#sic fic

[oodlesodoodles]

[creative-caramel-coffee]

Delirium Days

Pairings: Wandanat x (eventually) R

Word count: 1.1K

Summary: Wanda and Nat had wanted you to join their relationship from the beginning. But when you fall sick they can’t help but to care for you and make their feelings known.

TW: Delirium (idk if that’s a warning or not lol), one swear word

A/N Not edited.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you felt someone had replaced all the blood in your body with concrete. Your limbs hurt and they were hard to move. Your head felt like it was full of rocks and was just as heavy too. Stumbling to the bathroom, you splashed some water on your face. Of course you would wake up sick. Throwing on some makeup and taking a Panadol to stop in ache in your bones and head, you trudged downstairs looking slightly more presentable.

“Morning Y/n/n” Wanda called from where she was making pancakes. Upon hearing this Nat also looked up from where she was drowning a stack in maple syrup and ice-cream. Nat loved sweet foods.

“Morning detka.” Nat called, eyes returning to them tower.

Trying your best to keep your voice steady you bid them good morning and took a seat. Luckily they seemed to buy it. You must have zoned out because a second later Wanda was laying your own stack of pancakes in front of you and Nat looked like she was waiting for an answer to something.

“Sorry. Could you repeat the question.” You mumbled. Nat frowned and Wanda looked at you closely, making you squirm slightly in your seat.

“I asked if you wanted toppings?” She said unsurely.

“Are you feeling ok?” Wanda asked, going to lay a hand on your cheek. You dodged, putting on a weak smile.

“Just tried. I need some coffee.” You said, voice husky. You played it off as the lasting effects of sleep and got up despite your body’s protests to get coffee.

When you returned to the table, the world tilted for a second making you stumble slightly as you sat back down.

“Honey? Do you want to go back to bed?” Wanda asked, Nat eyed you closely.

Your body screamed at you to say yes but you simply shook your head. Not helping with the dizziness. You put your head down on the table. Too tired to conjure anymore of a charade for the couple. Wanda and Nat had been dating long before you joined the team. And as much as you loved both women, you didn’t want to spoil their love for each other. So you were happy to watch from afar, the twinge in your heart becoming a constant ache.

“Love?” Nat asked.

“Yeah?” You grumbled.

“She asked if you wanted anything?” Wanda frowned. Leaning forward, she brushed a hand over your head, pausing before laying the back of her hand on your forehead.

“Nat, she’s quite warm.” Wanda shot a concerned look at the other girl, who came around to feel for herself.

Upon laying her hand on your flushed cheek, Nat hissed. Her hand taking the makeup off your cheek to reveal a pink flush to your skin.

“Shes more than a little warm.” Nat agreed

“Friday?” Wanda asked, reappearing with a wash cloth to remove the makeup. She crouched down in front of you. Gently she wiped off all the concealer and set the cloth down again.

“Yes Ms. Maximoff” the AI replied

“What is Y/n’s temperature?”

“Y/n appears to be running a fever of 102.8” Friday responded.

“Shit.” Nat swore, receiving a playful slap from Wanda on the arm.

Scooping you up, Nat carried you back to Wanda and her shared room. Wanda trailed behind.

Waking up slightly, to find yourself in Nat’s strong arms, your head felt fuzzy.

“Natty?” You asked voice sounding high and slurred. Wanda shot Nat a look at the nickname.

“Yes love?” Nat cooed.

“Can you turn the sun down please.” You huffed burying your head in her armpit. She thanked god she had put on more deodorant after training.

Wanda chuckled slightly at Nat’s thoughts, receiving a glare from the redhead in question.

“Bit delirious there sweetheart?” Wanda cooed. Stroking back your hair as Nat laid you on their bed.

“‘M not your sweetheart.” You mumbled making both girls freeze. You had never denied their names for you in the past. And they knew your fever was making you say things, but curiosity won out in the end.

“No?” Nat asked.

“ B’t I wanna be.” You smiled snuggling into Wanda’s side as she ran her hands through your hair. “One day.” You grinned.

Nat retuned a moment later with two cold wash cloths. Placing one on the back of your neck and handing Wanda another for your forehead. You wined at the coldness and Wanda shushed you, pulling you in flush to her side. Your eyes fought to stay open.

