faith walks on broken glass by agnes_writes (Rin/Nezha, T, 1k)

Nezha ponders the Hesperians' idea of Heaven and Hell, and his mind only conjures up her name.

necropolis by Anonymous (Rin/Nezha, T, 318)

There was probably love there, but it didn't really matter.

i'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones (in a faith-forgotten land) by agnes_writes (Rin & Altan, M, 7.3k)

When she dies, Rin is faced with the one person she'd wished she'd never see again.

But when the dust settles, she finds that Altan Trengsin may have the answers she's searching for.

a shame, you seemed an honest man by toddxnderson (Rin/Nezha, G, 2.6k)

ashes are not the strongest of foundations, but they will do.

or: nezha, after.

some things were tend to be forgotten due to old age by chiru_trash (Rin/Nezha, T, 1k)

Nezha after The Burning God, need I explain more?

i'd end up too hungry to sleep by tellmeyoursecrets (Rin/Nezha, M, 505)

years after the events of the burning god, nezha is married to a hesperian bride.

years later, she ponders.

Beside you always by muchswag (Rin/Nezha, N/A, 162)

After perhaps a year or two after Rin's death, Nezha was married. And as the years passed, he missed her more than ever. But perhaps she was right beside him all of this time.

first love / late spring (my heart seems to burst) by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 4.6k)

First love is supposed to be sweet, innocent, and hopeful. When it blossoms on late spring however, harsher realities render every piece of it into shreds, as it falls and withers and dies.

It’ll always be you by Runin_reads (Rin/Nezha, G, 544)

Nezha tells his daughter about his first love.

Small by UnapologeticallyMeatwad (Rin&Kitay, T, 2.7k) *incomplete*

Rin wakes up one year later, but doesn't know why she's still alive.

nothing new by sagittariusmoon (Rin/Nezha, G, 414)

"How can a person know everything at 18, but nothing at 22?

Will you still want me, when I’m nothing new?"

Nezha turns 22, and then he thinks about Rin, like he always does.

these characters all need therapy so I gave it to them by chenkitays (G, 6.6k)

Rin, Nezha, Kitay, Vaisra and Jiang attend a group therapy session led by one (1) exhausted Strategy master. spoilers for the entire trilogy.

Break the Cycle by queenkatharine (M, 10.2k)

Every time she’d thought about the Federation and what she’d done, she told herself that she’d do it again if she had the chance. She insisted upon it until her dying day.

This time would be different.

Or, what if Rin did get the chance to do it all over again and made different decisions? M rating for themes related to war.

i want him (but we're not right) by tellmeyoursecrets (Rin/Nezha, N/A, 1.1k)

She looks him in the eyes. “I hated you for what you did. With all my heart.”

“I know.”

“I still missed you. I still wanted you to—Gods.”

The truth is always ugly. Some people will make it out as some golden thread, ramrod straight and unquestionable in its existence, but it’s not. When what you fought for becomes history, sometimes it forgets that the winner was the one who had lost the most. Survival of the body is not always survival of the mind. There is always, always, a cost larger than what is said in the books.

they hold onto things. they let things go. by sourpistachios (T, 1.5k)

In the aftermath, Nezha looks at his hands.

haunted by the look in my eyes by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 7.1k)

that would've loved you for a lifetime

When Rin haunts him, Nezha screams, shouts, curses, and begs.

When Rin haunts him, Nezha screams, shouts, curses, and begs her to leave.

When Rin haunts him, Nezha screams, shouts, curses, and begs her to stay.

if I'm dead to you by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, G, 1.8k)

why are you at the wake?

The first year is the hardest.

Rin simply doesn't know how to be dead.

When I was young and dreamed of glory by Knightowl019 (Nezha/Original Character, T, 12.4k)

After the aftermath of Fang Runin's death, Nezha kept his word. He had to fix the country that barely existed.

