#of thrashing around to get comfortable in your sleep spasming until hes RIGHT back at the edge of the bed

[abimee]

the only way i can see e/methy/o working is if emet was consumed into the prexisting relationship between hythlo and azem purely because despite them dating they still brough their bestie emet along everywhere until it came a point that there was no clear distinction when something was a date or just besties hanging out. like emet is the designated driver of this relationship where he doesnt participate but he is involved in the general happenings and makes sure everyone gets home safe. he sits in the middle of them at movie theatres and holds the popcorn bowl and gets placed between them in bed at night like how ones cat sometimes sleeps

[giggly-squiggily]

it's me, kuroshou anon :) no worries at all, it's always 50/50 requesting daishou anyways ^^` would you maybe write lee!kuroo and ler!akaashi (romantic) instead? i'll leave it to you whether you want to make it a fic or head canons :)

Heyo Kuroshou anon! :D My deepest apologies for how late this is; I do hope this was worth the wait! I'm finding new Kuroo ships left and right, ehehehe! :D I've gotcha covered!

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@myreygn @thatbigbisexual29 @duckymcdoorknob @rachi-roo @chibisstuff @imjusthere07, @sevenincubistolemyheart @riisada

“Hey.” A finger reached out, coming around the worn down paperback and gently poking Akaashi’s cheek. “Cheer up, babe.”

“I’m not upset.” His reply was slightly muffled when the finger poked his cheek again, pushing upward and turning the corner of his flat lipped mouth up some. “I’m focused.”

“Nah, you look sad.” Kuroo decided, bringing his other hand around to push the other end of his mouth up, creating a lopsided smile. “What’s got you down, huh? Is it the weather? A recent game?”

“My annoying boyfriend who insists on touching my face when I’m trying to read?” Akaashi grumbled, fighting down a real smile when Kuroo gaped. “Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

Kuroo did, snapping his mouth shut with an overexaggerated pout. He let his hands fall to Akaashi’s shoulders, playing with the soft fabric of his shirt while the other flipped a page. “I know what happens at the end of that book.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you pick up this book. Let alone any book.”

“I just do. I watched the movie.”

“The movie differs from the book.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Akaashi glared at him from over the pages. Kuroo smiled sweetly, kicking his feet behind him as he sprawled across him. “I swear to god, Kuroo. If you spoil this book for me, you’re sleeping in the backyard tonight.”

Kuroo gulped, knowing Akaashi was being serious. He lowered his chin to his boyfriend’s chest like a lectured dog, making his eyes big and soulful. Akaashi huffed, reaching out and scratching his head as he carried on reading.

Silence past, Kuroo half asleep while Akaashi read. It was comfortable, but Kuroo was getting bored.

And when he was bored…

“The main character-”

The world spun as their positions were flipped, Akaashi’s deadly glare looming over him while Kuroo grinned. A hand was pressed into his mouth, keeping him from speaking. “What did I just say, Kuroo?”

Muffled words. Akaashi slowly removed his hand.

“The main characte-ehehhehehehehheher!” Kuroo arched with a laugh as Akaashi dug into his sides, relentless in his tickles. “Wahahahahit! Wahhahahait lehehehet me fihihiihhinish!”

“No way. You’re gonna spoil the book!” Akaashi growled, one hand pinching along his ribs as the other dug into his armpit, making the brunette beneath him thrash and flail as he kicked. “You can’t do that if I tickle you to death, can you?”

“AHhehahahahha, bruhuhuhuhuhuhtal! Yoohhoohohou’re sohoohohoho dehehehehevious!” Kuroo tried to fight back, curling his fingers into Akaashi’s upper ribs. The other boy spasmed at the touch but kept at it, bringing both hands into Kuroo’s armpits- forcing him to clam up. “Aheahhahahaha! Lehehhehet me shahahhahay whahahhat I whahahahhas gohohohohonna sahahhahhay!”

“Not until I know you won’t spoil it for me.” Akaashi moved his hands down to his belly, earning a proper squeal as Kuroo arched off the couch. “This is a good book! A great one- I want to go in blind.”

“NEAHAHAHHA I GEHEHEHHET THAHAAHAHAT! AHAHAHAHAKAHAHHAHAHSHI, PLEHAHAHAHAHHASE!” Kuroo begged, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as he struggled to catch Akaashi’s hands. “I WOHOOHOHON’T SPOHOHOHOHOIL IT I PROOHOHOHOHMISE!”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“YEHEHEHEHEHHES!”

“Definitely sure?”

“SWEHAHHAHAHR ON MY LIHIHIHIFE AND MY VOHOOHOHOLLEYBAHAHHAHALL CAHAHAHHAREEAHHAHAHR!”

Oo, that was serious. Akaashi considered as he gave the other one last tickle, finally stopping when Kuroo wheezed. His hyena laughs died down as Kuroo tossed his arms across his belly, head falling back against the arm of the couch.

“Ahheheheaha…hehehe..I wahahahsn’t goohohohnna spoohohohil it.” Kuroo groaned, earning a skeptical look from the other. “I wohohohould never! What I was going to say was that the main character reminds me of you!”

That look of skepticism faded into one of surprise, Akaashi blinking down at him. “What?”

“He does! He’s got that cool, confident kinda vibe.” Kuroo sat up some, leaning on his elbows so he could properly look at Akaashi. “He’s also super smart! When I was watching the movie- I just kept thinking ‘Hey- it’s my man!’ Oh, and he was hot too. Like- really hot.” Kuroo swooned, falling back into the couch with an overexaggerated sigh. “Not as hot as you, but like- he’s up there.”

Akaashi blinked down at him, taking it all in. Then he let out a low chuckle, falling into Kuroo’s chest. “God, I’m such a moron.” He mumbled into his chest, melting some when Kuroo ran his fingers through his hair. “Sorry for doubting you.”

“No, you’re fine. I did imply a spoiler. Still…I’m honestly kinda hurt you’d think of me like that.” Kuroo didn’t sound hurt at all despite his words. In fact, he sounded rather cheeky- the hands coming around Akaashi’s prone form poised and ready to go. “I think I want some revenge!”

“Huh? Oh no- no way! Don’t you dahhahahahhare!” Akaashi was soon in the predicament he created, trapped in Kuroo’s arms as the other tickled him relentlessly.

Well- at least the book wasn’t spoiled.

Thanks for reading!

[starryseung]

hwang hyunjin + smut

word count; 1.7k words

warnings; unprotected drunk post break up hate sex , angsty as fuck , dom! hyunjin , drunk! reader and hyunjin , master kink , mentions of hyunjin and/or reader fucking around and cheating , toxic relationship , implied edging , overstimulation , reader cries , hyunjin is a fucking asshole

One Night Stand

“let’s get out of here babe,”

the words are softer than a whisper, but the way the voice is zoomed in on your neck, the heavy alcoholic scent brushing against your skin, you can hear him perfectly under the loud bass playing in the club.

you wouldn’t say you were completely sober either, which partially justified why you said ‘yes’ to a complete stranger you were grinding your butt against, hands reaching back to tangle in his hair and bring his lips closer to your neck.

it was when you finally got out of the loud, congested club, the cool breeze hitting your face, when you realized what you were doing. the guy had a dark leather jacket falling off his shoulders, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as he dragged you to the motel behind the club. his bright blond hair rang a few alarms in your head, but you weren’t quite sure yet as to who the guy was.

your vision is blurry, but clear enough to make out you had finally entered a small motel, the blond handing some money to the guy behind the desk before pulling you closer to him, his hand on your hip as he walks down the hall with rough steps to match your pace, teeth digging down on his bottom lip. fumbling with the keys in his hands, he finally shoves it in the lock, opening the door.

you aren’t given a second to breathe, hands pushing you against the wall before plush lips come in contact with your neck.

“h—hyunjin,” you whimper, your hand weakly running up to his hair, tugging at the ends.

the male’s movements stop, fingers tightening on your waist. just then you could smell the citrus essence shampoo from his hair, and you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol messing with your senses, or if it really was your ex, with his hands on your hips while his semi-hard crotch rubbed against you, his warm breath fanning against your neck.

his lips press against your shoulder once again, this time his teeth parting to bring the skin in between before nibbling down on it, your neck craning back to give him more space. your eyes tear up just a bit, whether it’s the sting of your supposed ex biting your neck, marking you down, or your supposed ex entirely — you don’t care.

moving back, lips red, you get a clear view of him and now you’re sure it’s hyunjin — not surprised.

“didn’t fuck before breaking up—” he grunts, tossing you on the bed before pushing his hips down on yours, the prominent tent in his pants pressing against your clothed heat, “—and i really need it, especially now.”

“a—are you clean?” he scoffs at your question, head moving up to face you.

“it hasn’t been long since we broke up, i don’t find girls that easy,” he hisses, rutting his hips against yours while moving his lips down to your exposed chest, sucking over your skin.

“thought you would’ve fucked forty by now,” you smirk, before hyunjin bites down on you, whimper leaving you as he grins, shifting to unbutton your shirt. latching his lips onto your breasts he hums, rolling his tongue around your nipple as his nimble fingers tweak your right one, pinching it softly as you arch your back into his touch. “still as sensitive as i remember,” he hums against your breast, giggling softly.

“i don’t f—fuck around like you,” you stutter, his soft lips wrapped around your hardened nub before sucking at it. “you’ve become too bratty, hmm?”

hyunjin moves lower, and you bring your hips up, and he pulls down your shorts with a soft chuckle, muttering a ‘so eager’ under his breath. you feel his lips press above your heat, tongue pressed flat against your clothed folds. “who am i kidding, you were always a little brat”

the words roll off his lips too easily, your panties sticking further to your wet cunt as a whine leaves your lips. you couldn’t forget how hyunjin would punish you when you touched yourself when he was away, or when you acted out of your way to tease him, especially in front of the members. his fingers digging in your thighs, tongue lapping against your folds as he edged you for god knows how many times, then topping it off with his heavenly cock stuffing you full until you couldn’t speak — you couldn’t forget all of this, no matter what.

soon enough, hyunjin’s lips are on your bare pussy, sucking eagerly as you thrash above him, one hand having the sheets beneath you in a death grip, while the other tangled in hyunjin’s hair, tugging at his scalp. the pressure he applied each time grew harder and harder, until his tongue pushed between your folds, your walls instantly clenching around his muscle as he groaned. hyunjin himself was subconsciously grinding down on the bed, movements messy as his hands spread your thighs apart, face pushing in further between your legs as he eats you out like his last meal.

your whines grow louder and louder, orgasm at bay while hyunjin’s tongue laps your folds, curling in before he pulls out for a breather, replacing his mouth with his fingers. slowly pushing in two fingers, he groans at the feeling of your tightness clenching around him as you curse, moaning aloud as he curls them inside of you. starting a steady pace, he starts thrusting his digits in you, scissoring you open.

“f—fuck, master, gonna cum,”

his fingers stop, eyes training up to look at your face, smirking at the name you just called him. a pang of guilt stings his chest, lips faltering when he realizes just how much you had given yourself to him, to the relationship you both had taken years to strengthen, before he blew it, watching it fall like a house of cards before walking away with someone he found, online.

shaking the thoughts off his head, knowing that it was the "drunk hyunjin" messing with him right now, he pumps his fingers in your hole, soft squelches leaving your pussy at the speed of his wrists snapping in you. you cry out, bucking your hips to match his pace, head thrown back into the freshly laundered pillows under you, legs trembling.

“hyun—master, pl—please,” you whimper loudly like a bitch in heat, eyebrows scrunching as hyunjin palms your clit, rubbing the calloused skin against your sensitive buds. a single tear rolls down your eye and down on the pillow, before another, and another, until you sob softly, your orgasm washing down on you as hyunjin’s fingers still piston in and out of you, not slowing down any time soon. you whine out, squirming under his gaze to get away from the burning sensation building in your core.

hyunjin stops, before the fuzzy sound of a zipper is heard, the bed shifting near your legs. your hold on the sheets beneath loosens, his hand coming down to your waist to gently knead the soft flesh.

you knew it was the alcohol running in your veins, but you couldn’t stop the thoughts evading your mind, the feeling of hyunjin’s warm hand that would comfort you by rubbing against your cold skin, the then comforting sensation turning into nothing but anxiety and heartbreak now.

your drunk train of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by hyunjin’s tip prodding against your folds, a mewl leaving your swollen lips as you feel him slowly push in deeper, a moan grumbling out his own lips at the feeling of your soft, tight walls around his cock, squeezing him.

“you’re gonna be the death of me, shit,” he curses, head dropping down as he cracks open an eye, jaw clenching at the outline of his cock on your abdomen, fingers instinctively reaching out to trace above it; “fuck, how did i never notice this,”

“you were t—too busy thinking of s—someone else when we fucked,” you sigh shakily, feeling him bottom out in you as you clenched around him. he pulled out, pushing back in as he stared at awe at the prominent bump on your belly, pressing his hand down on you before cursing a loud "fuck!" at the feeling of your walls spasming around his dick further, a moan leaving your lips at the tight feeling in your core. hyunjin lets out a strangled moan, thrusting his hips in you steadily. his pace grows quicker, cock snapping into your tight hole repeatedly until you’re a moaning mess under him.

he pulls up your leg, placing it above his shoulder before rolling his hips down on you, reaching deeper, the sensation making your breathing shallow, chest tight. he felt too deep, almost as if you were full of his cock and his cock only. 

you’re drunk out of your head to even realize when you’re cumming but when you do, you’re left dizzy with the aftermath, body trembling as your juices flow out to coat hyunjin’s dick buried deep in you. you feel as if all the energy has been sucked out of you — which it had, no doubt — and you just wanted to cuddle your teddy bear (your replacement for hyunjin) and sleep for longer than ever.

hyunjin pulls out of you, sloppily stroking his length before coming on your stomach and the sheets, his thick fluids trickling down your sides and onto your clothes. he focuses on his breath, flopping down beside you on the cleaner part of the bed, leaving you all sweaty, sticky and disgusting with his and your wetness. even in your drunk state, you expected him to give you some water or dress you up, at least clean his shit off of you.

but maybe you were asking too much from just a one-night-stand.

—

a/n; FINALLY AFTER A 5 DAYS BREAK also may i say this is g**d why did this turn out better than i expected damn

taglist; @joengni @cherryeol04 @lomlminho @bruh-changbin @yooniversalstudios @ann0325441904 @yourdaddychan @nightshade-minho @yangomangos @peachyhan @yoongiesbby1204 @llsiriusminorisll​ (message me if you want to be added!)

[sickficsforthesoul]

Here is a second prompt!

Epileptic Suga having a seizure for the first time in front of the first years, maybe in a tougher situation to handle like a bus ride 👀

:)

-Lu

This one took me a little while, but it's done now, so enjoy! As mentioned in a prior post, this fic is part of the Setter Health Conditions (SHC) universe, so it might be referenced in other fics taking place in the universe. (Fun fact, this fic was originally titled "Into the Sugaverse" before I edited the title to be less cryptic.)

That One Bus Trip

Epileptic Suga with caretaker Daichi

Word count: 3447 words

Daichi was stressed. That wasn’t a new thing, though. With three siblings and two very busy parents, Daichi’s life was near-constant chaos. Though right now, the current cause of Daichi’s stress was sitting right next to him. Suga was curled up against Daichi on the bus seat. They were driving home from a weekend training camp in Tokyo. It was only early evening, but Suga looked quite sleepy leaning against Daichi’s arm.

“Are you okay, Suga?” Daichi asked quietly. They were seated near the back of the bus to keep an eye on everyone. The first years sat in the row in front of Daichi and Suga, and Daichi didn’t want to broadcast Suga’s private business to them (or anyone else on the bus, for that matter).

“Yeah,” Suga groaned as he shifted against Daichi’s arm. “Just feeling kind of off, ya know?”

Daichi’s eyes widened in alarm. “What kind of “off,” Suga? Like off off?”

“Off off,” Suga agreed, pressing the side of his face into Daichi’s club jacket.

“Do you want me to get someone?” Daichi muttered urgently.

This wasn’t good. Feeling off off was how Suga liked to refer to having an aura, and an aura meant a seizure was coming soon. And to make matters worse, they were on a bus, hours away from home. If Suga had a seizure now, it would be chaos. Everyone would panic because only Daich, Asahi, and Mr. Takeda knew about Suga’s epilepsy (Daichi wasn’t sure if Coach Ukai knew, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Suga never mentioned his condition. Suga was very shy about sharing his epilepsy with others. It had taken Daichi and Asahi cornering a first year Suga in the locker room after a particularly long practice to get Suga to tell them anything, and they were some of Suga’s closest friends.)

“No,” Suga murmured. “I have my medication. I’ll take it, so hopefully, things won’t get too bad.”

Suga leaned forward and rummaged through the bag at his feet, producing a medicine bottle seconds later. Daichi grabbed a water bottle from his own bag and presented it to Suga, who took it gratefully. Suga shook out one pill from the bottle and swallowed it down with a gulp of water. He handed the bottle back to Daichi and bent down to his bag again.

Daichi turned to his bag to distract himself from all the possible futures flashing through his mind. Even though Suga had taken his medication, that didn’t guarantee nothing would happen. Similar to migraine prevention medication, Suga’s medicine only worked some of the time. Daichi was praying to every deity in existence that it would work this time because he hated Suga seizing in any circumstance, but especially on a bus with their loud, emotional teammates. Suga didn’t seem too panicked on the surface, but Daichi was keenly aware of the setter’s clenched hands and furrowed brow. Suga was worried too, but he was far too prideful to ever tell anyone directly.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Daichi ordered, voice low to keep their conversation discreet.

“Okay,” Suga yawned, “I think I’m gonna take a nap. This medicine always makes me drowsy.”

“Alright,” Daichi nodded slightly. “Just try to stay calm. Getting worked up will only make everything worse.”

“I know, Daichi,” Suga huffed good-naturedly. “I’ve been dealing with this for years. I think I know how to take care of myself.”

Daich chuckled and patted Suga’s head with his free hand. “I know, I know. But I’m still worried, you know. I’m your best friend and your captain. I think I have the right to worry about you sometimes.”

“You’re such a dad, Daichi,” Suga snickered mischievously. “Dad... Daichi… Oh! Dadchi! From now on, I’m gonna call you Dadchi.”

Daichi sighed wearily. “How can you be so responsible one minute and then so childish the next?”

“It’s a gift,” Suga smiled goofily. Then a yawn escaped his mouth, and he blinked slowly.

“Take a nap, Suga,” Daichi said, slipping off his jacket to drape over the setter. “You’re tired, and it’ll make you feel better.”

Suga hummed in agreement, leaning against Daichi’s side and snuggling under the jacket. He sighed contently and closed his eyes. Within minutes, Suga was sleeping comfortably against Daichi’s shoulder. Daichi smiled at the sight, silently resigning himself to being Suga’s pillow for the rest of the bus ride. They still had over three hours left until they reached Karasuno High School, so Daichi was hoping Suga would be able to take a good, long nap until they arrived.

With Suga sleeping soundly, Daichi could finally relax. He gazed out the window at the setting sun, admiring the beautiful colors as the sun disappeared from the sky. Suga’s body was warm, Daichi noticed. Not feverish, but warm enough to keep Daichi’s body pleasantly warm as well. The bus was also fairly quiet. Most of their teammates were either reading or playing video games (even Kageyama was attempting to work a DS after Hinata’s incessant nagging). After two days of grueling training, Daichi’s body was begging for a break, and between the warmth and quiet murmurings of his teammates, Daichi felt himself nodding off too. His head drooped against Suga’s, and Daichi was asleep almost instantly.

X

When Daichi awoke, he noticed light flashing through the very dark bus. Lifting his head drowsily, Daichi quickly found the light source. Someone (probably Tanaka or Noya) had brought a portable DVD player onto the bus, and everyone (minus Suga, Daichi, and Asahi, who had donned an eyemask and fell asleep sometime after Daichi had) was gathered around it watching a movie of some sort.

Daichi yawned and pulled out his phone. He sent a quick text to Ennoshita asking about what movie they were watching. Ennoshita replied with the title (“Into the Spider-Verse,” apparently) along with what he’d missed so far. The movie was only a third of the way done, so Daichi hadn’t missed too much. Suga was still sleeping soundly, so Daichi didn’t dare move. He couldn’t see the movie, but that was fine so long as Suga was asleep and calm.

Suga continued to sleep for another half hour at least while Daichi ignored the DVD player in favor of looking at his phone. During that time, Ennoshita texted frequent updates on the movie, summarizing the plot, characters, and visuals with stunning clarity. Daichi would occasionally see some bright flashes of light, but he was too focused on his phone to register the problem the lights might pose. Daichi was snickering at the reveal of Doctor Octavius when Suga stirred next to him.

“You’re up, huh?” Daichi murmured to a drowsy Suga.

“Yeah…” Suga yawned, eyes still shut.

“Are you feeling better?” Daichi asked gently.

“A little, yeah,” Suga hummed, shifting to a sitting position and cracking open his eyes.

“That’s good, at least,” Daichi smiled, reaching over to grab his jacket from Suga’s lap.

“I guess,” Suga sighed, his brown eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion. “What’s going on?”

“We’re watching a movie. Into the Spider-Verse, apparently.” Daichi lifted his phone to show Suga the screen. “Ennoshita’s been keeping me updated. He’s actually pretty good at it too.”

Suga grabbed the phone and scrolled to the beginning of Ennoshita’s recent texts. He took a moment to read before handing the phone back to Daichi. “You’re right. He is pretty good. Is the movie still on?”

“Yes,” Daichi nodded, “The DVD player’s in the aisle. We can watch it if we move over a little.”

“Let’s watch it,” Suga replied. “It’s not like we have anything better to do right now.”