“It’s alright sweetheart, close those pretty eyes for us now.” Wanda cooed.

You feel asleep to Wanda’s nails on your scalp and Nat tracing patterns between your shoulder blades.

Next time you woke up your fever had broken and both girls were asleep beside you. Your memories were fuzzy and as your words came back to you, you shot up in bed. Accidentally waking both girls in the process.

“What’s wrong detka?” Nat asked, shooting a worried look at Wanda who laid a hand on your cheek. Blushing you stuttered out an apology.

“Now. Now. There’s no need for that sweetheart. We were happy to help.” Wanda hushed.

You flopped back onto the bed. Freezing when you felt a soft pair of lips on yours.

“Sorry.” Nat grinned sheepishly. “Couldn’t help it, your so cute when you pout.”

“‘S ok” you smiled. “I kinda liked it.”

“Then maybe I can have a turn.” Wanda grinned, pulling you into her for another kiss. Her lips were soft and tasted like honey.

Realising what was happening you panicked. “Im sorry. Im so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your relationship. Im tired and sick and I let my emotions get out of check. And-“

“Its ok.” Wanda shushed, cutting off your rambling.

“We have wanted to do that for a long time.” Nat agreed.

“Don’t think we haven’t notice you watching us.” Wanda smiled slyly.

Of course they noticed. One was a mind reader and the other a trained spy. You groaned, making both girls giggle.

“If you don’t mind we would love for you to join our little relationship.” Nat smiled, brushing the hair from your eyes. Wanda smiled at the blush that rose to your cheeks.

“Ok.” You mumbled quietly. Wanda contained a squeal at your cuteness. Both girl laid either side of you pulling your body into theirs as Wanda coaxed you back to sleep. When your eyes were finally shut, Nat whispered to Wanda.

“Can we keep her?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever be letting her go.” Wanda smiled sweetly down at your sleeping form.

Master list

[romanarose]

Gross Reality

Santiago Garcia x fem!reader

Join my tag list!

Triple Frontier Masterlist

800 Words

Summary: You are on your period and feel disgusting, Santi isn't phased.

Content Warnings: BODILY FLUIDS, all the bodily fluids. This fic is just me being self-indulgent because I'm feeling disgusting on my period today. Breif reference to butt stuff bc it's me. But mostly, if bodily fluids like puke and shit gross you out, keep going but I know this is the reality for many people who get periods.

A/N: In my head, this takes place in a lil universe of several of my Santi fics, including the one I did with Dolli, Honest Mistake, and but more importantly another Santi period fic I referenced in this fic, Santi With a Reader on Her Period.

****************

Santi Claus: Hey babe, you wanna come over today? The new Spider-verse movie is on Disney plus, we can refuel your fanfiction inspiration 👀or inspiration 👀 for other things 👀

Benny’s Hot Friend: Can’t, busy sitting on the toilet.

Santi realized, again, he needed to change his girlfriends name from what he had drunkenly put it in as months ago at Will’s engagement party.

Santi Claus: … just sitting there?

Benny’s hot friend: No, dumbass

Santi Claus: Did you get distracted watching tik tok for an hour again?

Benny’s Hot friend: NO! Im on my period and it’s day two and everything is fucking awful and I wanna die and I think I’m going to on this toilet

Santi Claus: Cramps?

Benny’s Hot Friend: Shitting, Santi. Shitting. I’ve bled through my tampons after 30 minuets and i'm sick of it and I keep needing to shit and it’s disgusting and I’m disgusting and I’m just free bleeding over the toilet and shitting when need because I can’t trust my farts ARE YOU HAPPY

Santa Claus is typing

Santi Claus is typing

Santi Claus is typing

Santi was very carefully plotting his next words.

Santi Claus: Amor, have you eaten today?

Benny’s Hot Friend: NO I HAVEN'T EATEN TODAY SANTI IF YOU MUST ASK AND I HAVEN'T HAD ANY CAFFEINE EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE.

When he didn’t respond, you assumed he’d gotten sick of your shit. It wasn’t that long ago that you happen woken up on top of him with a surprise early period, bleeding all over your new boyfriend who you hadn’t even farted around, and now, although you were more secure, you still worried you’d come across as gross and bitchy and he was over it. Your periods were horrible, the first 2-3 days at least. Dejected, you clean yourself up but only to go get more pain medicine and plot yourself back down on the toilet. 