Nezha's life changed into something that was different from before. Even when the ghosts of the dead haunted him, he knew he had to make things right. But will he ever find peace? Will he manage to unite the country from the rift the Republic created? Will the people ever accept Nezha as their leader or will it spark another rebellion?

reminiscence by paldogangsaan (Rin/Nezha, Nezha&Kitay, T, 1.4k)

It didn’t feel fair that Rin and Kitay could leave this world together whilst Nezha was forced to live, to survive them both.

the dreaming faith by byeoleil (Rin/Nezha, Nezha&Kitay, T, 6.2k) *incomplete*

Something is wrong with the Pantheon and it is, of course, Yin Nezha's fault. He accepts mysterious psychedelic drugs from a very cryptic Chaghan Suren with no instructions other than "lol you suck."

In his slumber, Nezha sees them. A short collection of Nezha's dreams starring Rin, Mingzha, Venka, Kitay, and more.

peace by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, G, 1k)

When Nezha dies, Rin is waiting for him.

Queen of Ashes by CyclonicJet (M, 3.1k)

“Fire is passion. It knows neither friend nor foe. In its wake, it leaves no victory. No conquest. No people. Only ashes.”

Rin reflects on her life, and considers what her legacy will be, and what she must do to ensure that legacy.

Or “A brief literary analysis of what Nikara might have looked like had Rin won, as viewed from her own perspective and memories, some thirty years after the end of The Burning God.”

to drown in your ashes by chenkitays (Rin/Nezha, G, 2k)

His Rin, whose laugh was louder and more explosive than her rage, whose eyes were sadder and darker than the world she left behind, whose smile was brighter than the hottest flames she could conjure.

idk its just a post tbg fix-it you already know the drill

there's a hollow in this house by tidesong (Rin/Nezha, T, 7k)

What Nezha has, it’s an absence. He was raised next to the river, in a city that knew the ebb and flow of the tide. The flood would come in the summer, a wet and hungry thing, swallowing shorelines before breaching the city. He feels the same way now, when the water had receded suddenly, violently; left only the traces of what once was. Nezha did not need the Dragon to teach him that lesson—he’d lived it all on his own.

Water, he says to Kitay, doesn’t know how to let go. It only drowns.

—

This time, the living haunt the dead.

you'd come back to me by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 13.8k)

“I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss, I knew you’d haunt all of my what ifs, the smell of smoke would hang around this long”

A burden of a country is one that a single person shouldn’t handle.

But Nezha takes it. Until one day, he breaks.

The Unwinding Clock of Fate by Secret_Keeper_AO3 (M, 6.6k) *incomplete*

5 years after the end of The Burning God, Yin Nezha, president of the Republic of Nikan, has saved Nikan-and its people from starvation and war and further atrocity by giving Hesparia the corpse of Fang Runin. Yin Nezha has had to throw open Nikan's gates to Hesparia in order to continue its survival, and Hesparian assimilation, racism, segregation, and discrimination has already rooted itself deep into the continent. But Nezha wants to put a stop to it, and as the Dragon grows restless and the bracelets on his hands tighten the Dragon's only access to the world, it only increases the want to rise, to claim, to sink, to drown.

Tomorrow is Brighter Than Yesterday by queenkatharine (T, 3.7k)

Understanding strikes Nezha. Here, now, after everything they’d gone through and with Rin buried next to Kitay on Speer, Nezha finally understands.

-

In which Kesegi survives the war and he sheds some light on a few things.

take what you want by chenkitays (Rin&Kitay, G, 1.4k)

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BURNING GOD

Chapter 34 of the Burning God rewritten from Kitay's point of view. Why did I do this? I physically don't know but I was in the mood to cause pain today

your smile, my ghost, i fell to my knees by agnes_writes (Rin/Nezha, T, 3.1k)

“Nezha couldn’t register the choking gurgles in her throat, the glassy panic in her eyes, or the warmth of her blood as it spilled down his hands. He couldn’t, or he would shatter.”