“Okay,” Daichi agreed easily, sliding over into the aisle to watch the movie. Suga moved too, taking Daichi’s now-vacant seat.

They settled down to watch the movie without much trouble. The occasional bright flash made Suga wince and turn away for a moment, but the instances were infrequent, so Daichi didn’t think much of them. Suga seemed to be enjoying the movie too. He laughed at the jokes and fawned over the action sequences. Daichi wasn’t surprised. He’d known about Suga’s nerdy side for a while now.

To be fair, Daichi was also enjoying the movie. The soundtrack and animation were very well done, and Daichi was always a sucker for action movies. Perhaps that was why Daichi forgot about the danger the movie could pose to Suga. Daichi was so absorbed in the movie that he failed to notice Suga’s furrowed brows and rapidly paling face. The final straw for Suga’s fragile health was the collider scene. The frantic, aggressive flashes of light sent Suga’s body headfirst into an epileptic episode.

At first, Daichi thought Suga was just shivering. Small trembles wracked Suga’s frame, but when the trembles grew stronger and more sporadic, Daichi became concerned. Turning away from the DVD player, he squinted through the dark at his best friend, and what Daichi saw was horrible. Suga’s body spasmed erratically while Suga’s eyes were blown wide with panic and distress. Tears slipped down Suga’s cheeks as a soft whine escaped his mouth. Suga’s eyes settled on Daichi, silently begging for help.

Daichi was panicking, but Suga needed him, so he had to focus. Daichi quickly wrapped his jacket around Suga’s head and neck, creating a cushion to protect the vulnerable areas during Suga’s thrashing. Then he carefully scooted Suga’s body farther into the seat, so he wouldn’t fall off and hit something against the bus floor. With Suga in a secure position, there was nothing left to do now but time the seizure and wait for it to end. Daichi hated this part the most because he was powerless to help his best friend.

Their teammates slowly started to notice that something was wrong. Suga’s breathing was irregular and audible over the movie to the people sitting near Daichi and Suga. Ennoshita sent him a text a minute later to make sure everything was okay. Daich responded with a cryptic text that told Ennoshita something was wrong but didn’t specify what. Naturally, Ennoshita sent more texts, each becoming more and more worried, though he thankfully had the sense to keep his inquiries in texts instead of voicing them aloud.

Suga’s trembles finally slowed, and Daichi checked the clock on his phone. The seizure had lasted for just over two minutes. While not ideal, the seizure was still under five minutes. Seizures lasting longer than five minutes tended to be the most dangerous ones, so at least Suga avoided that.

Now that the seizure was over, Daichi needed to get Suga help. So Daichi got to his feet and walked down the bus aisle. Most of his teammates grumbled in annoyance, but Daichi caught the worried gazes of Ennoshita and his seatmate Kinoshita. He gave them a small smile, hoping to convey that things were getting better, but the duo still looked worried. Daichi continued on his trek and finally reached the front of the bus. Thankfully, Coach Ukai was driving while Mr. Takeda was helping Coach Ukai navigate from the front bus seat.

“Mr. Takeda?” Daichi leaned towards the club advisor, keeping his voice low.

“Daichi?!” Mr. Takeda yelped in surprise, but he quickly fell silent once he saw Daichi’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Suga had an… episode,” Daichi whispered to the club advisor.

“An episode?” Mr. Takeda blinked in confusion. “What kind of episo- Oh!” Mr. Takeda lowered his voice out of courtesy to Suga and his privacy. “Suga had an epileptic episode?”

“Yeah,” Daichi sighed tiredly. “His seizure lasted for a little more than two minutes. He’s resting now, but we should take him to a hospital to get checked out.”

“Of course!” Mr. Takeda nearly shouted again. “I’ll let Coach know right away! Do you need any help with Suga?”

“I don’t think so,” Daichi shook his head. “I just might need help getting him off the bus when we get to the hospital.”

“Alright. I’ll find the nearest hospital and tell Coach to get us there as soon as possible. Can you keep Suga comfortable until we arrive?” Mr. Takeda asked.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Daichi replied firmly.

“I’m sure you will,” Mr. Takeda agreed before he moved to the driver’s seat to let Coach Ukai know about the change of plans.

Daichi returned to his seat swiftly, anxious from leaving Suga alone for so long. Suga was still lying across their seats, but he was conscious and relatively alert because he turned his head when Daichi got back to their seats. Daichi sat in the aisle to keep an eye on Suga, rubbing the setter’s ankle soothingly. Daichi and Suga stayed like that until the bus pulled into a hospital parking lot.

Cries of confusion and irritation broke out until Mr. Takeda silenced them with an uncharacteristically stern stare. “Move out of the aisles, everyone. The paramedics need to use them.”

Everyone obeyed immediately, but looks of confusion were etched on most of their teammates’ faces. Two paramedics boarded their bus, with Mr. Takeda directing them back to Suga and Daichi’s seats. Daichi moved out of their way, helping them pull Suga into the larger paramedic’s arms. Suga remained limp in the paramedic’s hold, though his eyes darted over to Daichi as the paramedics carried him away. Daichi waved reassuringly, and Suga flashed him a brief smile before his eyes fell shut. That caused the paramedics to panic and rush off the bus. Daichi watched them place Suga on a waiting stretcher from the bus window, and then his best friend disappears into the large white building with the paramedics.

X

They weren’t allowed to see Suga for the next few hours. Their teammates’ confusion had morphed into shock and despair once they realized that something was wrong with Suga. The first and second years badgered Daichi and Asahi relentlessly until they finally caved, informing the team of Suga’s epilepsy. Daichi also explained why Suga was currently in the hospital, and Tanaka looked guiltier by the second. Daichi reached out a hand and rubbed the spiker’s shoulder, explaining that it wasn’t Tanaka’s fault. He didn’t know about Suga’s epilepsy until a few minutes ago, so there was no way for him to know how dangerous the movie would be for his vice-captain to watch. Tanaka still moped in his hospital chair until they were finally allowed to see Suga.

It was very early morning when a nurse approached their group with information about Suga. She pulled Mr. Takeda and Coach Ukai away for a few minutes to inform them of Suga’s condition. With Suga’s parents out of the country for work, they were acting as Suga’s legal guardians while he was in the hospital. Daichi waited with the team until the two adults returned to their group.

“Suga will be fine, everyone,” Mr. Takeda smiled exhaustedly. The events of the night had taken a visible toll on him. “He was just dehydrated and exhausted. He’s on an IV right now to get some fluids and nutrients into his system, but he’ll be okay after getting some rest.”

“He’ll be released soon,” Coach Ukai continued gruffly. “They’re just waiting until his IV is done. We should be out of here in an hour or so.”

“Can we see him?!” Nishinoya and Hinata asked eagerly.

“Yes,” Mr. Takeda laughed at their antics, “but you have to be quiet, ok? Suga might be asleep, and we shouldn’t wake him if he is.”

“Yes sir!” The duo nodded before dashing down the hallway.

“Wait!” Mr. Takeda let out a panicked cry. “You don’t even know Suga’s room number!”

Mr. Takeda chased after the two, and soon the entire team was running down the hospital hallway to Suga’s room. Mr. Takeda directed them to take two flights of stairs and a long corridor to reach Suga’s room. Unsurprisingly, Hinata and Nishinoya were the first to the door, with Kageyama and Tanaka not far behind. Mr. Takeda caught up with them, forcing them to wait until everyone had gathered to open the door. Daichi pushed his way to the front of the group, citing his captain status. Suga was his best friend, and he was going invoke his captain rights if it let him see Suga faster.

Mr. Takeda opened the door, and the Karasuno VBC filed into the room silently. Daichi stared at Suga as he entered. Suga was awake and sitting up in his bed. He looked exhausted, but his face had color, and he looked much better than he had hours ago. Suga watched them all carefully, offering them a wave. The IV in his elbow bounced in time with Suga’s wave. Once everyone was settled into the room, Suga gave them a warm Suga-Smile™.

“Hey, guys,” Suga said with exhausted but genuine enthusiasm. “What’s up?”

“SUGA!!!!” Hinata, Nishinoya, and Tanaka yelled, launching themselves at Suga.

They piled themselves on top of a shocked Suga, but he was quick to pull the trio into a warm hug.

“You scared us, Suga,” Daichi said quietly as he sat on the side of Suga’s bed.

“Sorry. I should have told someone earlier,” Suga sighed, snuggling into the cuddlepile on his lap.

“It’s not your fault, Suga,” Asahi hummed from the other side of Suga’s bed. “You can’t control your epilepsy.”

“I guess so… But I still feel bad for scaring you guys like that,” Suga confessed, eyes full of guilt.

“It’s okay, Suga,” Hinata chirped from the cuddle pile. “We’re just glad that you’re okay!”

“Thanks, Hinata,” Suga laughed into the blocker’s red hair.

“Hinata’s right,” Ennoshita chimed in. “I just wished you’d told us about your epilepsy earlier.”

“I know I should have, and I’m really sorry.” Suga bowed his head in apology. “I just hate talking about it. Daichi and Asahi basically had to kidnap me to get me to tell them about it.”

“Is that true, Daichi?” Nishinoya asked excitedly.

“I guess so…” Daichi laughed awkwardly. “In our defense, Suga was very stubborn. That was the only way we got Suga to talk to us instead of changing the topic.”

“Was I really that bad?” Suga cocked his head to the side.

“You were,” Asahi nodded solemnly. “I didn’t think we’d ever get you to tell us anything.”

“You’re always so negative, Asahi.” Suga poked the ace’s arm lightly. “It’s that negativity goatee, I swear.”

“My goatee has nothing to do with it!” Asahi whined sadly.

Suga giggled lightly at his friends, and Suga’s laugh was always infectious. The cuddle pile trio was giggling too, and then Daichi and Asahi joined in as well. Soon, the entire team was laughing, even Mr. Takeda and Coach Ukai. The previous events were long and stressful, so now everyone was finally relaxing a little.

The team chatted amongst themselves quietly until a nurse entered the room to check Suga’s IV. She declared that it was done and swiftly removed the needle from Suga’s elbow before the setter could even process what was happening. The nurse left the room for a moment and returned with a wheelchair for Suga to sit in. Hinata, Nishinoya, and Tanaka clambered off Suga’s lap, so Daichi and Asahi could help Suga into the wheelchair. They wheeled Suga out to the bus and got him situated on a bus seat near the front, so the adults could keep an eye on him. Daichi also sat beside Suga to help him if need be.

Everyone boarded the bus, and they were on their way back to Miyagi. Suga leaned his head on Daichi’s shoulder, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Daichi,” he yawned heavily. “Thanks for everything today.”

Daichi smiled tiredly at his best friend. “Sure. I’m always here for you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Suga hummed happily. “I’m glad you’re such a good friend.”

“Thanks, Suga.” Daichi yawned as well. “You’re a pretty good friend too.”

“You’re still better,” Suga teased lightly before a big yawn escaped his mouth.

“And you’re still exhausted. Get some rest. I’ll wake you up when we get back,” Daichi said softly.

“Thanks, Daichi,” Suga murmured as his eyes slipped shut.

“Any time, Suga,” Daichi whispered as he felt his eyes grow heavier by the second. He leaned his head on top of Suga’s. The adults would wake them when they got to the school, Daichi reasoned before his eyes shut completely. Karasuno’s captain was asleep in a matter of seconds, taking a well-deserved nap after the chaos of the past few hours. The bus wouldn’t arrive for a few hours, and Daichi was content to nap with his best friend as the bus rolled on through the night.

[jubesy]

Could you do 43 with like a panic attack hurt/comfort scenario with joe and cherry please? I just feel like it would fit with cherry having anxiety and stuff 💅

Thank you for your request, anon! I tried my best to fill the prompt, so I hope you like it~ Though, instead of a panic attack, it deals with Cherry having a night terror, which also can happen to those with anxiety.

All cases may differ, so this is based on my experience. Please be aware, there is a scene where Joe witnesses Cherry having a night terror.

#43 “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Also available on Ao3.

Link to my master list of Matcha Blossom drabbles

Joe grit his teeth as he took a turn a little too tightly on his bike. He managed to correct himself before wiping out. That was the last thing he needed. It was late. Or early, depending. And he’d been woken up by an alert on his phone. A message from Cherry’s A.I.

Carla 2:25AM: Master slept through his alarm. Carla 2:38AM: Master’s heart rate is elevated.

If only he’d heard the first one. Joe sped forward. They didn’t live too far apart, but it was significantly farther than the walk they used to take as kids.

When he arrived at Cherry’s, Joe parked his motorcycle and ran to the door, pulling out his spare key. He didn’t trip the alarm. After all, Carla knew he was coming.

He went straight to Cherry’s room. Thankfully, he found him in bed, illuminated by the soft light from his bedside lamp. But Cherry was not sleeping. He’d thrown the covers off, his face flushed and his chest heaving.

Carefully, Joe approached him. “Hey, Kaoru--” 

Cherry let out a sharp sound, halfway between a cry and a gasp. He tossed his head to the side, kicking out his arms and legs.

Shit. Joe really wished he’d heard that first message. If he wasn’t such a heavy sleeper, he might have gotten here before-- 

“N-No…!” Cherry thrashed, one of his legs getting caught in the sheets. He shouted again and Joe quickly untangled him, catching Cherry’s foot before it landed a kick to his chest.

“Kaoru,” he said again, using his other hand to hold Cherry’s ankle to keep his leg still. “Kaoru, it’s Kojiro. You’re having a--” But he was cut off when, with a surprising amount of strength, Cherry broke from his grasp and sat up.

“No!” Cherry screamed at him, eyes wide and unseeing. 

Joe knew what was coming. And just as Cherry was about to bolt, Joe wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight and keeping him from jumping up and off the bed.

“No!” Cherry said again, struggling in his hold. “No…no…” He kept trying to break free, but Joe held firm. 

“It’s okay,” Joe whispered against Cherry’s temple. “No one can hurt you. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Gradually, Cherry’s movements slowed until he was nearly limp in Joe’s arms. But when Joe pulled back, Cherry’s eyes were still open, glazed and blank.

Joe released him, sliding his hands down Cherry’s arms to grip his hands. “Hey, Kaoru,” he said softly, but received no response. “Kaoru,” he continued, wetting his lips. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” There was the slightest twitch of Cherry’s fingers, but nothing more. Joe took a deep breath. “I’m going to tuck you back in, okay?”

Then, every so gently, Joe laid Cherry back down, straightening his nightclothes and pulling the sheets back up to his chin. He knew it was very unlikely for Cherry to have another episode tonight. But he didn’t want to leave. Just in case.

“Carla,” Joe called. “Lights out, please.”

A few hours later, Joe awoke to a finger poking him in the shoulder. He didn’t even open his eyes. “And a very good morning to you, Kaoru,” he said, voice rough from sleep.

“You’re in my bed,” Cherry noted. 

Joe chuckled and cracked his eyes open. “Nothing gets past you, huh?” 

Cherry swatted his chest. “Why are you in my bed, Kojiro?” 

Joe swallowed. Cherry hardly ever remembered it the next day. And Joe almost didn’t want to tell him. But that wasn’t fair. Cherry deserved to know. “You slept through your alarm.”

The hand near his chest shook slightly and Joe reached up to grab a hold of it.

“I see…” Cherry chewed on his lip. 

“Carla messaged me,” Joe went on. “But I didn’t get it until your vitals were all…” He gestured vaguely, still holding Cherry’s hand in his. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” 

Cherry nodded and then shook his head. “No, it’s fine, I--” He wet his lips. “I didn’t...hurt you, did I?”

Joe placed Cherry’s palm against his chest. “A big, tough guy like me?” he teased. “Never.”

“I’m being serious!” Cherry’s fingers spasmed, but he didn’t remove his hand. “I hate it. Not being in control. Not...remembering.” He frowned.

“It sucks,” Joe finished for him. “I wish I could make it go away.” 

Cherry sighed. “The alarm had been working.” His gaze shifted over to Carla, still in sleep mode and charging by the wall. “I must have been exhausted if I slept through it.”

Joe hummed before leaning in closer and pressing their foreheads together. “Well, if it ever happens again, I’ll make sure not to sleep through the first text message.” 

At that, Cherry snorted. “You? Please.” He rolled his eyes. “You sleep like the dead.” He drew back. “Besides, you live farther away now, so it’s probably inconvenient for you to come all the way here just to...tuck me back in.” The rest was left unsaid.

“I could always sleep over,” Joe suggested. “Not all the time, but on nights when you’re especially worn out?”

Cherry actually looked like he was thinking it over before he sighed. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m your first emergency contact, but having me spend the night is out of the question?” He shook his head. “And you’re not asking. I’m offering.” 

Cherry eyed him suspiciously, as if waiting for Joe to tell him it was just a joke. But, after a moment, he seemed convinced. “First of all,” he began. “You’re not my first emergency contact. Carla is--” 

“Doesn’t count--” 

“--and secondly, if you’re really fine with dropping whatever you’re doing to sleep here on occasion, I suppose that’s fine.” He finished with yet another sigh.

“See? Was that so hard?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Cherry answered immediately and then cracked a smile. A soft one. “Thank you. For coming over last night.” He moved closer and ducked his head under his chin, pressing his cheek to Joe’s chest. “You’re a good man.” 

Joe grinned and wrapped his arms around Cherry, giving him a squeeze. “That’s why I’m your number one, right?” 

There was a puff of warm air against his skin as Cherry laughed. “Number two,” he corrected.

Request a drabble here!

[whumpzone]

Tomas and Rowe - Part 10

thank you all for your patience. these updates will probably because fortnightly rather than weekly since im swamped with uni work now, but i still love my boys dearly and i love YOU all for reading!

Masterpost

taglist: @sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @misspelledwitch @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld @memoriesneverforget @sky-or-something-idfk @ghostcomit @cupcakes-and-pain @frankieswhump @ihaventwritteninsolong @mybrokenlittletoy @kiretto-laorentze @morelikepainsley (please ask to be added or removed!

CW: pet whumpee, hospitals, dehumanisation, burning

-

It would have been a great mercy for Rowe to drift slowly awake, pulled towards lucidity by his aching legs. Instead, in an instant he was wide awake and screaming as unfamiliar hands touched and gripped and pulled. Rowe weakly pushed them away before he realised what was going on. How could I- I was trained to never resist. How can this happen? What is wrong with me?

‘’See how far non-compliance gets you,’’ came a voice. Rowe squinted against the light to see two people in elbow-length gloves, with masks and cold eyes looking back at him. One of them- the taller of the two- reached to either side of him to click open what looked like handcuffs. ‘’In. If you don’t make a fuss I won’t clip your legs. You wouldn’t want that with the state they’re in, would you?’’

Rowe shook his head desperately. He could barely listen through the terrible pain, but he was programmed to understand commands, and had learned to understand threats. The tall one gave a little grunt and spread Rowe’s arms wide, locking them in place on either side of the thin mattress he was laying on. Rowe vaguely considered that Master Tomas had given him an especially nice mattress at home.

His bed at home. His room. The nice carpet soaked with his blood while he lay there, helpless, Kasia swinging the hammer down again and again, and Rowe able to feel his hatred with every impact. Master had found him, Rowe remembered. He had taken him here. Was he being put down?

He felt something trickling down his temples. Tears. When did I start crying?

He shook his head, trying to push all these questions out of his head. Pets don’t cry. I don’t cry- I shouldn’t cry. I’m just a thing that feels pain and serves. I can lie here and take this. Master left me here; this is what he wants.

‘’Right…’’ The tall one said. Rowe blinked quickly and saw her inspecting his wounds. ‘‘When did you get these?’’

‘’Th-this afternoon, I-‘’

Rowe’s voice died away when he saw the look she was giving the short doctor, who bent to grab something from the compartment strapped to the end of the bedframe.

‘’Oh dear. I don’t remember you having permission to speak. Muzzle, if you please, Dr Clerval.’’

The shorter doctor- Clerval- handed it to her and Rowe went limp reflexively. This muzzle looked sharp, and cruel, and as the taller doctor fastened it to Rowe’s face he felt it cut into the skin around his ears and the corners of his mouth. The bit was cold, keeping his tongue pinned down.  

‘’Now,’’ she said, ‘’you’re going to be a good Pet, aren’t you? We’re doing you a kindness, after all.’’

Rowe nodded, lowering his eyes. The tall doctor smiled, and Rowe saw her push some sort of sharp instrument into him, and then he started screaming.

-

The woman who had summoned Tomas introduced herself as Gwen. Her Mary Janes echoed through the corridor as they spoke.

‘’Can I see him?’’

‘’Your Pet? I’m sorry, sir, he won’t be out for a while.’’

‘’Then… what did you want me for?’’

‘’We actually had a few issues with your paperwork and just need a few signatures off you, if you don’t mind. Right in here, please.’’

They entered a warm office and Gwen gestured for Tomas to sit in a plush, deep buttoned chair.  

‘’Okay. I have here your Pet’s file, but it seems you’re not the official owner.’’

‘’Huh?’’

‘’When you received your Pet, did you sign any paperwork?’’

‘’No… I didn’t.’’

‘’Well, your P-‘’

‘’His name is Rowe. Sorry- for interrupting, but he has a name. If that’s easier.’’

Gwen gave him the gentle smile of a vet explaining to a child why their sweet pet had to be put down. ‘’Of course, Mr Grz- may I call you Tomas? Great. Currently Rowe is listed as unclaimed, under the legal ownership of a Pet rehoming organisation. Is this where you got him from?’’

‘’Yeah. I have a friend who works there.’’

‘’I see. Well your friend has forgotten to give you the appropriate paperwork. What this means is that Rowe is not officially your property yet- you can’t take people to court if they damage or steal him.’’

‘’Right. Shit. How do I get this paperwork?’’