Another round of cramps came and pretty soon you could add tears and puke to the list of fluids exiting you, ready to just get into the bathtub and cry when you felt your hair being held back and you look to your side to see Santi, eyes concerned and worried, but not disturbed.

“Do you need a hospital, mi vida?”

You shake your head. “No, tummy just hurts.”

Not deterred, Santi holds your hair and rubs your stomach as you empty into the trashcan until the pain subsided enough to try taking a pill again. Dutifully, Santi cleaned up the trash can and your face before guiding you up rinse your mouth out with mouth wash, all while muttering oft praises and encouragement. ‘There we go, let it out’ ‘Do you feel better? Bien.’ ‘Doing good, just spit it out now’

“Santi, I’m sorry, this is so gross-”

“Oh hush. This is far from the worst I’ve seen.”

“Saw worse in the military?”

“No- well, yeah, but I was thinking about the time Benny called me after getting food poisoning from Taco Bell and I had to play big brother while Will was out of town.”

“Yeah” You pant, stomach hurting. “I’ve had to deal with him sick too. He’s a bigfucking baby. Now can you please get out, I need to shit.”

Santi scoffed at that. “You think I don’t shit? I shit all day, three times before lunch-”

“Yeah, you should get that checked out”

“-I’m not phased. I’ve had my finger in your ass, I can handle what comes out of it.”

Finally, you giggle, smiling at him as he sat at the tub edge. “Okay, your funeral.” You bent over in pain again, wondering what the fuck you did to deserve this nonsesnese every month and what you did to deserve to deserve such a loving boyfriend. You wanted to marry this pain in your ass, marry him so hard. He talks to you while you take care of business whipping your face when you get the cold sweats

“Santi, I love you but you’ve gotta get outta here while I clean up.”

He chuckles, but concedes. “Okay, I brought over chinese food-” 

“Oh FUCK YEAH”

“-and coffee”

“FFFFFUUUCCKKK YEEEAAHHH”

“I’ll get it ready in the kitchen when you’re done”

He does as promised and you begin to clean up when you get a ding on your phone. You didn’t realize it was Santi’s until it was too late, and you saw it. No, he wasn’t cheating. No, he wasn’t talking shit. It was the last text you sent him and you saw what your name was on the screen.

Benny’s Hot Friend.

“Santiago Garcia!” You stand in the kitchen with his phone, fully dressed but your hair clinging to your face from sweat. “Wanna explain my contact name?”

He looks confused, then his eyes widen and he stops plating your food. Muneca, listen, I can explain-”

“BENNY’S HOT FRIEND?!” But you were smiling.

He starts to back away, hands raised in defense. “I said you were hot!”

“Did you forget my name that night?”

“Honey, I had like 8 beers and I’m a short king! I was drunk!”

Playfully, you run at Santi, threatening to bleed on him again.

***************

Anyway, shout out to my Peeps in the whorefully yours discord! we all go there and complain about our periods bc they suck. Mine arent THAT bad, I mostly had the shits and the excessive bleeding and I do just sit on the toilet sometimes but I know other people who throw up from the pain.

Your pain is real, and you deserve someone to take care of you

@fandxmslxt69 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @whatthefishh @k-ra @eyelessfaces @ivystoryweaver @steven-grants-world @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @littlenosoul

[groggygrogu]

Request :3

You got sick and joel nurses you back to health (really fluffy ofc)

hiii!! tysm for the request!! <33

GN reader, sicfic, fluff

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When you wake up, something feels off. Not immediately sure what that is, you roll over expecting to bump into the human radiator that is Joel Miller. Instead, the other side of the mattress is cold, the curtains are already open and there’s a steaming mug on the bedside table.

You grunt unintelligibly and decide it must be at least late morning, looking out the window.

Then you feel how horribly stuffy your head is, a sharp pain increasing between your eyes as the sunlight hits you. An unexpected side effect of living through an apocalypse is how long it takes you to notice something’s wrong with you, so used to brushing off aches and pains to focus on more important matters.

Now settled down in Jackson, it’s a habit you can’t seem to shake.

Reaching the conclusion you’re most definitely sick, you crawl out of bed and stumble across to the bathroom. Then, down the stairs to check if the other two occupants of the house are anywhere to be seen.