And so he did.

Tears of the Phoenix by CyclonicJet (M, 1.7k)

Nezha has succeeded in destroying the Gray Towers. He has waged his war against the Hesperian faith, against the maker itself, and won. And now he must face one final challenge. The final demon controlling him. The final shadow still lying thick over Nikara. Fang Runin is dead. But her spirit...her spirit still burns.

anywhere you go by chenkitays (Rin/Nezha, G, 3.6k)

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BURNING GOD

"She would tell Pipaji and Dulin that they had done well. She would tell Suni, Baji and Ramsa that she was sorry. She would tell Altan that he was right. She would tell Master Jiang thank you." (p534 of TBG)

Rin visits her dead loved ones, and tries to make sense of the afterlife with her friends.

sunset by chenkitays (Rin&Kitay, G, 931)

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BURNING GOD

Rin and Kitay meet and talk in the afterlife. that's it but I wrote this because im still in pain even though it's been 3 months. the pain will never stop.

hoax by moonlightjjk (Rin/Nezha, G, 1.7k)

forty years after nezha becomes the ruler of nikara, an old friend visits him.

if i'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes too by sagittariusmoon (Rin/Nezha, G, 1.7k)

While they wait, they try to make sense of each other and a life of no good choices.

evermore by isola13 (Rin/Nezha, T, 1.1k)

Nezha lives on. Rin's ghost haunts him.

Reunion by peachtofu (Rin/Nezha, G, 1k)

THE BURNING GOD SPOILERS. The story takes place a decade after the ending of The Burning God.

Fire and water, though elements from the same earth, were never meant to be. For one to survive, it must extinguish the other.

aim for my heart (go for blood) by ssukis (Rin/Nezha, T, 6.9k)

Nezha finds that it is impossible to let go after finding Rin again.

After the Storm by toocleverfox (Rin/Nehza, T, 1.4k)

MAJOR THE BURNING GOD SPOILERS

Nezha goes to find Chaghan after the events of The Burning God.

the finish line by tidesong (Rin/Nezha, G, 2.9k)

So this was how it felt to be burned by the sun.

-

Nezha is haunted by someone who's not very good at staying away.

The Wailing Prince by yinsnezha (Rin/Nezha, G, 1k)

Nezha likes to talk to the stars when he can’t sleep.

[milknhonies]

I just want to be looked after. I get it. Call me what you want. Gold digger, Childish, Stupid, Immature, Greedy.

I'm tired.

I know what I want is considered an unhealthy lifestyle cause it requires me to rely financially on a man.

I just hate it. Not feeling special.

What makes me feel special? Buying me gifts, giving me praise and assurance, kissing the top of my head. It lets me feel feminine and pretty. I'm tired of feeling like I have to be "Cool Girl" and "Sexy Mature Woman." When the men are barely that themselves.

I swear to god, boys still haven't changed since highschool and even when I try to date older men, they're usually perverts with kids already who just want me to be his sex doll move in Nanny.

I don't want to feel like a woman anymore. I have always been the mature one. ALWAYS. I just want to feel like a dirk again and be looked after.

I know that's considered a red flag because men don't want to look after a woman who wants to be treated like a child. I just want that stress off my shoulders. I hate the exhaustion of work and the price of rent and feeling alone and unloved and ugly. I want a man who will hold me and be patient and not attempt to pressure me into sex when I've already told him I'm not in the mood.

I want to be picked up from work by a man who waits in the carpark with a cold bottle of water and me pet names .

Or he gives me $10 half dead flowers he picked up from across the road at Woolworths just because he was in there and quickly thought of me. I would try and dry press those flowers so fast.

I'd give that man my virginity and try to give him the best head. (I've never done it but I'd learn and practice on toys just for him.)

I'd wear uncomfortable heels and wax my cunt raw for him if he wanted it.