‘’I have it here, since you need to be the legal owner to submit him for medical treatment. This will establish that you are Rowe’s acting owner, but you need to get your friend to sign too, okay?’’

Gwen handed Tomas a single sheet of paper and a pen. So simple, Tomas thought. One bit of A4 for the right to Rowe’s life.

‘’Thank you,’’ he said as he signed, printing his name below it in his delicate script. 

‘’Great,’’ beamed Gwen. ‘’And now we can discuss your payment.’’

‘’Payment? Isn’t this… isn’t this on the NHS?’’

‘’No,’’ she said patiently, ‘’just as animals aren’t covered, neither are Pets.’’

Tomas’s goodwill towards Gwen was dissipating quickly. He would pay, of course. But for Rowe- his Rowe- to be considered closer to an animal than a human made him stiffen. Gwen seemed to notice this and pressed on.

‘’Oh, but don’t worry, it’s not going to be expensive. Pet treatment is far simpler than treating a human.’’

Gwen didn’t elaborate, and Tomas didn’t enquire, if only to preserve his own sanity. The floor, he noticed, was the same shade of cream as Rowe’s room. He looked away quickly. He could still smell the blood- could still hear the way Rowe had screamed and moaned when he lifted him up. Tomas didn’t even know how conscious he had been then. Did he think Tomas was hurting him more on purpose? Would he think Tomas was angry? Probably. Tomas would have to be very, very patient when Rowe was discharged and started begging for forgiveness for wasting his Master’s time.

-

The muzzle only hurt when Rowe shifted, now. It had sunk into his flesh and stayed there, and Rowe could ignore the pain up until a movement made it flare. In a way, he was happy that he couldn’t speak- he always made things worse by speaking, and although he did his best to make Master Tomas happy, he sometimes wished he would be granted a muzzle and the safety of silence.

He had stopped screaming, mostly. The bit had sliced his tongue so badly he wondered if he would even be able to speak once it was taken off. As Dr Clerval and the other doctor, whose name was Easton, dug into his calves, he just moaned and spasmed involuntarily. His chest, still brightly lined with Kasia’s cuts, strained and lifted with every new jolt of pain.

The pain was awful- acute pain- different to the wide, messy whacks of the hammer. Rowe could feel every stab of the instrument, a million precise cuts, sinking into his skin and then leaving just as quickly. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up. He tried to focus on the fact that he wasn’t being put down, at least.

He had never been to hospital before. When his old master had whipped him, or poured boiling water on him, or beaten him unconscious, he had always had the night to recover and then it was back to work. If he couldn’t do that, he was given the morning off and forced to sleep outside for the next week as penance. He was always so grateful when old master allowed him that.

Anaesthetic wasn’t wasted on Pets, Rowe knew that. Master Tomas knew that too, undoubtedly. Don’t worry sir, no need to punish your Pet yourself. After all, you’ve already wasted enough time on it. We’ll make sure it suffers so it knows not to bother you again.

More stabbings in his legs. It felt like he was being stitched up. That made sense, at least. Rowe’s old master was kind, far kinder than Rowe deserved, and would always tell him why he was being hurt. He felt the same amount of comfort here. He was being hurt for a reason. Kasia’s beating had been made all the more unbearable because he hadn’t cited any insolence, any misstep. He had barely said anything at all.

On either side of him were dark green curtains, but beyond them he could hear screams, and wails. He wondered how many injured Pets were in here with him, just out of sight. He had never met another Pet before.

Another jolt of pain brought him back to the present. Dr Easton was looming over him with a- a- Rowe’s head went dizzy with fear. Dr Easton had a thick metal rod in one gloved hand, and the end was white-hot and smouldering. She held it near Rowe’s face and he pulled away as far as he could against his restraints, the whites of his eyes glinting in the sterile light. He could tell that underneath her mask was a wicked smile.

‘’We’ve got one or two pesky wounds that might get infected. But we’ll see to that. Do you know what cauterisation is?’’

Rowe nodded, and this seemed to be the right answer, because the rod was taken away from his face. Before he could relax, though, Easton pressed the burning end into Rowe’s calf.

His eyes rolled into his head as he bucked and thrashed, his screams mixed with desperate, anguished sobs. His thoughts were running wild with helpless pleas- not this not this not this, I’ll do anything to make the pain stop, please Master I’m so sorry, please I’ll do anything, just not this, not this.

It didn’t calm down when the rod lifted from his leg, after the longest few seconds of Rowe’s life. No sooner had he even registered the change was the pain was transferred to another wound, further up the same leg. He felt like a wild animal, screaming in a way he had never screamed before, guttural and horribly altered due to the muzzle. Rowe didn’t even recognise the sounds. The pain was worse, so much worse than the boiling water or the whip, he couldn’t even form coherent thoughts anymore, he couldn’t see, everything he knew in that moment was pure, awful pain.

Eventually, the cauterisation was done. Rowe felt exhausted, and more than anything, he felt scared. He missed Master Tomas so, so badly. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he dreamed of being back in Master’s living room. His legs worked, and he wasn’t damaged goods. He was pretty. He was a good Pet and Master ruffled his hair. Good boy.

Master never said that to him. He told him he was good, but no more. He had ruffled Rowe’s hair, and hugged him once when he was drunk, but he never ordered Rowe to kneel at his feet and let himself be pet. For all that he was terrified of his old master, Rowe cherished the days where he was good and allowed to lay his head on old master’s thigh and feel his rough hands card through his hair.

Rowe knew it was still early- he hadn’t been Master Tomas’s property for even a fortnight yet- but he couldn’t help wondering sometimes what he was doing wrong. He fucked up so much, but Master never got mad, and told him he was good, but never went further than that.

But right now, in the space between awake and asleep, Rowe indulged in his most gentle fantasy. He felt Master stroke his hair, a million miles away from the blood-stained mattress and his calves wrinkled with stitches like seaweed on the ocean floor.  

[rokutouxei]

filling in the gaps

theodorus van gogh/mc | T | 3603 | ao3 link in bio you are damaged goods, and there is only so much love can do.

⚠ warnings: attempted suicide, depressive thoughts, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, and cursing. please be careful if you’re reading this. ⚠

(a little vent fic for a bad dream) 

comte had asked you if you wanted to go back “home.”

it takes all your strength to bite back the automatic retort: what is home anyway? the future you’ve thrown away? can you still go back to that? won’t doing so be like an uprooting? to be harshly pulled out of this little dream-like living in a mansion with vampires reality you’ve burrowed yourself into, back into the unforgiving unknowable of the time you once called yours.

you consider his suggestion idly, sitting on the plush chair in his room, watching his many hourglasses count the passing of irreversible time. your eyes fall onto the one that marks that door’s opening. you bite your lower lip.

“you don’t have to make a decision tonight, or anytime soon,” comte assures you, one hand on your shoulder. “you have to do what’s best for you. and whatever you decide, i’ll be behind you.” you can only nod because your throat is in a tight knot. “i’m sure theodorus will understand.” the mention of his name breaks your heart. comte stares at you, trapped in a corner with his inability to do anything more for you. “i’ll have sebastian bring tea to your room. you should rest tonight.”

“thank you, comte,” you manage to say, and with a sigh get up from the chair. something creaks and you don’t know if it’s the floor or your heart.

theo won’t be home for three more days.

-

for a week, you’ve been dreaming of asylums.

you move down the gray halls like a ghost, passing through doors, gates. you hear a stranger’s manic laughter at the end of a hallway, in a locked room. there’s the clinking of chains matched with muted screams from another. the clanking of trolleys with medicine bottles and syringes, accompanied by the footsteps of a harried nurse. she’s rushing to get somewhere, except you don’t know if she’s coming in, or running out.

the path in the building is winding and labyrinth-like. every inch you move inward, it gets darker. you turn to an open window and jump without thought. but gravity doesn’t pull you downwards; you land gently like a fallen flower petal. only here do you realize you’re translucent.

eventually, you find your way to the garden, the sun shrouded by clouds. people rush past you like they don’t see you. somehow, that’s comforting. that is, until someone in a patient’s green dressing gown begins to thrash and cry out loud; nurses, doctors rush out and press them to the ground, cheek to the dirt. a doctor pulls out a syringe from his pocket like a soldier would a sword, a weapon to protect himself, and injects the ill with something that makes them spasm, then quiet down. limp. boneless.

(you want to turn away but you can’t.)

they’re awake. the asylum staff begin to stand up, get off their knees, but the patient is left on the ground. if you squint hard enough, you see tell-tale stitches along the crown of their head; they look like they’re about to split open. the unnamed patient look up from where they’re pushed down and look up at you with familiar sunken eyes. they mouth: you’re next.

with the swift crashing sensation of being woken up, you realize where you’ve seen those eyes before. you turn to the mirror, wondering if you’re still dreaming.

-

you didn’t want to talk to vincent, because talking to vincent is tantamount to telling theo. but somehow you know he’ll understand, he definitely will, and unconsciously, you’re drawn to his vicinity as the whatever simmers coldly in your gut. he doesn’t ask questions—thankfully—and just offers you company.

theo probably already knows, anyway. after all, this has been going on for months. not completely terrible months, no, there were good weeks, great days. but the haze remains.

vincent is a kind spectator, patient, quiet, only really offering advice, words, hugs, when you show that you’re ready for it. you wonder if it’s because he knows what it’s like: can tell the signs, can figure out the clues.

today, you sit on his sofa with a book from the library. when you get distracted, you look up, watching him paint. he has a little vase of multicolored hydrangeas, a gift from dazai. vincent sprayed the flowers with water to give them a shine, and he’s trying to figure out how to show it on his painting. his hands are stained with ink.

the part of you that has loved theo all this time would have beamed with excitement, because there is nothing like vincent’s paintings, especially when he’s trying out something new.

but that part of you is silent.

you stare at his canvas with empty eyes.

you wonder how quickly will the hydrangeas wilt and die.

theo won’t be home for two more days.

-

when you started showing symptoms again, you hadn’t even noticed it. it was theo who noticed it first, and when he’d brought it up to you, you laughed it off saying you were only tired. but once he’d told you, it became glaringly undeniable.

the weight you thought was exhaustion. the worry you thought was simply from circumstance. the sleeplessness you blamed on coffee. the oversleeping you blamed on… night-time activities with theo. the trembling in your hands you blamed on the weather.

no. the monster you’d thought you’d left in the 21st century had followed you through a time traveling door. you can make a home out of a whole new time period and it’ll still follow you around. you’d never really escaped it. it only quieted down, long enough for you to think you were safe.

now you were not safe.

there are no pills here yet, so long practiced strategies for preserving what’s left of a shattered stability returns to the forefront. getting enough sunlight. eating good, healthy food. exercising regularly. getting enough sleep. for a while it becomes enough. getting out of bed becomes easier. things don’t seem bleak. for a while you feel the cold retreating.

until it doesn’t.

one day, theo catches you with your hands around your neck, crying, gasping, trembling, eyes red, cheeks stained with tears. wild eyes, like you’re seeing something he cannot. it takes him a full thirty minutes to get you to focus on him and on the present. it takes him another hour to get you to stop crying and shaking, to clean you up.

that night, you wake up on his bed tucked under his blanket, cold and alone. you open your eyes slowly and see him by the window, looking out at the moon, its silver light over his hard features. he looks terrified. it takes you a while to realize it’s because he’s already seen death in the face once, just on someone else’s eyes. someone he treasures too. and that… was like being greeted by it once more.

you decide, as much as you can, to never show him your breakdowns again.

-

you didn’t want to be dependent on theo. you wanted to stand next to him, and be strong, and help him fulfill his dreams, and build yourself a new one in this time.

you had so much planned for the both of you.

sitting alone in his room, in the dark, wearing one of his dress shirts with all but two buttons closed, under his blanket, you feel these dreams slip in between your fingers like fine sand.

theo has always been there filling in the gaps for your empty spaces. and he’s taken the role without complaint either. the spaces between your fingers are for his. the little hole in your heart filled with a love that refuses to erode. where there is doubt he fills it with assurance, and where there is fear he pledges protection.

so you say in exchange you will offer him your everything, but what are you in return for all the treasures he is giving you? he’s handed you the world, and you are damaged goods.

and there is only so much love can do.

you close your eyes and look at the clock. just a bit before midnight. you probably won’t get a wink of sleep.

theo will be home tomorrow, but it feels far too long.

-

do you know that feeling when everything has finally clicked and something you’ve long wanted to do has been made possible, the universe aligning things to your advantage and you feel invincible? today feels like that day, at last. it’s because theo’s finally coming home, you say to yourself. and it’s true, you had missed him. except something about that just doesn’t feel quite right.

but you appreciate the way your body doesn’t seem to fight you for every move you want it to make. you’re watering the flowers in the garden when your mind begins to float again.

grounding, you were told once. back at home, comte had called it. a place that feels like a million years ago, ironically, when it’s a psychiatrist’s office a hundred years into the future. activate your senses, focus on the present, let your thoughts go away with your breath.

the taste of the fresh air.

the soft green of the grass.

the smell of the sweet flowers.

the bright blue of the sky.

the sound of the birds singing lovely songs to each other.

you hold them together in your mind, but what happens when you can’t breathe?

your eyes open wide.

wind, you realize. you need wind.

-

already dressed for a trip out, you say you forgot to buy a welcome-back gift for theo, and you’d promised him something special. sebastian doesn’t quite buy your lie, noticing the deep circles under your eyes, but he lets you go anyway. you predict he’ll send someone off to follow you—napoleon, jean—but that will take time, and that’s enough.

you’re great at acting when you have to be. sebastian asks you to put on a coat and bring an umbrella, while he calls a carriage. there’s a storm coming in, he says. you better come back quick, master theodorus will be home any minute. you nod and smile and follow his orders obediently. for the first time in weeks, you feel weightless.

you ask to be dropped off at one of the galleries you and theo frequent. an inconspicuous place, you imagine, when sebastian calls the driver back and ask where’d you gone to. when, you’re sure. not if.

you say thank you as you get down and watch the carriage disappear into the distance. and then, you turn on your heel and walk towards the inevitable.

-

there’s a graveyard at the edge of town. past it, there’s an open cliffside, beyond where the forest ends. you’ve never been to that cliff before, but somehow it feels familiar. the path your feet forges down the dirt feels like it was made for you. you feel like you’ve been here once, in a dream.

when you get there, the sky has turned a dark gray, the clouds just about to burst, an impending storm. you breathe deeply, inhaling the wind that smells like sea and rain, filling your lungs. you linger at the hem of the forest, and should someone see you, they’d say you’re hesitating. you’re not.

you’re so excited your hands are shivering.

ground yourself, you were told once, activate your senses. you take your feet out of your shoes, jumping at the cool of the rock underneath you. steady unlike the swinging in your head. you take your coat off, placing it on the ground, finally feeling the full brunt of the cool wind. you pull your hair out of its ties, letting it loose in the breeze.

you feel so light. like you were made to be here the whole time.

why hadn’t you come here earlier?

one step, two. toward the cliff. the crashing of the waves seem louder and louder. it takes you a moment to realize it’s only because your heart has stopped drumming in your ears. calmness—you feel full, a good kind.

you can jump now. no one to stop you. jump now, while no one has arrived, you tell yourself.

thunder rolls in the distance. a flash of lightning. you step closer to the edge. not too close, but close enough that you feel dizzy. gently, you get down on your knees, just to touch the edge with your hands, as if making sure it’s actually here.

like you’re not dreaming this time. not a ghost, walking through halls. this time you are real.

this is next time.

your heart races up your chest instinctively, warning you of the possibility of falling, but you press your palm on your chest and shush it. quiet, heart—there is nothing to fear. the waves look beautiful—a deep, dark color, something between blue and gray, the white of seafoam in intricate shapes. the waves whip along jagged rocks at the bottom. they sound they make like a frantic parent, shushing a crying child.

the ocean is a beautiful place to die.

slowly, you get up on your feet. there is no more shaking. no more heart desperately begging. there is only you, and all the other parts of you that have conceded defeat. your brain races with excitement at the satisfaction of falling—of having the courage of jumping.

lightning strikes once more. then thunder. you tell yourself, the next time it flashes white, you’ll jump before the thunder calls.

seconds pass. you don’t want to wait, but you’ve waited all this time—what’s a little bit more? your mind is a traitor, flashing imagined worried faces of the rest of the people in the mansion. comte, who will feel infinitely at fault. sebastian, who had let you go. vincent, for not being able to save you even if you were able to be vulnerable with him. everyone else. napoleon, mozart, jean, isaac, arthur, dazai. shakespeare, elsewhere.

and theo.

oh, why theo?

sorry, you want to tell him.

well, you did. you think of the necklace you’d left behind on his bed. the engagement ring strung on it. he would know what it meant.

that’s why it hurts, because he would know.

and you’d rather spare him all this.

hondje!

ah, now you’re hearing him? this is unfair, you tell your brain. we’ve gotten so far, and now you’re sabotaging all my efforts.

hondje!

you take a deep breath, and your eyes are filled with white. lightning strikes in the distance, a go-signal from the universe. your right leg swings over the edge, and—

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!”

a warm hand curls around your wrist and pulls you backward strongly. you crash into solid arms just as the thunder rolls in with an unprecedented anger.

you only catch a glimpse of your beloved theo’s face, not enough to look clearly, before you’re buried into his chest, his arms around you so tight like he’s worried you’ll disintegrate into thin air if he doesn’t hold you strongly enough.

now stuck in the darkness, your other senses begin to refocus.

taste. there’s blood in your mouth. coppery. you must have bitten your tongue. it makes you nauseous.

smell. the cologne he always wears when he’s going somewhere fancy. sweat, like he ran all the way here. and that distinct theo smell that reminds you of home, like pressed clothes and fresh rain and love. it makes your heart twinge. you were looking for this, hiding underneath his sheets and wearing his clothes. you hoped it would save you. it didn’t. it couldn’t.

touch. why is he shaking if he’s so warm? he has an arm across your head, his hand in your hair, you feel his fingers press against your scalp. his other hand digs into your waist so hard you feel his nails. but the sting is comforting. and it doesn’t actually hurt much, it just feels… real. heavy. tangible. you haven’t felt this in a while. like somehow everything before this touch was just a dream.

and then you hear him. it takes so long, but then you hear him. he’s angry. but not in the way that makes you flinch, that scares everyone who dares oppose him. it’s that kind of angry where he’s hurt so bad the only way he can get it out of him is anger, and you’re breaking too. you can hear it in his voice, the way it shakes, the way it’s desperate to be heard. you feel it even if you don’t hear the words over the hum of your brain, a buzzing that doesn’t seem like it’ll ever go away.

you try to patch up the scattered syllables.

maybe he says “what the fucking hell were you thinking? what if i didn’t make it on time? what would i have fucking done? did you even consider thinking of that? godverdomme, schatje.”

theo doesn’t curse, never that much.

you wonder if this is really him. you wonder if you did this to him.

the part of your mind that is still self-destructing tries to escape his hold: the places where he touches you feels on fire, and deep inside of you a voice calls for the cool embrace of the ocean.

but you don’t find the strength to get up. if death was to burn in searing pain in his arms, then let it be: a penitence for sins you’ve done. for the hurt you’ll leave him breaking apart on.

except theo is cruel, and he will not let you die. when you drift back, he’s calling your name like you weren’t in his arms, but somewhere else.

and you were, somehow. you’ve long left this place, in your head. but you can’t not come back when he’s calling you like that.

silence.

the hush of the wind is all you hear. the waves. your mind goes quiet too.

you wonder if theo’s run out of things to say, or he’s figured that you don’t have the strength to listen. but he doesn’t loosen his embrace around you. for a second, you wonder if you’ve finally died, and you’d just not realized it.

until it rains.

raindrops cold like ice falling from the unforgiving gray sky. it makes you look up, on instinct, and when you do, you catch his eyes. you don’t know if it’s the light, or your own eyesight, but he looks back at you with a stare like a stormy gray sea that has watched many ships sink into its depths.

he’s watching you sink.

you’re watching yourself sink.

you do the least you can do: force the barest of a smile onto your lips, even if it hurts.

and then he cries.

you almost don’t notice because of the rain and how intensely he’s looking at you, but you see the hitch in his breath. his narrowed eyebrows.

his eyes.

at that moment, everything crashes down onto you with its full weight. suddenly, you are flesh and bone again. it’s sensory overload and you feel everything with great intensity: the icy rain dripping on your bare skin, the weight of your clothes, the blood rushing through your veins, the dig of theo’s hands on your skin, the cool of the stormy breeze.

oh, fuck, the weight of having to exist.

the back of your eyes finally burn with tears you’ve been begging to cry out for months—it makes you sob and theo pulls you back against his chest. like in a bubble, stuck in this small moment of each other’s company, the storm, the cliff, the waves don’t exist: there is only you and him, bodies together after what seems like an eternity of floating in the void.

you whisper sorry so weakly into the rain-damp fold of his collar you don’t know if he heard you. but it seems he does, because he presses a kiss to your forehead—chin rough with a light stubble, the sensation grounding you—

and whispers right against your traitorous brain, the one that always is out to knock the life out of you, “live. live. live.”

over and over again like a prayer, like if he says it long enough it’ll ring the same way the next time the shadow that sleeps in your veins wakes up again.

“live. live. live—”

fills the gap in the hollow of your chest with his presence. not love, not protection, no vows to protect. just his presence. two survivors pressed together holding on for dear life as the ship begins to sink, with the only comfort, each other.

your arms wind up around his torso, finally returning his hug, and it is only when his shoulders relax that you notice how tense he’s been all this time.

i can’t promise, you want to tell him, but your voice is lost somewhere, drowned out by the storm. you know with all your heart you are already knee-deep in your grave and you have no right making promises about this. i can’t promise you that, but i’ll do my best. so please stay beside me.

darkness begins to cloud your vision; the exhaustion, the sleeplessness taking over. you’re thankful theo is there to hold you up. far away, the sound of hoofbeats, your little 19th century found family coming to rescue the both of you and bring you back home.

yes, you tell your mind, before you drift into restful sleep, lulled by the sound of theo’s heartbeats. warm in his arms. this is what it means to go home.