Joel is, which you’re not quite sure how you feel about. On one hand, you’re relieved to not be alone, your inner child desperately in need of some comfort while so vulnerable. On the other, you hate the idea of looking so weak in front of him.

He’s doing something on the hob when you shuffle into the kitchen.

“El- oh! Sweetheart, what are you doing out of bed?” He scolds, a furrow between his brow.

“Uhh,” you realise you must look a pitiful sight, pyjamas crumpled and somewhat clinging to your clammy skin, hands locked together to stop yourself shivering.

“Come on now, let’s get you back upstairs,” he says, immediately at your side. “You’ll catch your death.”

You let him lead you back up the stairs and into his room, leaning into him heavily. Sitting down on the bed, you watch him as he busies himself gathering … you’re not sure what. Your mind must drift because the next thing you know, Joel’s tapping your shoulder softly to get your attention.

“Lie down now, gimme a sec.”

The pain in your head spikes and you can barely process a word being said so you stay sitting, slumped over as your body feels heavier and heavier. Joel comes back and gently pushes you into lying down, pulling the covers back up. The pile of blankets and quilts in his arms get set down one by one, laid over you carefully as anything.

“Better?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good.”

You can feel sleep drifting back in but you’re still there to feel him drop a kiss on your forehead. And when he heads for the door, something in your brain jerks you awake quickly.

“Joel?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Can- can you stay?”

He doesn’t answer, not verbally at least. But his socked feet step quickly back over to you, wanting to do whatever he can to be useful. He climbs into the bed, leaving space between him and you. You close it immediately, ducking under his chin so you can lie just above his heart beat. His warmth seeps into you instantly and you shudder at the temperature change, nuzzling closer.

“Get some more sleep,” he says into your hair, laying an arm over your waist, his hand splayed out on your back. “I’ll be here.”

Coming in and out of consciousness, either shivering or overheated, you’re soothed back to sleep every time by the steady weight of Joel’s arm around your torso. Grounded by his familiar smell, chicory coffee, Jackson produced soap and hay from all his time spent with Ellie in the stables.

Your dreams take strange shapes in your feverish state, unsettling in their surrealness. Waking from a particularly bad one, you find yourself already sitting up, held in Joel’s lap. His arms are keeping you pressed to his chest, fully encompassing you as he murmurs things you can’t quite hear yet. The wisps of the dream are already floating away with every circle traced into your back.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you agree shakily. “You’re here.”

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

requests open <3

[ficsick]

i would like to express my stance on the difference between “i think im gonna be sick” and “im gonna be sick”

When sickie states “i think im gonna be sick,” there is uncertainty in that statement. sure, in some cases they are right, but its not them outright stating that they WILL be sick in that exact moment, they just feel that they will be. Meanwhile, “Im gonna be sick” is sickie stating that they will be sick. The sudden heat on their face, the gag feeling in their throat, they are about to be sick, and they absolutely know it.

when writing sickfics, knowing the difference between these two sentences is very important. if the sickie KNOWS FOR A FACT that they will throw up, they wouldnt say that they think they will. this could give the caretaker the false sense of time, thinking they can help before its too late, despite not having any time at all. and, the two sentences really change the tone of the story.

[zensations35]

Viral Paradox (TVA Loki Part 5)

I give you, part 5!! The focus is going to be on Loki and Thor in this one, and they're both sick >:3 Catch up with part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4! Things you'll see in this chapter:

-heavy HEAVY whump

-big thematic (and a little cheeky) fight scenes

-&$$#ed up dream sequence based on a real dream

-thunder snz

-big feels

Part 5:

Future Planet

Damn! Damn it all!! 

Loki’s footsteps rip across the red dirt, dust clouding his ankles. He scoops up a nearby stone and hurls it across the air. It lances a tree trunk, the bark splitting, flecks of wood flying.

It’s not enough. Loki’s hands form claws and a bubble of energy bursts from him, fanning a radius around him. A shout tears at his throat, ringing his own ears.

Idiots! All of them!

Insults rattle around in his head, each more visceral than the last as he curses each damn Avenger for their stupidity.

How dare they send him away?! Now they will have no hope of survival!

Another thought pings through him. Why do I care? Years ago he was ready to lay waste to that wretched planet. Why should he give two fucks if they all end up dying now?