Now I know you all read this and think "this isn't love." But you can't tell me this isn't better than going on a date with some douchebag that talks only about himself, wears shitty clothes, doesn't pay for the meal and think he's gods gift to the world before trying to kiss and fuck you without asking you if you want to or talk about condoms and pills.

I want to be treated like a pet. A dog. Feed me, cuddle me, praise me, walk me, wash and brush me. Make sure I'm taking care of myself.

"You're describing a parent not an equal partner." Okay then? I guess I want a parent. I want a parent I haven't had. If he wants to be called daddy, cool, whatever.

I want to cook and clean an apartment or house I live in with him. I want to make him cum so much and so hard that I'm the only person that can make it happen. I want to wash him in a bath we share together. I want to pour him his favourite beverage into a glass cup and hand it to him, squeeze his shoulders and massage his neck and tell him how grateful I am that I get to be in his life and how I love his generosity and care.

I want to be able to put my feet in his lap while we sit on the couch and feel him softly pinching my toes or randomly tickling my feet while we are watching a scary movie. I don't even like scary movies- like literally I avoid horror, but I'd watch it for him if he would take care of me.

I don't want to be a passenger princess- 9/10 it's some alt right asshole driving too fast and dangerously in his 4XD on a camping trip and calling it an adventure. Going up steep hills and to places without reception then try this under the stars gazing bullshit. I doubt he even knows which is the southern cross and other astrology layouts. hell white some movie from 20 years ago, claim it's some wisdom he thought of on his own 🤢 then he'll lean in for that dead eye roll kiss and his breath will smell like death along with his sweaty body odour.

I'd prefer being a passenger princess on a flight or even a boat ride. Take me fishing in a dingy. Mansplain how to catch the fish. Show me how to reel the fish in. Take the photo of me and fish. He can remove the bones descale it and I'll cook it.

I want to feel sexy and feminine while feeling like I'm the only woman in the world. I won't need to worry about the porn he has built his expectations on because he appreciates how much of a whore I'm playing to be to please him.

I want to make a shopping list and meal plan our dinners without worrying too much about the expenses. I already buy the cheap knock offs but sometimes I can't afford it all still.

I want him to have a job in corporate or arts or even if it's super masculine like tradies, that he will behave like a gentleman. Open doors, pull out my seat.

Even if he's stressed I want him to be able to smile at me and say, "Baby I'm tired due to work, I just need to have some space." So I can tell him to go have a shower while I make his favourite dinner, turn the lights down low, put it on a plate and bring it to him in bed. Give him a Panadol and water and try to not boggle him with the events of my day especially if it can wait tomorrow. But. I won't lie ...I'd probably put on HIS favourite lingerie set just to make him confused and giggle about why the hell I'm prancing around in almost the nude. I'd encourage him to destress. Vent. Even if I had no clue to what the words or work he was talking about meant, I'd make him feel like he was always in the right. Nothing would be his fault (even if it was).

[simplymakkari]

Druig taking care of a sick Makkari? I love your writing btw.

Here you go, anon! I hope this meets your expectations! (And yeah, I went totally overboard with this, much to my dismay, but I hope you enjoy it anyways!) 🥺

SUMMARY: It's February in the grandiose of Arishem University and roommates (and occasional friends with benefits) Druig and Makkari rally the town of Olympia with their mischievousness.

However, one week, Makkari falls ill, stricken with the flu and it's up to Druig to take care of a sick Makkari like the good (whipped and smitten) man he is (because that's what best friends do). Fluff and smut and many, many bowls of Gilgamesh's chicken noodle soup ensue.

__

DAY THREE

It had begun with a little cough, here and there. No worries, it would disappear. But then the next morning, the cough had been replaced with a terribly sore throat that aches and burns scratchingly raw. 

And then the third day, her muscles are being snared with utmost deep tension in her bones, chills settling into her with the laughable mockery of a cold smile. It leaves her in pain, confined to the bed. 