[queenof-literature]

A Sick Wild Child - Chapter 4

Warning: Vomiting and Panic Attack

Wild belonged with nature, it was in his name. He loved the rustling of the leaves, the singing of the grass, the - oh, someone was calling his name.

“Wild! How many times do I need to call your damn name?” Time snapped, and Wild realized he was only inches away from his face. He took a tiny step back in fear and confusion. Time almost never cussed...

“Wild get your head out of your ass and pay attention!” Wild looked back up to see Twilight beside Time, glaring at him.

“U-um I’m s-s-sorry.” Wild stuttered out, hand twitching to lift his hood over his head and shrink within it.

“O-oh? Y-y-you’re s-s-s-sorry?” Legend mocked in a high pitched voice. The rest of the group chuckled while Wild flushed and finally pulled his hood up. They knew he didn’t like it when he stuttered out words. The scars on his neck made it hard to talk sometimes, especially when he was nervous, they knew this. They had never made fun of him like this. Why the sudden change of pace? And whose Hyrule were they in? Wild thought they were in his but he recognized nothing.

“Hylia you’re such a fucking coward Wild.” Warriors scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You can’t even handle a little teasing.” Now that one stung. Wild looked up to Warriors in many ways. They were both trained knights, and Warriors became a captain at such a young age. He had conquered armies, learned from his mistakes and moved on, and had saved his friends...

“Hello? Wild? What the hell is wrong with you today?” Wind snapped up at him. That was certainly odd, Wind was very expressive, but it took a lot to get him to show his anger. Oh, Hylia, what had Wild done to piss off even Wind of all people? Why did he always have to mess everything up?

Wild felt his throat close up, and raised shaky hands to try to apologize once more. But the rest of the group only seemed to laugh and continue mocking him relentlessly for not even talking anymore. He couldn’t breathe. His vision was blurring and the trees were spinning around him. Distantly he could recognize that this was a panic attack, but all he felt now were the glares and mocking calls of the group around them.

A hand poked Wild’s shoulder and he lashed out without even thinking, wildly shoving away what his muddled brain could barely recognize as Hyrule, who stumbled and landed on his back with a look of surprise that quickly turned to anger. Oh no.

“What the fuck, Wild?” Hyrule yelled in outrage, as Four helped him up, also glaring at the scarred teen. Hands grabbed his arms and Wild fought against them, kicking and bucking away from them. A sharp jab to his stomach had him lose all the breath in his body and collapse to the ground. He saw the strong build of Twilight through blurry eyes filled with tears.

“The fuck did you do that for you little freak?” Twilight was a lot bigger than Wild, and it was situations like this that reminded him of how intimidating he could be. “You do that shit to Hyrule after we let you travel with us? A mission from Hylia or not we should have left your broken body in your ruined Hyrule where it belongs. On second thought, your Zelda doesn’t deserve to put up with your fractured pieces. How about you just stay in this Hyrule and die? It’s what you deserve.”

“Twilight is right.” Sky stated, normally gentle voice stiff and emotionless, “I forged the Master Sword only for you to come by and disgrace its legacy.” Sky began to walk away, along with some others in the group.

Panic filled Wild. They couldn’t leave him. He could do better! He would never talk again if that’s what they wanted. He didn’t want to be stuck in an unfamiliar Hyrule forever. Not again. He couldn't get left behind again. No matter how selfish it was, Wild wanted to stay with them. Wild needed to stay with them. He thrashed to get out of the hold he was in. He thought they were his family. Was a family supposed to treat you like this? Is this tough love? Wild didn’t know but he wanted to. He wanted to keep traveling with them. He thought he could hear voices calling his name, but Wild couldn’t breathe. Soon it all faded to black.      

~

The morning passed with smaller amounts of chatting than usual. Four was making simple omelets for the group and seemed to be arguing with himself in a quiet murmur over how long to cook the eggs for. Sky and Warriors were playing cards with Wind, who was definitely cheating in some way or another. Legend and Hyrule were content with just watching and seeing how long it took for him to get caught. And Twilight and Time were whispering and glancing at Wild, who had his head cradled in Twilight’s lap.

Wild seemed to be twitching and murmuring in his sleep. His face looked troubled, fingers clenching and unclenching at Twilight’s pelt, breaths coming at an uneven pace.

“Is he having trouble breathing again?” Legend called out from the tree he was leaning against. “Yes, but we don’t think it’s the sickness.” Time called back. He sounded gruff, but the rest of the group could hear concern lacing his voice. The group put away their cards and crowded around the three as close as they could without scaring Wild if he woke up.

“‘M sr’y.” Wild let out in a pitiful moan.

“Sorry for what cub?” Twilight leaned down and brushed Wild’s hair out of his face. But it only continued like that.

“‘M sr’y.”

“Don’ leav’.”

“I kno’ ‘m broken.”

“I’ll do better.”

“Promise.”

“‘M sr’y.”

“‘M sr’y.”

“‘M sr’y.”

The entire group could only feel the grip of horror wash in as they heard their little wild child begging not to be left behind. Wild has always had abandonment issues he tried to hide, though it was obvious to those who knew him. Nervous eyes always darted around camp whenever he went to sleep, worrying that when he woke up they would all be gone. It broke all of their hearts, and they all tried to help their own ways.

Time by being a solid rock of advice and encouragement.

Twilight by giving him warm hugs when he could handle it.

Warriors by telling him stories, either of his epic tales or silly exploits in the taverns.

Legend by teaching him of his many items (And letting him use them when no one else watching).

Hyrule by taking them exploring with no map.

Wind by teaching him sea shanties.

Sky by letting him sit near his napping place and simply exist in comfortable silence.

Four by telling him jokes in the back of the group some days, which ranged from lighthearted and goofy to teasing and full of fire.

All of them tried to show Wild that they were there and never leaving and giving him pieces of themselves for him to keep close. To hear him talk the way he was, broke every single one of them.

“Shh Cub it’s okay, you're okay, you’re safe. I’m right here.” Twilight lifted up Wild and cradled him to his chest. Wild started to struggle, hands lifting to clutch and scratch the scars on his neck and face, the way he did when he was having a panic attack. Out of pure experience, Four grabbed Wild’s hands as gently as he could and held them to his chest, exaggerating his breathing while hoping Wild would subconsciously follow it. Wild didn’t like to be restrained, but if they let him he would keep scratching until he bled. They sadly had a lot of individual experience with Wild's attacks. He would apologize and go silent every time, feeling like a burden, but that was getting slightly better as time went on.  

“Wild, wake up Cub it’s just a dream. Wild, c’mon buddy.” Time spoke as he rested his hand against Wild’s forehead to give him something else to anchor him. Wild was completely sobbing and delusional at this point. Repeating the phrases under his breath and struggling and thrashing out of their hold. He was apologizing to every single one of them by name in a slurred voice.

“Wind get me a cloth soaked in cold water please.” Hyrule spoke, not taking his eyes off of Wild. Wind, although obviously hesitant to leave his friend’s side, dashed off without complaint. Meanwhile Twilight was still talking into Wild’s ear, desperately hoping that he could hear it through his nightmare.

When Wind came back with the cloth, Hyrule began to wash Wild’s face without wringing it out. They needed to shock Wild awake, but Hyrule didn’t want to be as harsh as a slap or a bucket of water when they had other options on hand. Wild gasped and jolted awake, teary eyes looking all over the group, then back up to meet Twilight’s.

“Hey, buddy.” Twilight said softly. And with that, Wild once again started sobbing, still slightly delirious from his infection.

“Don’t leave Twi. I know I’m broken but I’ll do better. I promise!” Wild dug deeper into Twilight’s chest as he began repeating the same things he had in his sleep.

“You are not broken.” Time said sternly. “Nothing about you or your adventure makes you broken.”

“Wild you’re one of the bravest people I know.” Wind stated quietly. Wind loved the older boy and their adventures together, he hated to see him suffering like this. He had suffered so much and Wind just wanted him to be happy.

Wild continued to sob into Twilight’s chest, which was obviously only agitating his bruises and illness. Twilight continued shushing him and rubbing soothing circles into his back, but the sobs wouldn’t die down. Unfortunately, Twilight could tell where this was going.

“Warriors! Bucket!” Twilight commanded. Warriors darted off to get the bucket Legend had brought out for Wild just in case extreme nausea came with his infection. Just in time, Warriors got the bucket under Wild’s chin.

Wild began heaving and hacking all of the contents of his stomach into the bucket, which wasn’t much after not eating breakfast. Even after all of his dinner from last night had come up, his body continued spasming as Wild dry heaved.

Warriors winced, he knew how painful throwing up was, especially after there was nothing left. Warriors grabbed Wild’s hair, much of it out of his ponytail at this point, and held it away from his face as Twilight whispered calming words into Wild’s ear.

Eventually, Wild’s body finally stopped, his dry heaving turning into small spasms and his sobs turning into hiccups. He kept apologizing under his breath for unknown reasons, though Time figured now it was for throwing up.

Legend took the washcloth from Hyrule, who didn’t like being anywhere near throw up, and gently cleaned Wild’s face. Twilight went to lay Wild back down on his bedroll, but the teen whined and burrowed into Twilight’s chest once more, still wrapped in Twilight’s fur pelt. Time chuckled and discreetly gave Wind a look to take a pictograph.

“We’ll have to talk to him about his dream when he’s more awake.” Sky stated sadly. The rest of the group didn’t want to mention how horrifying that had been for them, let alone how horrifying it must have been for Wild.

“Yeah, I know.” Twilight looked down at his cub’s flushed face with tear tracks staining his cheeks. This was going to be a long day.

[ragingbookdragon]

Earning Trust Doesn’t Come Without Its Struggles PT. 5

An Adrian Tepes (Alucard) x Reader Story!

Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Death Author’s Note: I plan on finishing this in two more parts! I hope you’re enjoying it! Enjoy! -Thorne

A thumping roused her from sleep, and she rolled over, mumbling, “Cezar…lay down…go outside…later…” She burrowed her face into the pillow, pulling the covers over her shoulders as the thumping sounded again. Her face pinched and she grunted as her mind began to clear from sleep. “Cezar…go lay down…it’s not time to get up yet.” For a moment, silence enveloped the room and she relaxed, haziness clouding over, then a scream pierced the air. (Y/N) shot up in her bed, eyes wildly darting around as she tried to comprehend what was happening. Cezar sat alert beside her, and she reached down, patting his head. “It’s okay boy.” She climbed out of the bed and pulled on the long coat, covering the nightshirt she wore. Slipping through the door, she looked around before making her way to the spiral staircase, beginning to climb it.

Another scream sounded as she reached the top and she sprinted to Adrian’s door, pounding on it. “Adrian! Adrian open the door!” When the door didn’t open, (Y/N) grunted, curling the handle herself. She stepped into the room, zeroing in immediately on the vampire that had tangled himself in his sheets as he thrashed around. She strode to his bedside and reached over, gently grasping his shoulder as she murmured, “Adrian, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” His body jerked under her grasp and she frowned as she climbed onto the side, grabbing hold of his other shoulder; this time she shook him firmer, commanding, “Wake up Adrian! You’re having-” In an instance, their positions were flipped and (Y/N) found herself on her back as she stared up at the wild-eyed vampire. His hand was inches from her jugular, and she could feel his nails pricking her skin. She hadn’t been scared of the vampire since that night in the Hold, but now, trepidation crawled under her skin and she softly assured, “Adrian, it’s alright…nothing’s going to hurt you…it was just a bad dream.” She stared into his eyes, no longer the sunset gold she’d gotten used to, but a crimson, full of fear. He looked down at her, hissing,

           “They’re all the same. They did this.” (Y/N) wanted to shake her head but the nails against her throat stopped her and despite the pounding in her chest, she kept her voice calm.

           “I know they did Adrian. And they paid the price for it. But you need to understand that they can’t hurt you anymore.” He leaned down.

           “You’re one of them.” The words made her heart hurt and she replied,

           “I’m a human Adrian, but I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve gotta trust me on that.” His nails moved closer, and she felt the burn as they pressed into her.

           “In the end, you’re all the same.” Believing that she was about to meet her end, (Y/N) gripped his hand tightly and challenged,

           “If killing me will satiate your fears, then do it. But you sure as hell better do it as yourself.” Adrian blinked at her as if he was finally waking up, and she watched as he did it again, the red dissipating as the gold returned, then he went shifted, falling back onto his ankles as he went slack. (Y/N) slowly sat up, reaching up to rub her neck. Feeling a wet warmth, she pulled her fingers away to see a bit of blood coating the tips of her fingers; a choked noise caught her attention, and she looked up, seeing Adrian staring at her with a horrified expression as he apologized.

           “I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-” She shook her head, bringing up the end of her coat to press against her wound.

           “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a scratch.” He shook his head, dropping his gaze to his fingers.

           “I thought I was dreaming.” (Y/N) nodded.

           “Yes, that’s usually what happens when you’re having a nightmare.” She looked back up at him and offered a smile. “Hey,” Adrian met her eyes and she assured, “I’m alright Adrian. It was just an accident.” His eyebrows furrowed, and he didn’t speak, so she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

           “No…no I don’t.” (Y/N) nodded and rose from the bed, holding out her hand.

“I don’t think you’re going back to sleep any time soon. Come with me.” Adrian’s eyes flitted to her hand, but he didn’t take it, too afraid to hurt her again, and she smiled. “It’s okay Adrian. Take my hand.” Finally, he laid his palm in her hand and she curled her fingers around his large hand, squeezing carefully. He allowed her to lead him down the stairs to the bathroom where she gestured for him to sit on the stool. He did so and she walked behind him, gently combing the knots from his hair with her fingers. When it was smooth, she braided the golden tresses, resting it between his shoulder blades as she moved, wringing a rag from the sink. (Y/N) pressed it against his forehead, dabbing at the cold sweat he’d run during his nightmare. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved it to his cheeks and neck, and he muttered,

           “I’m too old to have bad dreams.” She glanced at him, offering a sad smile as she countered,

           “Whether we’re human or vampire or some other breed, it’s been observed that different species have dreams. It happens to us all, Adrian.” (Y/N) placed the rag on the counter and looked at him. “Since I’m too awake to go back to sleep, would you like to help me in the observatory?” Adrian nodded his head and she smiled, tipping her head. “Well let’s go then.”

           Their steps were quiet as they entered the observatory, and they sat side by side at the table. (Y/N) handed him a piece of parchment before looking at the alembic saying, “Do me a favor and read me the list of ingredients, please.” He took the paper from her, champagne eyes darting across the page, then he asked,

           “Did you have a spasm as you were writing this?” Her head twisted as she glanced at him.

           “Excuse me?” Adrian showed her the paper.

           “I have no idea what this says.” Offended, (Y/N) snatched the paper from him, griping,

           “Give me that. I’ll tell you what it says.” She scanned the page then fell silent, and that was all it took for the vampire to smirk and quip,

           “Can’t even read your own handwriting, can you, Miss Alchemist?” She scrunched her nose and mumbled,

           “My handwriting isn’t that bad.” Adrian snorted, retorting,

           “Oh yes, it is. I’ve never seen handwriting that deplorable.” (Y/N) felt her eye twitch and she slammed the parchment down, sliding over the ink and quill.

           “Alright wise-ass. Show me your handwriting.” He offered her a full-toothed grin, taking the quill in his right hand. She watched as he dipped it in the ink before writing a few words across the sheet, then slid it back over. (Y/N) drew her eyes over his words, reading, “‘Compare my writing to yours.’” She gave him an unimpressed look and pouted, “Oh piss off.” He chuckled as she motioned to them. “It’s not fair that your handwriting is so elegant!” She threw her hands in the air complaining, “Everything I’ve seen you do in the past three weeks is elegant! It’s like I’m a peasant sitting next to a prince! I have been offended!” Adrian continued to chuckle at her protests, and the sight of the usually stoic vampire covering his mouth as he laughed made her laugh too. When they finally calmed, she admitted, “My handwriting really is shit, isn’t it?” He nodded and she sighed, flipping the sheet over. “Alright then. Looks like I’m gonna have to redo the recipe.” (Y/N) opened a book next to her, quietly glancing between as she rewrote the words; Adrian watched her for a moment then inquired,

           “…Do you remember when we first met?” The quill halted for a moment then it moved, and she answered,

           “How could I forget? You scared the ever-living shit out of me.” He snorted, shaking his head as he propped his chin on his arm.

           “No, I mean when you told me about how you understood Dracula’s hate for humanity for murdering Lisa.” (Y/N) nodded, requesting,

           “What about it?”

           “You said your uncle sent you away from Târgoviște after Dracula appeared…he was killed during the initial attack, wasn’t he?” Finally, she stopped writing, but refused to look at him as she confirmed,

           “…He was…as was our home.” Adrian observed her, probing,

           “Do you hate Dracula for it?” (Y/N) swallowed thickly, murmuring,

           “I don’t think that’s a very fair question…it’s hard to not hate something that killed something you loved.” She kept her gaze to the table. “I don’t think what he did in return was right…but again, I understand why he did it.”

           “But do you hate him?” She looked over at him, challenging,

           “For what he did? Or for what he was?” Evidently, he hadn’t been expecting such questions in return because he went silent for a few seconds, then said,

           “Both.” (Y/N) inhaled deeply then let out a sigh,

           “For being a vampire? No. We can’t choose what we’re born or turned as.” She paused. “But for what he’s done?” Adrian held his breath, waiting, then she shook her head. “No…I don’t.”

           “Why?” She gazed at the stunned vampire beside her and replied,

“There’s enough hate and grief in this world already Adrian…it doesn’t need me adding to it.”

           “Even at the cost of your family?” (Y/N) nodded.

           “I’ve asked myself these exact questions, hundreds of times. I loved my uncle. More than the world. But he made the choice to stay in Târgoviște while I went away. It took me awhile to understand, but him staying until Dracula’s night horde appeared was his way of atoning for not stepping in to stop the church that day.” She eyed him. “Can I ask you the same question Adrian? Do you hate Dracula?” His eyes went wide as he clenched his fists, whispering,

           “I knew them…Dracula and Lisa…I knew them very well…” (Y/N) frowned, placing her hand over his clenched fist, comforting,

           “You don’t have to speak on it if you’re not ready.” Adrian shook his head.

           “No…it needs to be answered.” He took a deep breath, revealing, “I grieved when word of Lisa’s death reached us…he turned to genocide…I didn’t.” Golden eyes dropped to the hands they had laid on one another and he added, “I hated him for murdering thousands of innocent people just like her…but at the same time…I…I-” He jerked slightly as he felt (Y/N)’s fingers run under his eye and he gaped at her as she hushed,

           “You don’t have to rush yourself Adrian.” He blinked and tears blurred his vision. She gently brushed another tear away, “You hated what he did, but at the same time, you were close to him, and you couldn’t hate him because you loved him. Just as you loved Lisa.” Her words rang truth somewhere inside him and he brought a hand to his face, covering his eyes as he cried. (Y/N) listened as sobs wracked his chest, and she leaned over, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She rested her cheek against the side of his head as he wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face into her shoulder. Her heart felt like it was breaking with each shuddering breath he took, and all she could wonder was how long it had been since someone had listened to the poor man’s burdens.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Terrors

Hey, you know what I’m not going to do for @drawlight‘s advent challenge? I’m definitely not going to write a 3,000 word fic about PTSD and night terrors!

05 - Fire (2,992 words)

The first few days after the world didn’t end, Crowley was almost a new being.

The first few days, he was relaxed, casual, unselfconscious.

The first few days – nearly a week! – Crowley took his glasses off whenever they were alone. He met Aziraphale’s eyes, he laughed, he smiled, and oh, that smile. It was the real one, the one Aziraphale had seen too rarely since Eden. Wide, toothy, a little nervous, genuine.

The first few days after the world didn’t end, Crowley seemed happy.

It was hard to notice, after that, when things changed. After all, if Crowley acted a bit more as he had for six thousand years, well, that didn’t ring any alarm bells. They were still trying to decide what level of openness they were comfortable with. Bound to be some false starts.

At the end of September – over a month after the world didn’t end – Aziraphale realized Crowley was back to wearing his glasses all the time.

By the end of October, he couldn’t remember when he’d last heard Crowley laugh, even the sarcastic chuckle the demon had been fond of.

By mid-November, the smile was gone.

By the start of December, Crowley was as tense as ever, perhaps more so, even as he sprawled across the bookshop sofa as if he’d never even heard of bones.

“Crowley, my dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale finally asked, looking up from the book he’d been reading.

“Nh,” Crowley helpfully responded, running his finger along the screen of his phone. “’M fine, really. Just gotta finish this level. Flash games’re one of my best inventions.” He gave a tight-lipped smile that wouldn’t have passed muster even in those August days when they’d been sure everything was about to fall apart.

“Is this one of your real inventions, or one of the ones you took credit for because you knew it would confuse Hell?”

“Don’t actually remember.” His finger zigzagged. “No the green one, the green – arg.” He tossed the phone aside. “That was my last life.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Eh. I’ll have more in about an hour.” He flopped back again, arms and legs finding a new, even more unlikely sprawl. It was almost convincing, except for the way his right foot tapped, hard enough to shake his whole leg. Except for the way his head jerked here and there, searching, searching…for what?

Aziraphale closed his book and placed it on the arm of his chair. “I suppose that means you have some time to talk.”