Loki shivers, teeth grinding together in the ghost of a snarl. He wraps his arms around himself, squeezing his body as if the act will contain his emotions. He tips forward, knees hitting the hard ground. 

Fools. The whole lot. They should be grateful. They should be throwing themselves at his feet in gratitude! His vision blurs and he curses himself too.

“Do you weep for them, brother?”

Of course Thor would be here. Of all the times he’s shown up to needle Loki further, this might be the worst. Loki whirls on him, teeth tearing at the wind. 

“Now you see my tears?!” he yells, “All those times we were children, you outshone me--every time I did something right, you had to do it more right. Every time you did something wrong, it was my fault!”  his voice hitches as he fires his rage at the only person available. And he hates himself for it. 

Loki, god of chasing people away…

Thor eases himself down next to Loki, lacing his hands in his lap. “Loki…I’m sorry. When I was young…we were competitive, you and I. One of us would be King.”

“Father never planned to make me King. And after that relic’s prediction, you were convinced as well.”

“Fear of your magic made our youth difficult. But I did always love you. Even when we fought. Even when you were misguided. I always cared for you.”

“Only Mother did not fear my powers.”

“I see her in you,” Thor says. “In every illusion. Every cantrip. Every time you heal.”

“I am not so good at healing as she was.”

Thor rubs his nose and sniffs. Loki chews his cheek worriedly. 

“So, where are we?”

Loki places his palms on his legs, “We’re on the Variant’s base planet. He’s hiding here, plotting something. Wait, how did you get here?”

“Stark sent me.”

“He can do that?”

Thor shrugs vaguely and stands. “I imagine this Variant is some sort of villain of time?”

“Well, a bit. It’s a variation of another person, an alternate version of them. This one is…me. A different me.”

“I see. And you have faced him once already?”

Loki nods.

“Very well. We shall…” Thor’s eyes mist, his features pinching as he takes in a mouthful of air. “H-HRSCH!-HNN!”  Ribbons of lighting encircle his arms, crackling once and then dissipating. 

Loki stands and brushes himself off. “Perhaps you should let me handle this.”

“We are both ill, Loki. And you are more frail than I.”

“Beg your pardon! I am just as capable as you are!”

“On a good day, yes.”

“Look, if anyone is going to be able to fight in a battle while sick, it’s us. So we go together, yeah?”

Thor smiles up at him and they clasp hands, Loki pulling his brother to his feet. “We do. Together.”

They trudge along the packed red earth, bootprints dusting away in the wind every few steps. Every now and then, one of them pauses to cough or sneeze. Thor’s are continuously increasing in volume and danger.

He curls a fist under his nose, pressing against his nostrils as he drags in air, “HHh-HEH-SHHHHuuu!” lightning snaps the ground like a whip, thunderclaps echoing across the region.

Loki swears, “You’re so loud, are you trying to blast open the gates of Hel?”

Thor sniffs, “What do you expect from the god of thunder?”

Loki rolls his eyes.

“Just try to avoid the…hh-thhh-HEIX-TSHHHEU!!” another peal cracks the ground right next to Loki who dances away and glowers at Thor. 

“I swear, I get shocked every time you’re sick.” 

“Not every time. You’ve been dead often, brother.” 

“Point taken.”

They continue a few paces before Thor asks, “Why does Stark call you dust bunny?”

“Thor, if you love me even a little, you will never call me that.”

Thor chuckles.

They approach what seems to be a stunted castle--barely even a fortress. It looks more like a historical landmark. It has turrets and a spindly tower, all dressed in the brown veins of dead ivy.

It's cheesy and ridiculous and Loki would never be caught dead in a place like this. His Variant must be losing his mind. 

They enter the castle and find it's nothing more than a maze with only a few larger rooms in each section. 

“Do you know where he is?” Thor asks. 

“I can send illusions to map out the way.”

“Will that get us caught?”

“Not if you can keep your mouth, and your nose, shut.”

Thor grunts and folds his arms, waiting as Loki transforms into a mouse and splits into a dozen--two dozen--a hundred scurrying mice down the halls while his true form waits patiently on top of Thor’s boot.

Finally, Loki leaps into the air and changes back into his human form, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair.

“Find the way?”