Druig's taken the liberty of calling off work for the both of them when it's clear Makkari isn't getting any better. He assured her several times that her boss, Thena and his boss, Ben understood.

Druig had also sent several emails to her professors explaining her current predicament. They too, are blessedly understandable — "I may have had to put my powers of mind control to good use in person," he joked to her — waiving off her future assignments and wishing her a speedy recovery. 

You didn't have to do that, she tells him.

"Nonsense, Makkari. Ye've taken care of me. Now it's my turn," Druig smiles, finishing signing and speaking, helping her sit up for the third time that day, from her rousing vivid-filled sleep in confusion, propping more pillows behind her back. 

He hands her two painkillers and a glass of water. She swallows them with some slight difficulty.

He's also swung by the popular restaurant of Gilgamesh's, nestled in the ever-so bustling Olympia Mall in town, picking up bowls of his famous chicken noodle soup. 

Druig tells her: "They say his soup works wonders for the soul. Ben told me to give some to ye to help cure your sickness."

Druig holds out a spoon, bowl in hand, gently trying to coax it into her system. Makkari hesitantly opens her mouth. Nausea pools inside her disagreeing stomach, ripping past her lungs, her throat, her mouth into the lifting trash can Druig quickly holds up by their bed. 

His hand presses against her back soothingly, his fingers simultaneously pulling double duty — keeping her messy braid from falling forward.

We'll try again later, Druig promises, when she stops dry-heaving. She nods weakly in response, blinks at him groggily, her fingers holding onto his clothed waist.

— Just end me, Makkari moans in a dramatic fashion, her hands lifting. Her signs are slow and sluggish.

"Ah, can't do that, honey," Druig half-smirks, signs briefly one-handed while picking up a wet washcloth, wiping her lips clean of her saliva. A joke passes on his fingertips. "Who else would torment me so?"

Makkari tries to chuckle, tries to say oh, possibly my ghost if this keeps up at this rate — only to find her chest racking with another round of wet, hacking coughs, her eyes watering. 

God, she hates this. 

Hates feeling so useless, full of exhaustion and unlike herself, her usual bubbling energy being siphoned from her. Tissues surround her, bawled up and most scattered all over the floor, having missed the trash can below. 

Druig watches. There is tension, worriment and sadness crossing over his face. He does not speak as he signs. It hurts me to see you like this.

— I'm sorry, she says, apologetic. Even though she can't hear her coughs, she's pretty sure it's an annoyance to him. Makkari has been coughing for the past three days and she's sure he can hear down the hall, disturbing his sleep.

"It's okay. Everyone coughs and it's fuckin' annoyin' —" A chuckle, his hands lowering. His eyes soften as he watches her, immediately adding and shaking his head, " — but not ye. I could never be annoyed with ye."

From her watering eyes, he wipes away a few stray tears running down her cheeks, Druig supportive as always. God, she does not deserve this man at all.

"But everyone gets sick," Druig mollifies, enunciating clearly for her, "even me, remember? Somehow, ye're still lookin' beautiful —"

— Nonsense, I don't —

"— aye, you do. I don't know how, but ye do. But we'll get ye better, all right? But when I said rest, I meant all of ye . Even yer hands. I don't want to hear another word, Makkari. Rest."

Makkari nods, sniffles and smiles half-heartedly. He cups her face between his hands, a tender gesture. She's too tired to challenge him today and he knows it. Any other day not plagued with this vengeful flu she would be quick on her fingertips to snap back a joke. 

She finds herself deeply admiring and liking the way he is taking charge, solemn-faced on his fingertips, leaning hard into his caretaker role.

— Thank you, she tells him. It will be her last sign for the day, Makkari offering him a smile of gratitude. Druig returns it immediately. His hands lift.

Of course, he says. Another pause and the next words makes her heart lurch and flip under her ribs, tightening and squeezing under the ghost of his fingers. 

He says: What are best friends for?

(Read the full fic below here: )