“Talk? Sure. I’ll talk.” Crowley suddenly sat upright. There didn’t seem to be any intermediate stage; one moment, a heap of limbs and black fabric, the next a narrow demon sitting on the edge of his seat. Aziraphale didn’t miss the way he shook his head, or the way his leg continued to bounce. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, I would very much like to talk about whatever has you so on edge. Although I know you’ll tell me to stop worrying.”

“Really, Angel, ’s nothing.”

Aziraphale watched for another moment, then stood up, coming over to sit next to Crowley. “It clearly isn’t ‘nothing,’ because – ” he sighed as Crowley jumped to his feet and stalked across the room.

“Really, I’m fine. I just need, I don’t know, coffee. Tea. Something.”

That sounded like the last thing he needed. “I can get you some chamomile…”

“No! No, I…” Folded his arms. Unfolded them. Paced a little more. “I can’t sleep.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, with as much sympathy as someone who hadn’t slept since before the invention of the horse collar could muster. “Well, I understand chamomile helps.”

“No I mean…I can’t sleep. Don’t want to. Need to stay awake.”

“Alright. I still don’t see the problem.”

“’S like…” Crowley sat down on the sofa again, hands folded in his lap, thumbs bouncing off each other. “If you suddenly decided to stop eating. Have you tried? To go without?”

“Of course. Why, just a little over a decade ago, I went an entire week without eating. I was very proud of my restraint.”

“This wouldn’t be the same week you discovered Harry Potter and didn’t move from your chair until you’d read it all, would it?” The ghost of a real smile hovered on his face.

“It doesn’t matter what my inspiration was!”

“No, but. It was only a week. Try a month. Try three months. It’s…I’ve trained my mind to want sleep. It’s not easy to quit.”

“Why quit, then? Or, perhaps ease yourself off it, instead of all at once?”

Crowley shook his head. The leg was bouncing again. “I. I don’t want to dream anymore. And I can’t figure out how to stop it. So I can’t sleep at all.”

Aziraphale had never dreamed, not that he could remember, though he’d only ever slept a handful of times. However, he’d once read a book on dreaming. Several books, actually, but the ones involving Freudian theory were unlikely to be useful in this situation.

“I believe it helps to relax first. Perhaps the amount of stress you’re feeling is causing you to dream?”

“’M not…what makes you think I’m stressed?”

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows. Crowley scoffed and looked down at his hands. “Fine. I’m stressed because I don’t want to dream, my stress causes dreams, dreams cause stress – how do I make it all stop?” He was all but pleading.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale placed one of the worn pillows that decorated the sofa onto his lap.

“You.” He sat so still, but Aziraphale was sure his eyes were darting between the pillow, the angel’s face, back and forth. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I don’t have anywhere else to be. Come now, no reason to be shy.”

Slowly, so slowly, Crowley lay his head on the pillow, face turned away from Aziraphale.

“Are you going to take those glasses off?”

“Nh.”

“I can’t imagine they’re comfortable.”

“Fine. Just. Don’t look.” Those words hurt more than he could say – since when had Crowley hidden his eyes from Aziraphale? But he waited as they were removed, folded, put away.

Crowley didn’t settle easily. His shoulders were still tense where they pressed into Aziraphale’s thigh, and he could see the stiffness in the Crowley’s back.

Not sure what to do – but wanting to do something – Aziraphale brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

The reaction was instantaneous.

“NGK!” Crowley’s hand shot up, knocking Aziraphale’s fingers aside, covering his head as if he had a wound. He started to twist and look back, but apparently remembered he was hiding his eyes and turned stubbornly away again. “What…what are you doing?”

“I…I just thought…” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and carefully placed his hand on the back of the sofa, where it was in no danger of touching Crowley. “Rhythmic tactile sensations are very relaxing. I thought it might help.” When Crowley didn’t move, he added, “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

The demon’s hand lifted, slowly, slowly, and settled on the couch in front of him. “I guess it’s alright. Just to try.”

Aziraphale lowered his fingers and gently ran them through the bright red fire of Crowley’s hair. It was stiff with whatever gel he used, but the strands fell apart under a bit of pressure. Under the shell of product, it was soft. Warm. He ran his fingers through again, again, mesmerized by the feel of it.

And slowly, the shoulders relaxed, the back softened, the breath slowed. After perhaps twenty minutes, Crowley was asleep.

For the first hour, Aziraphale congratulated himself on so easily finding a solution. He wished he’d remembered to bring his book over, but he enjoyed the chance to study Crowley’s face, now untroubled in sleep, and to explore the thick red hair that was spilling across his lap. He even chuckled a little, thinking how Crowley would react when he woke up, finally rested and relaxed but his hair a disaster.

It was during the second hour that things started going wrong.

The tension came back into Crowley’s shoulders, one twitch at a time. His fingers jerked and spasmed against the sofa cushion, weakly grasping. Crowley said something, mumbled, under his breath, but it sounded pained. Scared. Panicked.

With growing alarm, Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Should he try waking him? He wasn’t certain, but this didn’t seem right. Perhaps the demon had slept long enough. “Crowley? Are you alright?” No reaction, except that the mumbling got more frantic. “Crowley, I rather think – ”

Without warning, Crowley rolled onto his back, kicking, thrashing with his arms. “Aziraphale!” he shouted, louder than the angel would have expected. “Where the Heaven are you? Aziraphale!”

“I’m right here!” He shook Crowley’s shoulders more urgently, but the now the demon seemed to be fighting, arms going in every direction as he shouted again and again, with more urgency.

“Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE!”

“Crowley! I’m here! CROWLEY!”

Shouting didn’t make any difference. For ten minutes, the demon thrashed and called and sobbed, then just as abruptly fell silent again. Soon after that, he was sound asleep, as if nothing had ever happened.

The angel, meanwhile, was completely shaken. He’d never heard fear like that in Crowley’s voice, not in six thousand years. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing to help. His fumbling fingers found their way back into Crowley’s hair, but it seemed too little a thing now.

The second round came an hour later.

Aziraphale thought he was prepared this time. He made soothing noises as the tension started to form in Crowley’s back, then switched to a gentle mantra of I’m here, I’m here.

It was no use – the thrashing, the shouting came back, even more intense than before. And something else.

Aziraphale had once heard that demons could project their dreams on the world around them, but Crowley had scoffed the idea, grumbling that he’d never seen anything when he’d woken up. The reason, Aziraphale was about to discover, was that it took a strong dream, and the images lasted only as long as the dream did.

As Crowley thrashed in his lap, sobbing his name, he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone the first flames began to appear around the couch.

Aziraphale slapped at them, alarmed, but it was only light – the illusion of fire, without heat.

But they spread.

Across the floor, up the shelves, until the entire room was filled with dancing red flames, flickering, flaring, and Crowley screamed with such despair AZIRAPHALE!

But when, fifteen minutes later, Crowley settled down again – the flames dimmed and vanished, leaving nothing but a memory, and a tremor that Aziraphale couldn’t quash.

An hour later came the worst yet.

There was no warning this time. One moment Crowley was lying peacefully, the next, flames were shooting across the ceiling. A beam crashed down, a window exploded from the heat and pressure.

It seemed impossibly real; Aziraphale could no longer see the peaceful stillness of the shop behind the illusion, just the unrelenting horror of Crowley’s night terror. He was choking on smoke, he could feel the heat of the flames, worried they might actually ignite his books, and still, still Crowley thrashed in his lap, calling, calling and then –

He sat upright, eyes wide, pure gold without a hint of white, full of fear and pain beyond anything the angel had ever witnessed as he screamed –

“SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!”

“Crowley!” He grabbed the demon’s face in both his hands, turning it towards him. “Crowley, dear, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

But those serpent eyes didn’t see anything. “Bastards! All of you!” The thrashing hands grabbed at Aziraphale’s coat, his shirt, his hair. They didn’t hurt – there wasn’t much strength behind them – but they were unrelenting.

“Crowley, please!”

And then a wordless, broken scream that just went on and on as the shop burned around them.

After twenty minutes, Crowley collapsed back across the angel’s legs. Once again, the fire was gone as if it never existed, but Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears running down his face, the sobs wrenching his own shoulders.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Every time the demon moved, Aziraphale held his breath, terrified for what would come next.

When it started again – faster breathing, tossing and turning – Aziraphale couldn’t do anything but cry, hand pressed to his mouth. He didn’t have any comfort left to offer.

But this time, Crowley’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, hands clutching at the sofa…then he sighed. “Guess that didn’t work after all,” he muttered.

Aziraphale didn’t dare to move. Those golden eyes wandered over to his face. “Angel? What’s wrong?”

“Crowley?” he asked weakly.

The demon sat up, reached a hand over to brush Aziraphale’s tear-stained face. “What happened?”

“You woke up,” he whispered wonderingly. And before he could even think about it, Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley pulling him close, sobbing into his shoulder. “I thought you weren’t going to – I didn’t know what to do…”

“I can’t have been asleep that long,” Crowley protested. “I just…I had a nightmare,” he confessed, as if it were an embarrassing secret.

Aziraphale just wept harder. “I thought I could help! I’m so – I’m so sorry, Crowley! I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry!”

“Hey.” Hesitantly, awkwardly, he twined his own arms across Aziraphale’s back. “I woke up, didn’t I? Nothing for you to do.”

“But the other three times!”

“What?” Crowley pushed them apart to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, his own still solidly gold, wide with fear. “What other three times?”

--

They didn’t see each other for four days.

Crowley needed time to absorb what Aziraphale told him, about the illusory fire, the things he had shouted. Things he’d tried to hide, after the Apocalypse. After all, the shop hadn’t really burned, Aziraphale hadn’t really been hurt, so what was there to tell?

Nothing at all, except for the images that still haunted his dreams, and the fact that his eyes wouldn’t change back to their more human shape, the fact that he still smelled fire in the shop some days.

Aziraphale needed time to process, too. And he did that best while reading.

He’d once read a book on dreaming. Now he read as many as he could find.

On the fourth evening, he showed up at Crowley’s flat, unannounced, with several boxes of supplies and a plan.

--

The nightlight was a cool green, not too bright, making the bedroom appear to be underwater. The illusion was slightly spoiled by the little stars stuck to the ceiling in complex constellations – just regular glow-in-the-dark stickers, but Aziraphale had miracle them a little brighter.

The record player in the corner played some of Crowley’s favorite Nocturnes, the ones he’d been certain Aziraphale didn’t know about. Soft and soothing music filled the room.

The bed had already been comfortable, but now with fresh pillows, an extra thick mattress cushion, Crowley felt as if he was sinking into it, surrounded. Even though the room was a perfectly comfortable temperature, Aziraphale added a thick duvet with a tartan cover. It was heavy, and it smelled like the angel. It felt…secure, somehow. Safe.

But that wasn’t all.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, dressed in tartan pajamas, hands nervously resting on the edge of the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s really not –”

“I’m certain.” Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale slid into bed beside Crowley, fussing with the duvet, trying to tuck them both in under it. “And I don’t want to hear another word against it.”

“It’s really nothing, Angel, I don’t need to sleep. All this is just –”

“All of this is to remind you that you are safe. There’s no fire. No demons. No…whatever other terrors are lurking in your mind. I am here, you are safe, and we will get through this together.”

Crowley sighed, turning onto his side to face Aziraphale. “I know I’m not in any danger.”

“Knowing you aren’t in danger isn’t the same thing as feeling safe.”

For the first time in over a month, Crowley felt a real laugh rise inside him. “You read a few books and you think you’re an expert.”

“I’m as good as you’re going to get.” Warm arms, thick, strong, soft, wrapped around Crowley and drew him close, pressed him to the angel’s heart.

“What if the dreams come back again?”

“They almost certainly will. But we’ll find ways to fight them. I already have some ideas.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley muttered, one final protest, one final doubt. One final shame. “I’m the one who’s broken. After everything we went through, you shouldn’t have to fix me.”

“Oh, no. My dear Crowley.” The faintest pressure of lips against the top of his head. “I didn’t fight all of Heaven and Hell to create a world where you are scared all the time. It is my duty – no, my pleasure to help you, my dearest friend.”

Crowley was too choked up to say anything, so instead he twined his arms around Aziraphale, let himself relax against Aziraphale, breathed deeply the scent of Aziraphale until it filled his whole mind.

“Now,” came that precise, officious, lovely voice, “we need to make sure you’re thinking of something completely unrelated to the fire.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Crowley asked in his most suggestive voice.

“Shush, you.” Aziraphale shifted, sliding his cheek across Crowley’s, bringing his mouth to Crowley’s ear, and spoke softly, soothingly. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

“Actually, I prefer Persuasion.”

“Interrupt me again, and it’ll be Northanger Abbey.”

“Ngk.”

But he smiled into the angel’s shoulder as he began again: “Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book…”

[rangoatemybabynsfw]

Lance gets really bad nightmares after his 'death' and the first time he and Keith spend the night together he gets one. Keith wakes him as he spasm and he's covered in sweat and crying. And Keith lulls him back to sleep with comforting whispers, gentle touches, and soft kisses

You sure know how to feed me with that hurt/comfort fluff anon! How about some pre-relationship bed sharing? 

Trigger warning: minor panic attack? [Also, long read]

Keith always thought Lance and Hunk were a thing. He sometimes catches Lance sneaking into Hunk’s room in the middle of the night with a pillow and blanket in hand. Then later he’d catch him leaving the room but not before Hunk gives him a big embracing hug.

But outside of that they never seem to be nearly as intimate. They don’t act like they’re dating when walking around the castle. They don’t sit next to each other at dinner. They don’t even do cute little PDA things like hold hands or kiss in the halls. It’s odd and Keith doesn’t figure out why until later.

Hunk approaches Keith before a solo mission. He’s gonna be gone for a few days and would Keith do him a favor?

“A favor?”

“Can you watch after Lance?”

“You want me to look after your boyfriend?” Keith raises a brow.

“What? Lance isn’t my–no. We’re not together,” Hunk explains. “I’m not his type,” he adds with a joke.

“But he’s always going to your room and spending the night there,” Keith points out. “I figured–”

“That’s not what you think–but it is actually part of the reason I’m asking,” Hunk sighs and slowly explains.

Lance has been having a hard time sleeping ever since the thing at Omega Shield. At first, he’d just wake up in the middle of the night in a panic but he could get back to sleep if he kept the lights on. But then after a few more nightmares, he’s been having trouble falling asleep at all if he’s alone in his room. He hasn’t slept in there in weeks. He asked Hunk if he could sleep in his room just so he doesn’t feel alone. It’s helped him a lot even though sometimes he still wakes up afraid.

Keith had no idea. Lance always looks fine when they talk. Happy even. But now that he’s thinking about it, every time he went into Hunk’s room he had this somber look on his face. He chalked it up to being lonely, not afraid.

“What do I have to do?” Keith asks.

“Just let him sleep in your room while you’re there,” Hunk tells him. “He usually just sleeps next to me but you can just set up a pallet on the floor and it’ll be enough. Think you can do that for me?”

“Sure,” Keith nods. “No problem.”

“Great, I’ll let him know,” Hunk smiles. “I told him you’d be cool about it.”

“He was against you telling me?” Keith frowns.

“He was against anyone knowing but…I insisted he stay with someone while I was gone,” Hunk tells him. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because despite all your arguments, you like Lance. He’s your friend too. You care about him,” Hunk says patting his shoulder. “And despite all his denials and complaints, he likes you too. I think if he wasn’t worried about looking like a coward in front of you, he’d have come to you before he came to me.”

That night Hunk leaves and Keith waits in his room with the light on. Waits for Lance to show up. He arrives later rather than sooner, just as Keith is starting to nod off in front of his data screen.

He’s carrying a pillow and a thick blanket, that somber look on his face. His eyes stay averted from Keith like he’s embarrassed to be calling on him for this. He shifts at the doorway and clears his throat.

“You’re still awake?” he asks.

“Reports to go through,” Keith tells him.

“Right,” Lance nods half-heartedly. “So uh…the floor or what?”

“You can use the bed,” Keith tells him. “I’ll be up a while longer. Hope you don’t mind the light being on.”

“No. That’s fine,” Lance tries to smile as he steps into the room.

He falls into Keith’s bed after tossing his pillow onto it. He scoots as close to the wall as he can and curls up in his blanket without another word. Through the next two hours, Lance barely moves. Keith finishes reviewing reports and stands from his chair with a stretch. Time for bed.

Keith slips into the bed, carefully so as not to disturb its sleeping occupant. If what Hunk says is true, then Lance needs all the sleep he can get. It feels strange to have someone in his bed but not unpleasant. It’s warmer. And he can hear Lance’s soft breathing from under the blanket and see the rise and fall of his body.

He dims the lights slowly, gauging if Lance will react at all to them. He doesn’t which is good because Keith’s not sure he can sleep with the lights on. Once they’re off, he shifts in a little closer and lays his head down to rest.

How much time passed he doesn’t know but he wakes to someone shifting in the bed. He remembers who when he hears a scared whimper as the body tosses. Keith sits up a little and reaches out to place a hand on Lance’s back, to reassure, but before he can Lance thrashes awake with a panicked noise. Like he’s choking on words and fear and air.

“D-Dark…it’s…it’s too dark!” Lance whispers, his voice cracking. “Wh-WHere…? I can’t–b-breathe!” he gasps.

Keith flips the lights on to find Lance pressed with his back against the wall and holding his chest right where his heart is. He’s sweating and cheeks streaked with tears.

“It’s okay, Lance, you’re okay,” Keith tries to tell him.

“I can’t–I c-can’t–” Lance tries to speak but chokes on air, his eyes wide and pupils the size of pinpricks.

“Don’t try to talk, just breathe,” Keith says, scooting next to him and putting an arm around him. “Take my hand and squeeze. That’s it. It’s okay. I got you.”

Lance’s grip on his hand as he tries to breathe is tight as a vice. His tanned knuckles turning white as he holds. Keith keeps telling him that it’s okay. That he’s safe. That Lance is out of danger now. He’s okay.

Once he can breathe, Lance yanks his hand out of Keith’s and plasters them both to his face in shame. He’s so embarrassed. He won’t stop apologizing, for what Keith can’t guess. A few teardrops squeeze their way out past his hands as he hiccups and whimpers.

Keith feels sympathy overwhelming and wraps his arms around Lance in a strong embrace. His hand pets through his hair in some attempt to calm the crying boy in his hold. Seems to help because Lance leans into his embrace but then he starts sobbing into Keith’s chest. Between the cries, Keith catches a few words like ‘so scared’ and ‘alone’ and ‘so dark’ and a couple more sorries for good measure.

He wishes there was something more he could do to calm Lance but he can’t think of anything appropriate. More than anything he wants to kiss Lance but that feels wrong. Like he’d be taking advantage of Lance’s vulnerability. So instead he keeps holding him, rubbing his back, promising that he’ll be alright because he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.

Lance cries himself into passing out in Keith’s arms which means Keith’s left with the task of finagling them back into a sleeping position without waking Lance back up. He manages to get them both under Lance’s blanket with Lance still clutching tight to his shirt.

He dims the lights but not enough to darken the room too much. He’ll just have to learn how to sleep with the lights on because he’s for damn sure not letting Lance sleep alone ever again. He wants to be there when Lance needs him. Wants Lance to feel safe and cared about. Have someone at the ready to hold him and tell him he’s not being unreasonable with his fears.

Keith shifts until he’s comfortable and wraps his arms around Lance, his head tilted and nose brushing the top of Lance’s head. He doesn’t fall asleep for a while. At one point Lance makes a whimpering noise and clutches Keith’s shirt. Like he’s about to have another bout of panic. Keith just hushes him and holds him close, stroking his hair and reassuring him.

Lance relaxes then asks a question. Can he…can he hug Keith? Is that okay?

“Yeah, go ahead, Lance,” Keith tells him. “Whatever you need…”

“Thanks, Keith,” he sniffs and hugs tight.

Even after Hunk comes back, Keith extends the offer to Lance to stay in his room. Anytime.

And Lance takes him up on it. He sleeps there often, finding that he has less nightmares while there. Anytime he wakes in panicked breaths, clutching his chest in fear, Keith’s there. He never steps over the boundaries of being Lance’s comforter and teammate. His friend.

And then one night…Lance doesn’t have a nightmare.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wake because he does. He wakes to find a sleeping Keith stroking his hair. He admires that slumbering face and thinks on all the kind efforts Keith’s made on Lance’s behalf.

He’s no idiot. He’s noticed the way Keith holds back when they’re together. Wants to be a good friend without taking advantage of Lance. A beautiful man inside and out, he thinks and caresses Keith’s cheek with a fond look. But he must shift too much because Keith bolts awake with a worried look.

“What’s wrong, Lance? You okay?” Keith asks with a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Can you breathe alright? What do you need?”

“I’m fine,” Lance says with a smile. “Not a nightmare in sight.”

Keith lets out a relieved breath and falls back into his pillow.

“Good,” Keith sighs and pats his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Lance.”

“Sure,” he says. “Hey, Keith?”

“Hmm?” he hums, eyes closed and ready to go back to sleep.

Keith feels a hand cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. When his eyes open, he finds Lance looking down on him with a sweet smile. Lance moves slow enough that Keith can object at any time, leaning slowly in with lidded eyes focused on Keith’s lips that he captures.

Lance isn’t crying, or scared, or panicking. He’s not afraid, heaving clipped breaths from lungs that seem to want to give out. Lance is clutching to Keith, not because he needs comfort but because he wants something different. Only then does Keith kiss back with all the passion he’s been holding back.

[endless-whump]

Morgana’s Message Pt. 2

Part 2 to my prompt about Morgana capturing and torturing Merlin.  Lots of comfort and fluff in this one, as well as angst

Part 1 can be found here

(TW: flashbacks, ptsd, feverish, general angst, description of burns and stab wounds,)

“We need to get him back to Arthur” 

Urgent voices swam around Merlin as his spasms calmed into limpness.  