“It was…Hh-XST!” Loki sniffs, pinching his nose, “enlightening. Follow me.”

Their boots echo through the chambers, muscles tensed and ready for attack. 

Thor's breath snicks, lip stuttering as his throat rumbles louder "Hhh-Nhhh--”

Loki flings his arm out, fingers curling around Thor’s lips. His index and thumb find his nose, pinching it shut as the breath slinks between Thor's lips. 

Thor scrunches his nose, jaw tightening under Loki's grasp. He tips his chin and exhales through Loki's fingers. Satisfied, Loki removes his hand. Close. 

They turn into a long hall that leads to a wide archway. Then, a throne room--a shockingly destitute looking one, with merely a two tiered stage and a crumbling throne. Windows have ratty cloth covering the squares of light, only a few beams piercing the tattered holes in the scarlet drapes.

The Variant Loki splays his body across the crumbling throne, his smile so wide and vivid, it should have its own circus show. 

As they approach, Loki can see the dark, archaic lines zigzaging down from his eyes--like ink under his skin. His eyes are a soft black, jittery, cutting back and forth between Loki and Thor. 

His mouth cracks open, “Are you here to see me conquer death itself?”

The brothers still, rooted to the stone floor. The Variant sways to his feet, magic dripping from his fingers like liquid light. He flicks his fingers at the wall and it spins. The stone rotates, grinding as it reveals a marble table. Thor’s body is stretched out upon it.

Loki’s eyes widen. A variant of Thor?

“What are you doing to him?”

The variant cackles. “Isn’t it obvious?” his limber fingers trail along the corpse. “I intend to raise him from the dead.”

“What?!” 

Variant Loki nods, lips tipping down. “I killed him. I regret it. But now I can reverse my mistake.”

“How in the Nine Realms will you do that?”

“It is not much different than what we did in our youth.”

Loki’s voice pitches. “It is completely different! That…that was a fluke of magic. What you’re doing is necromancy.”

The Variant’s eyes flash with rage. “The magic exists. It is my right to claim it!” He spins to the body, blackened ends of his fingers playing at the Variant Thor’s temples in a crown. “Wake up, brother.” A ripple of darkness coats the body, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

Variant Thor’s eyes fly open, dark starbursts frothing in his irises. He sits up, face blank, eyes glazed. His skin is pale as moonlight, beard an inky black--a monochrome version of the god of thunder. 

Loki and Thor backpedal. “You…is he…?”

Variant Loki places a fist on his hip. “His mind is still gone. That is why I wanted the scepter. I cannot bring his mind back without it. But, I can control the body.” He brushes the undead Thor’s shoulders, “Brother dear, would you please capture our guests? I’d like the skinny one alive if possible.”

Loki snorts. Skinny?!

Thor grabs Loki’s hand and tugs him back, but Variant Loki arcs his arms above his head, magic whooshing with his resounding clap.

The world tilts and suddenly, all four of them are outside. Undead Thor grabs what looks like a ghostly skin of Mjolnir and takes off. 

Loki feels Thor’s arm wrap around his middle right before his feet lift off the ground. Thor takes off, Mjolnir carrying them through the air. Loki peeks back and sees Thor’s double rushing equally fast on their tail.

“You’re not losing him!” 

Thor banks a hard left, jerking Loki with a grunt. He speeds toward the ground and hovers mere feet from it. Loki slips from his grasp and lands on the ground, barely catching his fall. 

Thor doesn’t stop. He speeds past Loki, luring the double away.

“Thor!” Loki shouts, rage flushing his neck, “You utter dick!! Don’t you dare leave me behind!!”

But Thor does not return. 

Damn him. DAMN HIM!

Loki starts to run, picking up speed until he’s sprinting full out across the field. He leaps off the ground and his body contorts into a sleek hawk. He zooms after Thor, finding him locked in combat with his undead double. 

Loki upturns his feathered body, talons pointed down at the evil double. He soars, descending faster and faster, transforming at the last minute so his boots slam into the undead’s back. It knocks the double flying and Loki tumbles, rolling to his feet. 

Thor knits his brow, tossing his hammer in a flip, “You should let me handle this, Loki.”

“Not a chance.”

The Variant Thor flings his hammer at them--it’s pitch black, drizzled with splotches the color of mist and bone. It brumes with dark energy. 