“Oh my God, get something to stop the bleeding”

“Merlin, stay with us.  Can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes slightly, his lids hooded and eyes glazed over.  As he felt pressure on his stomach he let out a guttural whine before his eyes rolled back, the shouting of those around him fading once more. 

 He felt arms underneath him, and a comforting person holding him close.  The cold wind bit at him, even through the wool blanket he could vaguely feel wrapped around him.  

Arthur

Merlin shuddered in the cold, his breath faltering with each step.  The movement jostled his wounds, sending more convulsions through his body.  The coppery taste of blood coated his lips and the inside of his mouth as he coughed, almost unable to breath with his filling lungs.  

“Leave me,”  A cough sent him shaking again as he fought to stay conscious.

“Your funny, Merlin, as well as a complete fool.”

“Ple- agh!”

Merlin clutched his stomach, gagging with a sob.  

“Merlin? Merlin can you he-”

Blood spilled from his mouth, and a sharp curse could be heard under his rescuers breath.

“He’s choking! Hurry it up!”

Stars entered his vision again, swirling and making patterns in the sky.  Another spasm racked his body, his mind finally slipping entirely from the world.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morgana’s looming smile hovered over Merlin yet again, her cold fingers tracing along his injuries and scars.  

“Please stop Morgana, please.”

“Oh Emrys, you know I can't do that.”

Merlin thrashed, his sobs turning to screams.  

“Stop, stop, Morgana, make it stop, please make it stop!”

His eyes opened abruptly, pain raking through his body as he shook with his cries.  Arthur sat next to him, Gwain next to him.  An alarmed look was spread over his face as he clutched Merlin’s shaking hand.  Without thinking, Merlin ripped away from him in fear, seeing only Morgana and her leering smile.

“Agh!” 

Merlin fell to the floor, his head slamming onto the cold stone beneath him.

“Merlin!”

He felt arms under him, lifting him as they ignored his weak struggles against them.  His eyes wide in fear, Merlin thrashed as the floor spun underneath him.

“He’s going to hurt himself. Gaius, can't you do something?!”

He felt a vial at his lips, and cold liquid went down his throat.  Quickly, he felt its affect as his limbs became heavy and limp; and his muscles relaxed against his will.  He looked up at Arthur, his face no longer Morgana’s.

“Ar-Arthur?”

He whispered as a cool cloth was put to his forehead.

“Sleep, Merlin.  Your safe now, you hear me?  You're safe now.”

He struggled to keep his eyes open, but eventually succumbed to Gaius’s potion, drifting into a deep, deep sleep.

When he eventually awoke, he looked around, realizing he was in Gaius’s chambers.  He was alone.  His head throbbed painfully, and when he tried to lift his hand to his head, he found his wrists bound to the table.  Panic seeped into his mind, his breath quickened.  Tugging at the restraints, he whimpered.

“Gaius! Gaius where are you.  Arthur?”

Tears started to stream down his face.  They left him alone.  He was alone again, tied down and helpless.  They abandoned him.  Tremors started to rack his body again, and he heard the wooden door creak open.

“Merin?  Gaius, he's awake!”

Arthur rushed to Merlins side, looking down on him concerned.

“Sh, Merlin, it's alright, I'm here.  You hurt yourself, so we had to restrain you.  I can't undo these until you calm down.”

Merlin locked eyes with him, trying to slow his breathing.  His hands twitched and shook uncontrollably, and Arthur clutched them, steadying Merlin.

“Your alright Merlin, you're alright.  Can you understand me?”

Merlin nodded his head weakly.  Arthur gently unhooked the straps on his wrists, being careful not to press on the bandaging.

“Who did this to you, Merlin?”

Merlin broke eye contact, avoiding Arthur’s strong gaze.  He didn't want to say her name.

“Was it Morgana?”

He flinched at the mention of her name, feeling her cold touch with a shiver.  Looking back at him, he nodded softly.  

“Shit, Merlin.  I swear she’ll pay for this”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes darting around the room.

“Your injuries were very severe, Merlin.  Gaius was barely able to save you.  He had to use, um, all of his medicinal capabilities.  Trust me when I say no punishment will come to him; I instructed him to do so.”

He replaced the cloth on Merlins forehead, setting his hand to his shoulder.

“I almost thought I lost you, Merlin.  Don't scare me like that again.”

He smiled weakly, standing up.  

“I’ll fetch Gaius, you get some rest.”

Merlin sighed, the shaking having finally stopped.  The throbbing in his head had receded, although he could still feel the sharp pains in his torso and leg. Staring up at the ceiling, he almost didn't notice when Gaius entered the room.

“How do you feel, Merlin?’

He shifted his head to look at him.

“If I'm being honest, not great,”

“Well, that's no less than I expected.  Morgana’s blade pierced your lung, Merlin.  I almost couldn't fix the damage.”

He sad down beside him, lifting a hand to his face.  Merlin panicked, hastily slapping him away.

“Don't touch me,”  He said with a whimper.  Gaius’s hands were warm, but he couldn't help but feel the cold touch of Morgana, cupping his face triumphantly.

“Whatever is the matter, Merlin?”

Gaius’s face was worried, looking down at Merlin gently.

“J-just don't touch me, please.”  Another shiver ran through his body.

Gaius shifted to his workbench, grabbing a potion.

“This will help you relax, and maybe ease some more of your pain.”

Merlin cautiously took it from Gaius, sipping at it until the vial was empty.  The cushions sunk deeply as he sat back into them, sighing.  Gaius silently got up and left, closing the door softly.  Merlin took a deep breath, propping himself up and swinging his legs over the bed despite the sharp stabbing pain. Sniffing, he rubbed his eyes and gingerly lifted his shirt, cringing at the stained bandages wrapped around his torso.  He touched it, inhaling sharply at the soreness.  Bruises colored his ribs and chest, stretching up around his shoulder.  

Probably from the beating I got while being dragged to Morgana’s hut

He thought;  He looked up to see Arthur enter the room.

“I saw Gaius leave; I wanted to see if you wanted company,”

Merlin forced a smile, nodding.  Arthur pulled up a stool, sitting in front of Merlin.

“Here, let me replace those.”

“Wha-”

Before he could protest, Arthur started peeling away the bandages around his stomach, revealing the ghastly scarring around his stab wounds.  Merlin sat speechless, staring at his king as he changed out his bandaging for fresh ones, a look of worry and determination on his face.  As he peeled back the last gauze, the fresh brand on his side came into sight, and Arthur faltered, staring at it.

“Merlin, what did she do to you?”

Merlin hastily grabbed the fresh gauze from Arthurs hand, wrapping it around his torso hurriedly.

“I,,its nothing, sire. I-”

“Nonsense, Merlin.  Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Merlin let Arthur pull the bandage back to see the scar; a rune burnt into the side of his torso, at the ribcage.  It was crude work, scarred skin surrounding the mark itself by an untrained hand.  Silently, Arthur carefully replaced the bandaging, slowing down and glancing up whenever Merlin flinched, waiting for him to nod to continue.  After they were done, Merlin dropped his shirt back down, sighing heavily from the effort.  

“Well, you'll be in good shape in no time, isn't that right Merlin,”

Arthur said lightheartedly, lightly ruffling his hair.  Merlin froze, his expression falling.  Arthurs face turned to concern, and he lifted a hand.

“Merlin, what's wron-”

Merlin pulled back from the touch, his breath hitching.

“Whoah Merlin, calm down.”

Panick setting over him, Merlin abruptly tried to stand up, crying out as he collapsed from his bad leg.  Arthur caught the boy as he broke into a shaking, sobbing mess in his arms.  Now sitting on the floor, Arthur held Merlin carefully, unsure of what to do.

“Your safe Merlin, you're safe.  I promise.”

It took a minute, but eventually Merlins breath evened out, and the shaking calmed a little.

“Your gonna be ok Merlin; you just need some time to recover, ok?”

Merlin looked up at him, nodding with a sniff.

“Alright then.  Lets get you back into bed, and I’lll fetch some food.”

He scooped Merlin up into his arms, smiling when he realized the boy was now sound asleep, his head laying against his chest.  Setting him down onto the bed, he drew up the covers around Merlin, taking note of his twitching and shivering.  Frowning, his temper flared at the thought of all Morgana had put him through.

“I will come after you, sister.  And you will forever regret trying to make an example of my friend.”  

He muttered to himself, sitting back down and clutching Merlins hand with both of his. 

Hope you enjoyed part 2!  I thought I might end it here, but if you enjoyed it so far let me know ideas for a part three!

[goatsandgangsters]

Reel Against Your Body’s Borders (Clark/Shauna)

[ao3] contains: shameless smut and vampire mindfucking, double entendre 100% intended

He’s awakened by her next to him, fingers dancing across his chest. He blinks in the light—warm, golden, glowing from twin lamps on each end table. That can’t be right. He never leaves the lights on; it’s wasteful. But then, a lot of things haven’t been right lately.

“Alone tonight?”

Like that, for example. Shauna can try to hide behind an innocuous question all she wants; there’s nothing innocuous about what she says to him.

He rubs a hand across his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “Apparently not,” he retorts, throat dry and heavy.

She smiles at that, cocks her head and spills strands of hair against his cheek. He tries to hoist himself onto his elbows but she presses him flat against the mattress with one hand against his chest—stronger than any normal human’s. “You might as well make yourself comfortable, because I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” he says, flat, curt. “I’ll get cable installed in the whole block first thing tomorrow.”

Those bright eyes meet his, never deterred no matter his brusqueness. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but that’d be nice, actually.”

He forces himself to look away, steer the conversation onwards before she can get too hooked on the idea. That’d be a hard expense report to justify. “You want somethin’, or you just like keeping me awake?”

When she smiles again, it’s that dangerous smile. Not as dangerous as it could be—no sharp teeth or anything. But it’s a bright smile, gleaming, and that’s what makes it such trouble. “Oh, I do.”

It’s a good thing he’s had practice keeping his voice indifferent. “You mind tellin’ me what?”

“Like you have to ask,” she pouts.

“Just did, didn’t I?” A steady tone is aways the best strategy; it’s seen him through more dire situations than this.

She tuts at him, a spark in her eyes that says nothing’s ever been so dire. “You are being a grump tonight.”

He swallows. “That happens when you get woken up in the middle of the—”

Her fingers press against his lips and slip inside. His eyes go wide, searching her face, brow knit and heart hammering. “Shh, enough of that,” she coos. “Enough of that, baby, just relax.” She’s smiling, soft and safe, as she pushes her fingers over his tongue, down deeper into his mouth. He relaxes, lets her in. This, he thinks, is new.

“Don’t get this every day, do you?” she says with a grin, and he wraps his lips around her fingers and sucks. He strains his neck up, more insistent; she laughs, wrist dangling in front of him. “Ooh, but maybe you should. You seem to like it.”

Her eyes are alight watching him. It thuds in his chest, the way she watches, the hunger. His mouth would work for days to keep those eyes burning into his skin.

“That’s it, get them nice and ready. You can do that, right?” Of course he can. The what and the why don’t matter, only that he can, that he will. “It’s relaxing, huh? I’ll do all the talking, I don’t mind.”

He dissolves into those words, into the peaceful promise held in the pads of her fingers. There’s always someone looking to him for something—orders, reassurance, resolve. The weight is invisible until it’s lifted, until he can slip out of himself for one moment’s peace.

His tongue whorls around the soft curves of her fingers. “It’s nice of you to let me in like this. Up here, I mean.” She presses her nose to the skin of his temple.

Her fingers pull back and out, and he gasps—for air, for more—resurfacing from deep within himself. “What do you—”

“Ah, ah.” She waves one finger in front of him. His eyes follow it, back and forth, before settling on her face, so soft, so warm. “What’d I tell you? You just need to relax and listen, remember?”

It sounds nice, natural even. There’s a tug deep in his mind, like the heaviness of sleep worming its way through his thoughts and threatening to pull him under a hazy fog. That must be her. Of course it is. Some junior lab technician is charting her brain activity going haywire, without a clue what’s held in those dips and swells. Clark only knows the dance of those arcs by shape, not by scientific detail, but he knows how they feel. They’re becoming as much a part of him as his own pulse.

And then he gasps, breathless shock twisting his fingers into the blanket. “Shauna!” She’s in him with one hand, the other pushing his thigh aside.

He tries to sit up, tries to pull away, but she swirls her wrist; he shudders. “What? It’s only one finger,” she says with a shrug. “You’re how old, anyway? Haven’t you had like, a prostate exam or something by now?”

Christ, really. “I’m not that o—” He struggles against a gasp. The second finger that had been in his mouth moments before pushes into him. His body responds—tightening and opening—like he was meant to be played this way.

She laughs and shakes her golden head. “Hey, enjoy it. I’m doing you a favor. You seem tense.”

“Wonder why.” His teeth grit tight, eyes squeezed shut. But as he breathes, as she moves her hand in slow, deliberate motions, brushing effortlessly against him, the presence of her surges through his body like a current, from head to—well, other places.

She curls her fingers and he nearly bucks off the bed. “Sensitive, huh? But we knew that already, didn’t we?”

There’s a glint in her smile, a hunger in her eyes that jolts in his stomach. He struggles to keep his eyes open, stares down the length of his body—hadn’t he been clothed when he went to sleep?—and knits his brows as he watches her, perched between his legs as calm and collected as if they were having any old conversation.

She tuts at him when his stare remains blank. “I’m not talking about here,” she explains with—jesus—another curl of her fingers. “You know where I mean. That little spot in the back of your mind. It wasn’t hard to get in there, open you up.” She says these last words slow and deliberate, with a sly grin and a motion that makes his head fall back and a low moan slide through his throat. There’s a giggle hiding behind her grin. His breath is shallow; her words make him tremble with something that should be fear, but isn’t.

“I’m not even in you, you know,” she continues conversationally, working her fingers in and out. His muscles tighten around her, eager hips rolling into each motion. “I’m not even here.”

“Feels—like it,” he grunts. Every nerve ending in his body would agree.

“Clark.” He goes still at the sound of his name, despite the motions of her hand and the twists and coils of his body. There’s something else in her voice now, something firm, something true. “I’m in your head, Clark. You know that.”

He does. He does know that. But it feels—oh, it feels. His eyes fall closed as his mouth falls open. The mattress creaks at a distance from his consciousness as he pushes back onto her, closer for more and more. She gives it to him as his back slides against the sheets, sweat collecting on his brow. He can still taste her on his tongue as he opens his mouth to breathe, to moan, to let the desperate air out of his rapidly rising and falling chest.

She’s in him. Deeper than before, pressing farther inside. It’s not just her fingers, it can’t be; he feels too full of her, but he can’t open his eyes, can’t bring himself to raise his heavy head to look. He can only feel her, pushing, pulling, deeper inside. Every thrust shoots through his spine, straight to the top of his head, the world melting away until there’s only her.

The sound of her voice is like an anchor, his own body the waves tossing side to side. He hardly knows what she’s saying, only that he hears her, filling him until there isn’t room for anything else.

“That’s it, let me open you up. Keep making room for me in your mind, Clark, and I’ll keep making you feel as good as you want,” she promises. 

He shudders, head falling to the side in a desperate moan. Nothing has ever been like this—in him, around him, through him, to every corner of his body. It’s hard to know where he stops and where she begins, hard to remember if he ever knew those lines, if there ever were any.

“It’s not like I’m asking for anything you don’t want to give. Win-win, right?” She says it so simply. “Makes it nice and easy for you.”

All he has to do is slip into the sound of her voice, let his body twitch and thrash, let her make music out of his moans and sighs. Lights dance behind his eyes, squeezed tight. She’s a fever that burned through every corner of his body until there was nothing but sensation, pleasure, her words coiled deep in his head and burning hot. 

“Just let me in,” she whispers, and he wants to. The push-and-pull is building in his gut, mouth hanging open in a silent moan—letting her give voice to all that’s in his head instead.

His back arcs as she twists and thrusts, faster and faster, a rhythm so sharp and steady he swears its his heartbeat. Her hair falls against his face, her words against his ear. “It makes you wonder… was I even here?” she asks. “Or do you just want this?”

He gasps in silent cry—body shudders, rolling through spasms that shake through to his core. His eyes fly open, her name heavy as it falls from parched lips. He blinks into the ink of the shadows, the blood thrumming in his veins, breath struggling to steady. The room is as dark and as empty as when he went to sleep.

[sith-shame-shack]

Vader being both VERY MUCH touch starved and also extremely touch sensitive?? im just??? this has been on my mind lately

I actually received like 3 prompts that were all some variation on this: I might answer others separately, but until then, have this 1,043 words about that. 

I’m writing one prompt-fill per week, every week, to help me practice! Feel free to send me prompts. Here’s a question I answered about what kind of prompts are good. 

Notes: This is a snippet of a Vader Lives AU, like a week after the end of ROTJ. 1. Vader has a flashback in this one, 2. morpha is space-morphine. 

He woke flinching from something, turning his face reflexively aside. Someone was touching him. There was a yielding surface beneath him, cool air on his uncovered face. He couldn’t make himself move, couldn’t get his legs to respond to his commands, and someone was touching him—

“Keep him still, don’t—”

His armor was gone, he realized, with slow horror. Something shattered, an abbreviated little pop as loud as blasterfire, and someone screamed.  The sound echoed in his skull, leaving him weak and clumsy as he thrashed, vainly struggling to throw off the hands that seemed everywhere at once.

Father, it’s just me, Luke said in his mind, cutting through the growing panic that had seized him. It’s just me.

Vader squinted against the light, still straining to get away from the figure looming over him. He blinked rapidly, and his son’s face was before him, smiling, haloed in light.

“Luke,” he said, voice a bare rasp of breath. “What—”

“It’s just me and the doctor, it’s alright. I’m sorry we startled you. Try to relax.” He realized that the hands against his shoulders were only Luke’s, and stilled beneath them. His body was slow and heavy, aching fiercely, as though his bones were molten lead.

“There you go. Here,” Luke said, producing a plasticlear oxygen mask from somewhere and affixing it over Vader’s mouth and nose. “This should help. Just rest for a minute.”

He did, lying exhausted and and open-eyed as full awareness filtered back to him in pieces. He was stretched out on a medicot, stripped of his armor and most of the components of the suit. He was wearing only a flimsy infirmary garment and bandages, shivering in intermittent fits against the exposure. His left prosthesis had been removed, and the sensory feedback from his artificial legs was strangely muted, as though his spinal cybernetics were damaged. The light pressure of Luke’s hands on his shoulders was almost more than he could bear, a strange pain that was not precisely pain at all but something adjacent to it, something he could no longer name.

“Do you remember where you are?”

For a long moment he couldn’t answer, the overhead lights so bright he could feel them glaring into him, as though his body was entirely transparent. “I was…” the thought dissolved, and he fell silent, staring into his son’s face. He had never been so exhausted.

“You’ve been here six days, but you haven’t been awake much,” Luke explained. “You had to have a couple of surgeries and you got pretty sick from them. How do you feel?”

He swallowed, studying Luke best he could. The boy looked… tired, maybe. And so, so young. Vader could scarcely imagine that he had once been so young. “Strange.”

A cool hand settled on his forehead— Vader flinched despite himself, and Luke drew away immediately, some emotion flashing across his face too fast for Vader to parse. “You’ve still got a fever. Dr. Preque went to get another hypo. I’m not sure how you did it, but you shattered the one she had.”

He was filled with an inexplicable shame, and for a moment could think of no way to respond. “Have you been treated for your injuries?” he asked, finally. Even so brief a question left his voice nearly inaudible. There was a constricted pain low in his throat which he recognized as an indication of recent re-intubation.

Luke nodded. “I’ll be fine. They don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but they’re keeping me around for observation just in case. Well, and for…” He hesitated, and didn’t finish the thought. To watch over the captive, then. The thought elicited no emotion. If Luke saw his understanding, he didn’t acknowledge it, and after a moment asked “Jedi can’t do that, can they? The lightning?”

“No,” Vader answered. “It is a powerful Dark technique.” A torture technique, he thought, seeing Luke writhing before him, hateful lashes of agony crackling over his body as he spasmed and pled. How long had he stood, watching? How long would his master have toyed with the boy, reveling in his suffering, before granting him death?

For a long moment he couldn’t speak or think, the memory consuming, nightmarish in its perfect, unexaggerated clarity. Luke, curling around himself vainly and blue-white forks of malevolent energy chewed his flesh, reaching out with his hand trembling, Father, please—

Gentle pressure on his aching chest roused him from the vision. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth of Luke’s living presence, the weight of his palm against his breast. “It’s alright,” Luke said, and Vader could see his smile even through closed eyes. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

The strange almost-pain, the unnameable sensation squeezing his throat and pricking at his closed eyes, pressed down over his broken body. He must have made some sign of it, because Luke began to draw away again, and without conscious volition his own prosthetic hand came up to rest over his son’s, over his struggling heart. His son was alive, a supernova blazing perfect and unshadowed in the Force, and all that he was could have been stolen from the universe in the space of a breath.

Another presence, calm and unremarkable, entered the room, but Luke didn’t stir from him and his exhaustion kept him pinned, unable to care that he was stripped and disassembled. Luke and the stranger exchanged soft words, sounds with meanings just beyond his grasp, a conversation that dissipated like smoke on wind and was gone. A sudden flush of cold beneath his right clavicle indicated the introduction of some drug through the central line, not comforting precisely but familiar.

He opened his eyes again when the foreign presence retreated, albeit with effort. Already, he could feel the drag of whatever he had been dosed with, pulling him back down into unconsciousness.

“That should help the pain some,” Luke said, leaning close enough that his breath brushed against Vader’s temple. “Do you think you can sleep again, now?”

“I will do whatever you ask of me,” he said, or tried to say, already adrift again. The feeling of Luke’s hand beneath his own was the last sensation to wash away beneath the tide of morpha.

[the-headbop-wraith]

2_31 Seclusion

Such a nebulous sensation.  He was barely aware, could scarcely perceive his immobile body, couldn’t feel his outer-extremities.  Was this what it meant to be comatose?  It was a blur, all of it.  Had he been aware during that time?  Resting and waiting, body and soul mending from a trauma flesh could not endure? Was he not meant to remember the time between, when he was shifted out of existence and lay at the precipice of death? He shuddered internally from the recollection.  Maybe he had blocked the entire thing.  If so, what else could he be blocking?

It came back a little at a time.  Weightlessness, floating.  He was falling.  Falling into the black pool beneath, high above a jewel glimmered against the abyss he had been thrown from.  But really he was above, while simultaneously staring down at himself.  The body below wasn’t his.

If emotion had a descriptive and physical form, Arthur would have recoiled.  He felt himself cringe away, flee the memories, the ambiance.  Pain.  Not there. Not there.  Stay away.

Where was he?  What happened?  What had happened?

The ripples came back, digging through his muscles like ravenous insects nipping; snipping at his nerves, bit-by-bit cutting him away.  Secluding what was Arthur within an emerald haze.  The presence.  Not his mind, not his thoughts, nothing that could be identified as a part of him.  It was a separate entity invading, taking over.

No!  No-no-no-NO! He fought, thrashed, but there was nothing substantial to bring his self against.  He was swarmed, overwhelmed.  Stolen. NO!  “NO! Lewis!  For fucks sakes Lewis!  Look up!  Please! I don‘t – !”

“I’m here, Art.”  The voice was there suddenly, but it lacked solidity.  It was thin and somewhat distant, but no doubt it was Lewis. “Take it easy, you’re safe.”

“You’re here,” Arthur sputtered, awareness reeling.  Blank after blank greeted his puzzlement, he couldn’t remember beyond the falling and the sudden heat in his body.  But he was breathing, and somewhat connected to his inert mold of physicality, but he wasn’t… there was nothing inside this fog of his maimed consciousness.  Somewhere, far back in his cognizance thrummed a steady pulse.  “What? Where… What happened to me?”

There was a span of silence, a void of sound.  The complete absence of being.  “You’re just sleeping,” Lewis says.  “You couldn’t handle the strain, and you collapsed. Just… steady yourself.  Don’t panic.”

Arthur has no vague idea in what sense that Lewis is ‘there,’ let alone existing.  Though, he can pick up on the tension, like a concern nagging at his thoughts as if he forgot something very important.  Lewis’ voice, a projection in his mind, expressed a lingering unease, and palpable worry.  But it was the clearest that Arthur had heard Lewis’ voice come through in a long time.

“I’ve gone insane,” Arthur muttered.  He doesn’t want to think about it.  He doesn’t want to ‘be’ or stress, or anything.  He just wants to sleep and dream of nothing.

“When you wake up,” Lewis goes on, voice nearly transparent.  “Try and… take it slow.  I might not… be able to keep up.  Art, you there?  I want you to understand, I don’t want to be here.”

“Why are you ‘here’?” Arthur responds.  He’s distressed, and he knows Lewis must pick up on it somehow.  Arthur can’t figure how that works but he does know it, like it’s been imprinted in his mind.  “I can’t… Lew’us.  Where— ?” He wanted to admit he was scared, just go ahead and say it, but to make it verbally known made something hitch painfully in Arthur.

Another long pause came from Lewis, the emptiness stretched between them.  The whole situation was bad and it was quickly escalating toward something intolerable.  Finally, Lewis’ answer came.  “I don’t know,” the voice resonates. “I was trying to latch onto your arm, the fake one, and… I guess I overshot.”

“You… overshot?”  Of course, only Lewis was capable of overshooting a target and… oh. “Did you… did you possess me?”  Silence.  Arthur waited a long time; there was nothing present to gauge how long, only the steady thudding somewhere deep and lost in his head.  Lewis, he wouldn’t… he knew the truth, at least that’s what he had said. No, he would never….  “Lewis… I don’t like this,” Arthur yelped, tried to.  He became frantic, panicked; there was nothing to fight, nothing physical; just words and brief snips of colors, and that constraining presence sitting on his sentience.  “I know… I know you don’t give a fuck about what I was made to— and-and…. The possession! But—” Arthur was ill all over again, he could feel it in the core of his chest burrowing deep into his soul and anchoring itself there.  He hated it, it needed to be gone.  “Nah!  No! No!  You hafta… you gotta fix this!  Get outta my head!  Lewis! Let me GO!”

Lewis voice was so faint, Arthur nearly missed it whisper under his internal cries.  “If I could, Arthur, don’t you think I would?”  Something was in the pauses Lewis punctuated his resonate projections with. “It wasn’t my intent, it… I wouldn’t do this to anyone, last of all you. Believe me, I was going for your arm.”

Honestly, hearing that truth didn’t comfort Arthur to any amount. Nothing was exchanged for what felt like ages, the haunting pulse merged its palpitations into something of a hum. Arthur lost touch of it, didn’t care. “I’m asleep because my body was overburdened?”  Arthur murmured.  Old news is old.  “What happens when I wake up?  Lewis?  What do you do?  Lew? Lewis!  Are— ”

“Could you calm down?”  Lewis voice was frail, threaded together only by a persistent desire to remain buoyant. “I’m… not as strong as I seem.  I lost too much of myself, and I thought I would’ve….”  He trails off there.  

It was too much for Arthur to process – the nightmares that plagued his restless nights, the unyielding guilt; the contradictions to his retooled instincts.  Arthur knows Lewis wouldn’t have done what he did unless he absolutely believed his existence was in peril.  It was an accident.  But his mind couldn’t accept this actuality.  Scars… never mended quite right.

“Lew? I’m… I didn’t know,” Arthur burbled.  “I said some things, didn’t I?  I don’t remember… can’t.  But I wouldn’t… y-you get caught up with the worst of—”

“Don’t say that,” Lewis replies.  “Not that, Artie.  You can’t… say such things.”

  __

Hours whisked by.  Soon the sun was descending, the frigid sharpness on the air seeped into everything. Shadows stretched across the walls and congeal around the lone window of the room, while lights outside the dark shelter brighten until the only colors that sift through the thick curtains burn with amber-gold.  The only other color to contrast the gloomy recesses was a blue sheen from a lone computer screen; timid and far spaced ticking comes and goes as the hour draws out. Beyond this world cars chug by, the distant shrill of mechanical engines call from a distant yonder, sometimes the voices of nearby people going on about their day and their lives drift in and out of the small environment contained within the warm room.  As the daylight slowly escaped, it seemed as if the world outside had slowly slipped away as well.  That place was barely a distant memory.  Memories of a place….

Vivi sat on the ruffled covers of the bed, her back braced by a pile of pillows complimentary for the room’s guests.  She passed the time watching internet videos – animations, gif compilations, lol vids; at one point she raised the volume on a kitten vid.  

At the foot of the bed, where he lay beside Arthur, Mystery raised his head from his paws and gave Vivi a curious look.  The dog tilted his head one way then the other, his yellow spectacles flashed against the cyan light.

“Sorry,” Vivi whispered, through a thin smirk.  Mystery wagged his tail and lay his head down, patient and unreadable as always.  Vivi returned to her video, but not before giving the shape under the covers a short glimpse.

Nothing.  Not even a whimper.

Vivi had to drag him the whole way to the motel room.  Arthur’s stiff limbs hung like weights and he made no visible indication that he was still alive, aside from the warmth of his body and the slow beating of his heart.  Throughout the short venture Arthur had reacted in no way to his relocation, not even a shiver in the frigid air.

The night was zipping away, but Vivi hardly noticed.  She did keep track of the minutes and every half hour she would scoot forward to check Arthur, assure herself he was still breathing. His breath had become so shallow Vivi had to avidly search it out.  She couldn’t bring herself to do anything else but wait and let him recover at his own pace.  Medically speaking this might have been unwise, but she didn’t know what else could be done. Aside from hooking Arthur up to a bunch of machines and running tests; lots and lots of tests, with the possibility of Arthur awakening on his own, to a horror scene and maybe no grasp on the exact series of events that led up to his current state.  And Arthur’s wellbeing was not the only one she was apprehensive about.  

Finally, Arthur twitched and coughed.  Tense, Vivi watched as the wad of blankets shifts and stills.  She thought briefly it was an impulse, a fluke of muscle spasms, but a few minutes passed and Arthur began pushing at the covers pinned over his shoulders.  Jostled from his warm spot Mystery hopped off the bed and strolled over to the computer chair, beside a side table that stood adjacent to the bed.  He leapt onto the sunken cushion of the chair and curled down, adjusted his head upon his paws to face Arthur and raised his eyebrows high.

“Art?”  He didn’t react to Vivi’s voice, not at first.  Slowly, Arthur pulled himself out from under the blanket and huddled beneath the heavy shelter of the room.  He tried to raise his prosthetic to his head, but Vivi had removed it early to simplify transporting him.  Arthur stiffened at this realization and held himself motionless, the blankets slipping down the back of his dirt stained shirt.  “Arthur?”  Vivi tries again.

Then he turns to look at her, eyes aflame in the dark room. Vivi took a sharp breath and tugged at the laptop on her lap.  “Lewis?”

Arthur made a face and winced.  He dropped his head and brought his only arm up to rub at his eyelids. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’s here.  I think… you have that?”

Vivi nods.  “I….” She dithers to say, or ask.  “I didn’t want to get my hopes up, in case you… you look terrible.”

“Oh.  Thanks.” Arthur hung his head and closed his eyes.  He loops his one arm around his side and held himself, rocking slightly.  The light from the computer was so-so bright.

“I wanna ask how you’re feeling….  Fuck it.  Are you both okay?”  Vivi shoved the computer aside and leaned forward, reaching out to Arthur’s head. She’d done her best to clean his face and bandage his wound beside his brow, though it wasn’t serious.  She needed something mundane to do, since there was nothing else she could help with.  “Do you understand what’s going on?”  Arthur nodded.  Vivi raised her hands to his face and gripped the sides of Arthur’s head carefully.

“Hold on.”  Arthur took the side of the blanket and tossed it over onto the laptop, just to dose the light a bit.  

Vivi checked his eyes, she didn’t need much light to help.  Arthur’s eyes retained an eerie hue.  “I’m checking for dilation,” she said, as explanation. “It’s like head trauma.  I found a website that had some good information, credible.  At least Mystery thinks…. You had a nosebleed to, not bad.”  She smoothed back Arthur’s hair and released his head.  Arthur looked down.  “Art.”  Vivi lowers a hand to his stronger shoulder and grips it tightly.  “I know you’re in a lot of pain.  But… what else is there?”

Arthur took a slow breath and exhaled.  “It’s not like that,” he murmured.  “The shock of it.  Mostly.” He shrugs Viv’s hand off his shoulder. “It was an accident, but it’s better when I don’t fight.  Lewis… he isn’t comfortable with this at all, I think because it’s me.  Where‘d my arm go?”

Vivi left the bed and snagged the prosthetic off the desk that Mystery was lying beside.  She handed it to Arthur, and held his shoulders a he began swaying again. Instead of attaching the arm, Arthur left it on the bed and pressed the wristband of his good hand across his eyes.

“It’ll be okay,” Arthur mutters.  “I’m just… we’re really exhausted.”

“Is he…?”  Vivi lowered herself to sit beside Arthur on the bed.  She wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort Arthur in some way.  “There?  Talking to you?”

Arthur faintly shook his head.  “I try getting his attention.  It feels like he’s ignoring me, or hiding.  Too much for him.  Too much.” That was only partly true, but Arthur didn’t want to say anything more.  He reached his hand up and tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“Do you need anything?” Vivi asked.  Arthur mumbled a negative tone, hardly audible but Vivi caught it. A car steered by outside on the parking lot, its headlamps flashed across the upper wall of the small room causing Arthur to fold down silently.  Vivi waited until the rumbling engine faded, before she moved to rise, carefully. “I’ll go get you some food and drinks. You’ll need that.”

“I don’t feel much like eating,” Arthur murmured, through his shoulder’s sleeve.

Vivi joined Mystery beside the side table, and gave the hounds cheek a scratch.  “And I don’t want to leave either of you in this state,” she answered.  Vivi had already claimed her shoes where they were left on the floor and slipped the blue foot ware on.  “But Mystery will look after you, and later you’ll probably need something.  I won‘t be gone long.”  She took the laptop off the bed, and Arthur shielded his eyes from the bright screen until Vivi had shut it.  She went into the little bathroom and the light flashed on, the sound of running water came and stopped in short succession.  When Arthur raised his head, he blinked at the bright outline of light shimmering around Vivi’s blue silhouette.  She held a water filled plastic cup out to him. “Drink this.”

“What’s in it?”  Arthur took the offered cup and peered through the side.

“Just water, you dork.  Stay hydrated.”  Vivi revisited the small bathroom and clicked off the light, the rush of dark immediately set Arthur to ease.  “Will you be okay for a few minutes?”  Vivi pressed. She stood near Arthur in the gloom, hands clasped together or tangled with the edge of her sweater.  “I won’t leave if you don’t want me too?”

Arthur raised his arm a bit and motioned for the door.  “No, I… we’ll be fine,” he mumbled.  “Give me a chance to… come ‘round.”  Briefly Vivi fidgeted with her hands, before she leaned down to give Arthur a tight little hug.  

“Don’t work too hard,” she murmured.  Vivi left Arthur where he sat and crossed the room; on her way out she snagged one bag off the low bench placed near the room’s door and stepped out into the bright, cold night.  The soft sputter if the heater geared up, overreacting to the timid puff of white flurries that swept in through the open door.  Upon her departure the atmosphere of the room thinned, it became open and vacant. Empty.  Though, Mystery was still there.

Once Vivi was gone Mystery raised his head and looked over the chairs armrest, to view Arthur.

“Hey bud,” Arthur burbled, clumsily.  Even with that comforting presence, Arthur was the least bit solaced. “I’m good.  Don’t worry about it.  It… that doesn’t help.”  Mystery reversed the position of his paws on the chair cushion and gave a very large yawn. Arthur checked the dog once more, as Mystery lowered his head down to his paws.  Those eyes though, they remained on him.  

Arthur’s breath quivered as he raised the plastic cup to his lips and took a sip, only to wince and choke.  It took a brief pause for Arthur to get some control over himself, but once he managed he held the cup up and pressed the soft texture of the cheap plastic to his forehead.  If he held still the pain would subside, but stubbornly it lingered.  The tinges of his vision pulsed with the yellow haze from the curtain, its radiant colors made him sick; the idea of engine exhaust and cigarette smoke made him sick; breathing made him sick.  He wished, he prayed for the searing pulse in his head to fade, but it was impervious to mental persuasion.  

“Are you there?” Arthur mused, mentally probing for the shade that was not a piece of his mind.  “Lew?”  His mind felt vacant of that other presence, though his body was thoroughly convinced it was there.  Arthur waited as an aching burn soothed out of his skull; he nearly crushed the cup of water, he was gripping it so tightly.  “Say something.  Anything.  Are you… are you able to go through my memories?”

A low rasp came, easily identified as Lewis. Hearing the resonance in his head, while aware and awake, and unclouded by the haze of unconsciousness, it was different.  Arthur was scarcely certain if he was not insane.  A toneless whisper whistled, “No.”

Arthur waited for an elaboration, a vague out of context comment from Lewis, but the spirits responses were waned.  Lethargic.  “You’re not going to?  Or… you can’t tamper with my thoughts?  I mean, would you?  Lewis!”  Arthur was terrified by what the response might be, even if it were a deception to alleviate his concerns.  Arthur just needed some sort of answer.

Arthur leaned far to his side, eyes squinted tightly shut. Nothing helped.  He could hear Mystery in the dark, the bright red collar, bright-bright, vibrant red, collar, jingling as the dog adjusted his head accordingly to Arthur’s movement.

“Even if I could,” Lewis voice threaded through the pain, barely audible over the throbbing of Arthur’s blood. “I wouldn’t want to understand what’s in your mind.”

For some reason, Arthur nodded.  Lewis probably knew or couldn’t care, Arthur himself was barely able to stay conscious.  He leaned over in the dark and set the cup on the nightstand beside the bed.  He nearly dropped sideways, briefly forgetting the lack of his arm when he had lowered his shoulder to the bed.  His remaining arm caught the side of the blankets and tightened on the fabric, biding time till the vertigo waned.  It took a good while but Arthur had obtained a small slither of euphoria that promised he could stand without collapsing.

Thin scraps light entered from the window curtains and crept across the room to fall over the lumps of bags, sagging on a foldable bench placed beside the opposite wall.  Dull hues of yellow slip across the polished particle wood of the side desk, where the neglected television was setting.  A random lurch of movement in Arthur’s peripheral startled him, but he eased himself quickly when he raised his hand in defense towards the glossy surface of obsidian hovering low in the dark.  

Just his reflection.  No shadows. No looming shapes, pale faces, smoldering flames.  Arthur listened for a moment to the dull thud of his heart in the near silence of the room. It always comforted him at night, once he settled down in the aftermath of a night terror.  The thought of those dreams raised the bottomless dread in him, and he raised a hand to grasp at his chest.

From the corner came a low groan.  Mystery.  Impatient, waiting for him to do something interesting.  Arthur gave a low snigger as he began to paw around at the bags on the cotton bench.  A little rasp of relief slipped from him, when his hand brushed over the familiar fabric pattern of his travel bag.  He wriggled the zipper loose with his thumb and forefinger, and managed to get his thumb through the small opening.  It took no effort to work the bag open.  

How many times had he done this?  In spooky homes with no light, while something venomous lurked; or in the back of the van while Vivi slept.  He pushed aside some vials, a piece of graphite, a random article of clothing, a small pocket knife… there.  He plucked out the little container and ran his thumb along the lid. Wrong one.  He pushed the bottle aside in the bag, and dug around a bit more. This was the one.  He could identify the groove carved in the top easily.

Mystery’s tag clicked as the dog moved – probably raised his head curiously – when Arthur knelt down.  Vivi had already taken his shoes off, so Arthur need only to stuff the container’s base between his toes.  It took some skill and effort but once he had the bottle secure, Arthur gripped the top and pushed down, then twist.  The top came off no problem.

Arthur relocated his carry bag on the bed, and sat down near the nightstand.  On the chair across from him Mystery’s eyes gleamed as the dog watched his companion’s actions intently.  “Don’t worry,” Arthur spoke.  “I‘m just… take one.  I gotta cut this.”  Mystery vague shape tilts his head and moved his ears apart.  Eventually, the hound does lower his head to chair cushion.  “I serious… doubt slippin’ a knife under the mattress is gonna help.”  Arthur takes a small tablet and drinks the rest of the water.

It would take a while for the effects of the pill to work. Arthur stashed the bottle back in his bag and lay down on the bed, slowly.  The dark fringes around his eyes pulsed, god it felt like his brain wanted to erupt inside his skull.

“Lewis?”  There was no answer.  “You freaked Vivi out really bad.” Nothing still, and the faint thudding had nearly vanished from his mind.  “You… Lew?  You’re not gonna control me, or anything?”

“Shhh.”  Hissed in his mind.  “Rest a bit.”

“I’m trying,” Arthur whispers, aloud.  The night before seemed like eons ago, a bad dream, the forest sprite squealing, the heavy scent of cinder.  Arthur… didn’t want to ask Lewis what had happened to the hostile.  Arthur had never seen the sight of it before.  Never, since….  “Lew.  For… how long are we stuck like this?”

The response took its good sweet time before Lewis rasped out, softly. “Slow down, Art.” His disembodied voice faded in and out, sometimes clear but Arthur had to pay careful attention or the wording would begin to garble off.  “I can’t separate… can’t manifest on my own.  It wasn’t simple to… make you aware I was present in the first place.  I tried….”  The dimming pause came.  Arthur decided he didn’t like it when Lewis was silent.  “Take it slow.  Calm. I don‘t know how…..” Then the voice faded off and did not come back.  Arthur waited, growing anxious in the minutes that followed.  The reply hadn’t ended abruptly, but it was left unfinished.

“Lew?  Lewis?”  Arthur didn’t take the sleep aids, he was sure.  Or maybe he did, he wasn’t thinking straight, his head hurt and his shoulders ached.  There was no one portion of him that was not in pain.  What if they had an adverse effect on him due to the possession? Medications.  Many were sometimes wrongly prescribed in similar cases, but Arthur couldn’t have known.  He should have asked first.  But Lewis was aware enough, he knew what Arthur was doing, should have known. Wouldn’t he?  At least, that’s what Arthur wanted to believe.  The room’s dark walls and pale edges began to blur, the contrasting hues of gold and blue melted together and swirled.  Falling….

Falling….

[fuzzhugs]

Getting Patched Up

So a post between @hourcake and @d0g-bless described an AU where Chickenhound was taken in by the Redwallers. I may have deviated slightly from that original prompt.

...

Pain. A burning and searing pain.

The fox couldn’t see; he could barely think. There was only pain.

Something had a grip on him, carrying him through the woods. He tried to struggle, but he couldn’t feel most of his body, much less move it.

Then there was darkness.

A swirling mass of voices broke the darkness of his mind, though the fox was still blind and could not see who or how many were speaking.

“…all the dressings and bandages we have…”

“…bring the stitching thread…”

“…make it after a wound like that?”

“…pain would drive a beast mad…”

“…murderer…”

All that followed was a blur of poking, prodding, and screaming.

When he awoke again, he felt weak and starved. He could barely lift his arms or turn his head to survey the room he was in with his single functioning eye – a generous layer of bandages covered the other. He was back in the infirmary where he had been held after escaping execution by Cluny’s soldiers.

“I’m surprised you’re awake, even more that you’re alive,” said a voice. Chickenhound struggled to turn over. Sitting cross-legged on the bed across from him was a female mouse.

“Who are you?” Chickenhound demanded, “What did you do to me?”

“Saved your life, most likely. You were bitten by an adder. You’re lucky Constance found you and brought you back here instead of leaving you to die in the woodlands. I’m Sister Stephanie, infirmary attendant.”

Feebly bringing a paw to his face, Chickenhound felt around the dressing. “What did you use?”

“Poultice of blackmoss and dressings soaked in vinegar.”

Chickenhound huffed. “Should’ve used nightroot extract and fed me fireleaves. That would have stopped the venom’s spread.”

“It also would have stopped your heart.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”

“Well it’s beyond debate now. I suggest you save your strength and wait until we decide what to do with you.”

“For killing that old mouse?” Chickenhound scoffed. “If you wanted to kill me you should have just left me in the woods, but I don’t think any of you could really do that, and you don’t look like you’d be able to stop me from leaving, so I think I’ll be going.”

“I have no intention of stopping you,” Stephanie said calmly, still sitting on the bed, “but I would not recommend trying to leave.”

Chickenhound brushed off her remark and rose to his paws before immediately falling flat on his face. A few choice, vile words escaped his mouth.

“I thought you said you treated the venom!” Chickenhound shouted.

“We did!” Stephanie scolded as she picked the young fox off the floor and placed him back into bed, “but you’ve been asleep for almost half a season. Your muscles have weakened significantly. That and the venom mean your legs have forgotten how to walk. You’ve a long way to go before you can even think of leaving this room.”

Chickenhound scowled. “And what about this?” he gestured toward the bandaged half of his face.

“Heavily damaged by the bite, the venom, and infection,” Stephanie stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ll show you tomorrow when I change the bandages. In the meantime, I expect you’re hungry. We’ve been spoon-feeding your porridge and crushed fruit since you’ve got here.”

Silent and glaring, Chickenhound nodded his head.

Stephanie went to the door and spoke to somebeast standing outside. Within a few minutes, the creature returned and handed Stephanie a tray with a large hunk of bread, some pieces of poached fish, and a cup of clean water.

Chickenhound tore into the meal with no complaint, scattering crumbs over his blankets. When he finished, he looked up toward Stephanie with suspicion. “Now what?”

“Impatient one, aren’t you? Well, maybe that will help us get you walking faster. Now sit up on the bed with your footpaws on the floor.”

The young fox hesitantly did as the healer instructed.

“Push down like you were trying to stand and lift yourself up, just a little bit. Use your arms if you must.”

Chickenhound attempt to do so but could not raise himself from the bed more than a few hair-widths. Even so, he refused to use his arms to push himself further. He wanted his legs to be strong enough on their own.

Stephanie had her young patient repeat the exercise until he grew tired. At that point, Chickenhound was ready to sleep again. Stephanie helped to tuck his legs beneath the blankets and placed a pillow under his head.

“I have some poppy-milk here if you’re in pain, and I’ll be right over here if you need anything.”

Chickenhound nodded slightly before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

By the next morning, anybeast who hadn’t heard the rumors that the bed-bound fox was awake found out first-hand and was constantly reminded throughout the day. Shortly after breakfast, Stephanie began to change his facial bandages and clean his wounds. That was when the screaming began.

Even the sensation of air across the dead, paralyzed, and raw flesh was tortuous to the young fox, and even more so the removal of dead and infected tissue, but it was necessary to keep his condition from growing worse. No medicine or treatment could dull his pain. His cries of agony echoed down the corridor and through the Abbey. The windows, opened to cool the Abbey during the surprisingly warm autumn, allowed his cries to spill out into the courtyard as well.

As his face was cleaned, Chickenhound thrashed around uncontrollably. His spasms were so furious that Constance the badger and Basil Stag Hare had to be summoned to hold him in place so that he didn’t hurt himself or anyone else.

The entire procedure left him curled in ball on his bed, sobbing and gasping for breath. Stephanie sat by him the whole time, gently rubbing his back.

When he had quieted down, Stephanie asked him if he was ready to look at his face before she bandaged it up again. He was, and Stephanie fetched a small mirror of polished bronze.

Chickenhound spent a great deal of time staring at his reflection, looking at the places where no fur would grow again, the edge of his mouth which was curled into a permanent, sardonic grin, and the yellowed iris of his damaged, but still mostly functional, eye.

Placing the mirror down on a nearby table, he somberly told Stephanie to bandage his face up again and sat in silence as the strips of cloth were gently wrapped over the deformity.

“This is for you,” Stephanie said, handing a bundle of cloth to Chickenhound. “Your shirt was torn to shreds long ago.”

Chickenhound unfolded the bundle and found it was a robe, similar in design to the habits all the Abbeydwellers wore.  Still sore from the wound-cleansing, he slowly donned the robe and tied it closed.

“Comfortable?”

Chickenhound nodded as he smoothed out the folds.

Later, after Chickenhound had a chance to rest, Stephanie led him through the same exercise he had performed the previous night. Chickenhound soon became frustrated at his lack of improvement but continued to push against the floor with his legs until Stephanie made him stop.

“You did well today,” she tried to encourage him as she helped adjust his legs on the bed.

“Hmph,” he scoffed.

“You will walk again,” Stephanie promised. “We’ll keep working with your legs every day. Soon you’ll be standing and moving around the room with some support, and eventually on your own.”

Chickenhound rolled onto his side away from Stephanie. He was in no mood for reassurance.

Stephanie ruffled his head-fur. “You are too hard on yourself. Some sleep will do you well.”

Chickenhound’s days soon began to fall into a routine: Leg exercises in the morning, dressings changed in the afternoon, rest, and more exercises in the evening. The changing of dressings and cleansing of his wounds still caused unbearable agony, but his reward for enduring the pain and continuing his exercises soon presented itself. After several weeks of work, he was finally able to raise himself to a standing position, though maintaining his balance was still difficult.

“This is good,” Stephanie said as she held Chickenhound up on his paws, preventing him from falling to the floor. “Now that you can get yourself up, we can start working on balance and taking a few steps tomorrow.”

The next day, several of the infirmary beds had been pushed aside to make room for a new apparatus. Two long spear-poles (without the sharp tips, of course) had been attached to the ends of two sawhorses. Using the poles to keep himself up, Chickenhound could work on walking as he hobbled from one end of the contraption to the other. Just like his first exercises had been difficult at first, the challenge of learning to walk again was full of obstacles. Even a few slow and feeble steps were tiring, but Chickenhound pushed himself on, determined to work for as long as he could.

One morning while he was exercising, there was a knock on the infirmary door. Stephanie went to open it and allowed Matthias inside.

“Now Matthias,” Stephanie cautioned, “I know you’re still upset…”

“I’m just here to talk,” Matthias said with a grim expression. “I promise.”

Chickenhound hobbled back to his bed and Matthias sat across from him, saying nothing.

“I suppose that you’re here to deal with me,” Chickenhound said, breaking the silence. “I know you won’t kill me, but you’d be within your rights to smack me around a bit. That old mouse, Methuselah, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.” Matthias was not much older than Chickenhound, be he had the presence and resolve of a seasoned champion. “I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to ‘deal with you.’ The Abbot has not given a decision on what is to become of you.”

“So what are you here for?”

Matthias closed his eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. “Methuselah was of great importance, not just to me, to the entire Abbey. He was very wise and knew a great deal about the history of Redwall, Mossflower Woods, and beyond. He wrote, translated, or repaired dozens of volumes in our archives. There was never a mouse like him before and I doubt there will be again, so I am here to tell you in great detail exactly who it was that you killed.”

“Matthias!” Stephanie interrupted, “pouring more guilt upon him will hardly…”

“No,” Chickenhound held up a paw. “I want to hear this.”

The conversation took up most of the morning and went into the afternoon. Chickenhound appeared to take a genuine interest in what Matthias had to say, mostly listening to his words, but stopping him to ask questions every so often.

After Matthias left, Stephanie stepped in to ask Chickenhound how he was doing. He said that he was fine, but something seemed off about his mood, and for the next several days, he was even quieter than normal while doing his exercises.

A week later, further signs of improvement began to show. Standing up on his own was no longer difficult, and maintaining balance was less of a challenge, but it still required some sort of support. He was able to leave behind the balancing bars and walk up and down the nearby corridor with Stephanie for support. A full walking stride, however, was still outside of Chickenhound’s reach.

One night, Stephanie told Chickenhound not to go to bed, as she had something different in mind for an exercise. After everyone else was asleep, Stephanie helped Chickenhound down the corridor led him to the stairs. Going down stairs was a challenge Chickenhound was ready to face, so he resorted to sitting and sliding down each step the way a young dibbun would. He was glad no one besides Stephanie was around to see his humiliating descent.

When they reached the bottom, the two made their way through the Great Hall and out onto the Abbey lawn. Chickenhound stopped in his tracks and let his body adjust. It had been ages since he had been outside; everything from the grass beneath his paws to the wind through his fur was almost overwhelmingly stimulating.

Stephanie gave Chickenhound his moment before prompting him onward. “Let’s go, my friend. We aren’t quite there yet.”

A short walk across the grass brought them to the Abbey pond.

“Now we’re here,” Stephanie said. “Take off your robe.”

“Wh..what?”Chickenhound sputtered.

“Don’t be modest now. I’ve cleaned and bathed you for half a season. Unless you want to try swimming fully dressed.”

“Swimming? How can I possibly swim if I can barely move my legs?”

“I’m not expecting you to be like an otter, just get in there and keep yourself afloat. Kick around as much as you can. And try not to get your bandages wet.”

Hesitantly, Chickenhound undid the rope-belt from his waist and left his robe a distance from the pond. Slowly, he edged into the pool.

“Nothing in here is dangerous, right?”

“Minnows might nibble at your toes a little. But do be careful, another few steps and you’ll be over your head.”

Cautiously, Chickenhound slid into deeper water and kept himself from sinking. He mostly used his arms, but involved his legs as much as he could.

“That’s good,” Stephanie said from the shore. “You swim well for a fox. Did your mother teach you?”

“Ha! Mum’s idea of swimming lessons probably would have involved throwing me into a river to see if I would drown or not. I learned by watching some river-rats we camped with for a season.”

Chickenhound found that he enjoyed swimming. I was less taxing on his legs and helped feel more relaxed.

Around midnight, he emerged from the water and shook himself off before drying with a towel Stephanie had surreptitiously brought with her. With a little help, he stood and dressed himself before leaning on his caretaker on the way back to the Abbey. About halfway across the grounds, he saw something in the corner of the wall that caught his eye.

“What is that over there?”

“That’s the graveyard, where we bury our dead.”

“May I…” Chickenhound asked haltingly. “Is it alright if I…”

“Of course.”

Stephanie knew what he had in mind and led Chickenhound directly to Methuselah’s grave. Chickenhound sat on the grass next to it and traced the carved letters of Methuselah’s name with his claw.

He placed his head against the cold stone and sighed despairingly. “I’m sorry,” he half-whispered as tears began to fall from his non-bandaged eye, “ImSorryImSorryImSorry…”His voice faded into a whimper.

Stephanie held onto him as his shoulders shook and slowly rocked the young fox back and forth. When all his tears were spent, Stephanie helped him back up and half-carried him back to the infirmary.

“Sleep now. Tomorrow will be better.”

By the time Autumn began to give way to Winter, Chickenhound was able to stand by himself and stay upright, but independent forward movement was slow and only possible with the help of a sturdy walking stick.

“A snail could move faster than me,” Chickenhound complained. “When am I going to get faster?”

“You have to give it time,” Stephanie assured him. “Speed will come with practice, though you may have to accept you will never be back to where you were before.”

“I hate being slow,” Chickenhound muttered.

“I know you do, but you need to give your body a chance. Quite frankly, it’s amazing you’ve recovered as quickly as you have.”

“These exercises are getting a little boring. They’re too easy. Is there something else I could do?”

“I’ll see what I can come up with, but you’ll have to wait a few days. I won’t be around tomorrow. Winter is almost here and I want to gather as many supplies from Mossflower as I can before the first snow falls.”

As life often has a strange sense of timing, or perhaps a sense of humor, the next day ended up being the day everyone needed a healer.

The first patient arrived shortly before breakfast was due to begin. Friar Hugo, the fat mouse who tended the Abbey’s kitchens, had burned his paw grabbing a pan out of the oven. It was fixed easily enough, as it was a common injury in the kitchens. Chickenhound helped him find the correct poultice from the shelves and wrap the wound with bandages.

Not much time had passed when the next patient entered, or rather, the next patients. A group of dibbuns had been playing in the gardens when they ran through the blackberry bushes, picking up no small quantity of thorns. Through their sobbing and wailing and squirming, Chickenhound managed to extract the prickles.

From that point on, the injuries and maladies of the Redwallers flowed into the infirmary non-stop. Most of the patients were thankful for Chickenhound’s help, though a few were still uneasy around the fox. By the middle of the afternoon, Chickenhound began to feel tired. Hobbling slowly back and forth around the infirmary had taken its toll, and he was ready to rest.

He was panting and his facial bandage was wet with sweat. With trepidation, he quickly ripped off the dressing and waited for the agony which, to his surprise, did not come. Grabbing the bronze mirror from a nearby table, he looked at his uncovered face. The patch of flesh was still bare; fur would not be growing back over it. The skin was coated with scars, giving it a rough and raw appearance, but it was clean and healthy. With a sense of satisfaction, he collapsed onto his bed, prepared to sleep until Stephanie returned the next day. He managed to shut his eyes when the infirmary door slammed open.

“Stephanie, I need your…” A female squirrel shouted as she barged through the doorway, dragging an unconscious male squirrel with her. She stopped when she saw Chickenhound lying on his bed. “Where’s Stephanie?”

“She’s out in Mossflower getting more herbs,” Chickenhound said as he sat up, preparing for more work. “What happened?”

“My husband fell when a rotted branch snapped under him. His side is cut open and he hasn’t woken up yet.” Her voice was full of worry.

“Get him up on that table,” Chickenhound instructed, indicating the table used for emergency treatment. He pushed himself from his bed and grabbed his walking stick, starting the route to the supply shelves he had walked many times that day.

Twenty-seven steps to the shelves.

Twenty-six steps to the shelves.

Twenty-five steps to the shelves.

Twenty-four. The walk was so slow. That squirrel needed help.

“Forget this,” Chickenhound said, throwing his stick away and falling to the floor. Digging his claws into the floor, he crawled to the shelves and pulled himself up. “Here,” he ordered the squirrel, “Take this, and these, and this over to the table.” After she grabbed them, Chickenhound took to the floor again and dragged himself over to the table where he stood up and began to treat the injured squirrel.

He put an ear to the squirrel’s muzzle and listened. Then he lifted one of his eyelids and examined the pupil. “He’s in shock and losing a lot of blood.” Chickenhound ripped the squirrel’s shirt open and examined the wound. “This is deep. Hand me that jar and a clean cloth.” Taking the rag and a soaking it in the jar’s contents, a highly fermented concoction for cleaning wounds, Chickenhound started gently dabbing the area in and around the cut. When he finished, he took the stitching thread and sewed the wound closed. Afterward, he cleansed the area of blood.

“When will he wake up?” the squirrel-wife asked nervously.

“Give it a few hours. He took quite a blow. Take a cloth and soak it in the cold water over there and place it on his head. That will help the swelling go down. I need to fix this leg in the meantime.”

“His leg? What’s wrong with his leg?”

“It’s broken in at least one place, maybe two. It will be best if I set this before he wakes up.”

The break felt clean, which thankfully made it easier to align properly. Two narrow but sturdy planks formed a split which Chickenhound wrapped tightly to the injured limb. “There, that should heal well. Do you think you can lift him to the bed?”

With some struggling, the female squirrel carried her husband to one of the beds and gently laid him down. As a final treatment, Chickenhound placed a few drops of poppy seed extract under his patient’s tongue to help with the pain when he woke up.

“He…he should be alright now,” Chickenhound panted. “But I have to rest now. Wake me up if…if he gets any worse.” Without another word, he dropped onto his bed and immediately fell asleep.

Chickenhound woke up to somebeast stroking his ear. By the light of the day’s remaining sunlight, he could see Stephanie standing next to him.

“I heard you were busy today.”

“Just some minor healing. Nothing too difficult. Where did the squirrels go?”

“Lizbeth took her husband back to their room a few hours ago after he woke up. They were both very grateful for your help.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Head injury, large laceration, broken leg. Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

Chickenhound shrugged.

“I see you also took off your bandage. How does it feel?”

“There’s no pain and the skin looks as healthy as I’d expect, but…” Chickenhound hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could rewrap it anyway?”

“Whatever for?”

“A lot of creatures might be put off by the way I look. I don’t want them staring.”

“It may just take some time for them to adjust…”

“No.” Chickenhound stated definitively. “It needs to be covered.”

Stephanie sighed. “Very well, but let me get you something else. I’m not wasting bandages where they aren’t needed.”

Stephanie stepped over to the chest storing her personal belongings and dug around for a few moments before pulling out a square piece of cloth made up of dozens of fragments of different colors.

“This was going to be a blanket a long time ago,” Stephanie explained, feeling out the different patches of fabric sewn together, “but I haven’t had time to work on it in ages. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

“Heh,” Chickenhound chuckled, laughing for the first time in ages, “a patchwork mask for a patchwork fox.”

Chickenhound spent a while examining the cloth, folding it and measuring for eye-holes and ways to accommodate his ears. His plan called for the mask to conceal his entire face, but Stephanie shot that idea down.

“Don’t hide that handsome face of yours; just cover what needs to be covered.”

Eventually, Chickenhound found a way to modify the blanket so that it could be tied around the damaged part of his face. After a few modifications with scissors, the mask was finished. Chickenhound placed it on his face and made a few adjustments, tightening and loosening the ties where necessary.

Picking up his mirror, Chickenhound examined his handiwork. After a few seconds, he started laughing gleefully.

“What’s so funny?” Stephanie asked.

“You could say that I’m….all patched up, haha.”

Stephanie shook her head. “That’s terrible, but I’m glad you have a sense of humor, Mr. Patches.”

Chickenhound stopped laughing and contemplated for a moment. “Patches.”

“What?” Stephanie asked, confused.

“I’ve been thinking of taking a new name. I’ve left most of my old life behind me now; I figure a new name might be in order. ‘Patches’ may work. Patched face. Patched mask. Patched life.”

“If it’s what you want,” Stephanie said, “but won’t you miss your old name?”

“That name is nothing but villainy and pain, to me and to scores of other creatures. A reminder of the scorn of cruel vixen.”

“Your mother…?”

“You’ve been more of a mother to me than Sela ever was. I’ll be glad to leave the last trace of her behind.”

“Very well…Patches. Go get some sleep. You’ve had a busy day.”

The Winter months were a time of change for both Redwall Abbey and the newly renamed Patches. Patches began to grow into his role as the new assistant infirmary attendant as the Abbeydwellers began to adjust to having a fox among their number. With further improvements to his ability to walk, Patches was able to freely explore the Abbey and familiarize himself with the inhabitants. His left leg appeared to be complete recovered from his long ordeal, but he walked with a strong limp on his right, requiring him to carry his walking staff at all times.

The end of Winter and beginning of Spring brought an unexpected ordeal to Redwall Abbey. A sudden and surprisingly late bout of the grippe swept through the Abbey, incapacitating many creatures, particularly among the young and elderly. The number of sick was so great that every bed in the infirmary was full, forcing Stephanie and Patches to make rounds through the dormitories. Due to his leg, Patches tended to stay in the infirmary with the most seriously ill, though he often had to make a trip to the dibbuns’ dormitory, as many of them refused to take their medicine unless it came from ‘Uncle’ Patches.

Many Seasons later…

“Hold still now,” a mother told her child. “Let Mister Patches finish his work.”

“No need to worry,” the aged fox said. “I’ve dealt with far worse than little Martin.” A few seconds later, and the brace around the young mouse’s wrist was complete. “There you go, all done. It should be healed in a week or two. In the future, leave the tree-climbing to the squirrels.”

“Mister Patches,” asked Martin, “why do you wear a mask?”

Patches leaned on his staff as he thought of a way to answer. “A long time ago, I did some things that I shouldn’t have, and then I got hurt. I was brought to Redwall and old sister Stephanie fixed me up, but my face never healed. My injury reminds me of the things I once did, so I don’t like looking at it.”

Tess picked up Martin and headed out of the infirmary while Mattimeo stayed behind. “Thanks for helping again, Patches. This has to be the fifth time this season he’s had to come here.”

“I remember a certain young mouse who was twice the trouble-maker,” Patches grinned.

“I can’t imagine who you’re talking about,” Mattimeo replied, looking around feigning innocence.

“Ask your mother, I’m sure she’d remember who I’m talking about.”

After Mattimeo left, Patches sat down on his bed and pulled out the mirror he kept nearby, looking at his reflection. He was getting old, turning grey, but it was of little bother, such was the way of things. Returning the mirror to its place, Patches walked to his desk where some of his other work rested.

Sitting down in a comfy chair, he picked up an aged book and opened it to the page he had marked out. Slowly and cleanly, he began copying the text from the faded and crumbling pages into a new tome. He had performed this task every night for seasons, preserving the knowledge of the past. Patches was lost in thought in the dusty tome when there was a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Mister Patches.” It was Rollo Bankvole, the bellringer. “I’ve cut my paw. Could you help me?”

“Of course,” Patches said, setting down his quill. “I’ll get you patched up.”