Undead Thor flies at them, catching Thor in the ribs and kicking him clear across the field. Then he turns onto Loki and chucks the hammer.

The coal-stained weapon sails toward Loki. It catches him in the shoulder and he stumbles, his hand instinctively coming up to grab the hilt of the hammer, throwing it off of him.

Loki freezes. Wait.

He stares at the inert hammer, moving slowly toward it. He reaches out, wrapping fingers around its leather bound hilt. He lifts it. It’s both heavy and light at the same time.

“I…can hold Mjolnir?”

He looks up at Thor who is using the pure version to fight both variants.

That must be it. The hammer in Loki’s hand is tainted. Bound to chaos.

Does that mean…

Loki flings the hammer across the field, waiting until it’s a ways away before summoning it back. Just like Thor’s does, the hammer obeys him, rubberbanding backward and into Loki’s hand. 

Oh. This will be fun. 

Loki swings Mjolnir in an arc, attempting to take flight. He smashes it into his knee and stumbles to the ground. 

Egh. Not as easy as it looks. Well, he’ll just improvise.

Thor is fighting both variants now. Loki needs to even the odds. He flips the hammer and chucks it at the undead Thor. It sings through the air, that metallic whirr, and cracks against the variant’s head. 

Loki sprints toward the battle, arm out to catch the hammer before bringing it back down against the variant’s chest. Necro Thor catches it by the head and wrenches it from Loki’s grasp, swinging it around to smack him.

They play hot potato with the hammer for a good while, Loki finally getting the hang of spinning it like a ring. Loki finally gets the upper hand. He swings the hammer and  misses. Variant Thor lunges and Loki snipes him with a burst of stasis magic, ramroding him into the stiffness of a board so that he nosedives to the ground, motionless.

He keeps his focus on the stasis to keep it from breaking, but he looks for his brother fighting the Loki variant--hammer versus spear. 

Loki has fought Thor many times. They are a good match--on a good day. Today is not a good day. Thor’s movements are sluggish, his strikes weak from the toll of the virus or the Variant’s time magic. Perhaps both.

Either way, Thor is losing. He slings his hammer but the variant dodges with a cackle. Thor is not doing as well at dodging. Necro Loki keeps catching him with the spear--in the legs, the arms, even the face, leaving pink and red gashes trailing blood, until the ground beneath their feet is slick with it. 

One of Thor’s punches catches the Variant in the jaw. Necro Loki gasps, stumbling backwards as Thor closes in. Thor reaches out to grab the Variant but Necro Loki’s form fades, vanishing in a flicker of gold trim. 

Thor blinks, hand grasping air. Loki watches it happen as if on a screen in slow motion. The Variant appears behind Thor. The tip of the spear pierces his chest. Thor cries out, spine curving backwards, his body going limp as he falls out of consciousness.

Someone yells. Screams. It’s so loud it rings Loki’s ears. He gasps as if he were ravenous for air. His head feels cloudy, throat raw.

It was him. He screamed Thor’s name. His feet lift, preparing to race to his brother’s side, but something cracks against his head and darkness takes him. He doesn’t even feel himself hit the ground.

Loki strides into the room, boots clipping across the gold-flecked floor. He grins out at his subjects, hooded by his horned regalia. His arms spread out at his adoring subjects.

“King Loki!” someone calls, voice ringing against other cheers of praise. “Hail Loki!”

Loki circles the golden throne, cape arcing around his waist. He lounges across the seat, feeling weightless as a quilt of clouds.

A woman pads up the marble steps and places an offering at his feet. “For you, my King.”

A lazy smile blooms Loki’s face and he leans forward to admire the offering. It is an oval platter, black as void. It teems with energy, black and thick. As Loki stares into its center, his gaze fogs with darkness.

Loki…

His perspective shifts abruptly. He blinks and the scenery changes. It’s dark, his vision is narrow, as if peering through the eye of a needle. 

He senses a form nearby. A warm body. Loki tries to move his head, but when he does, his vision darkens and he feels his neck snap forward, “HHhhIZZSHH!!”

The whole world tilts and he careens backwards. His head thumps against the back of the throne, gaze fluttering. His nose itches. 

The faces of his adoring subjects pepper his vision. They look to him, shining with admiration. Loki rubs his nose with an index finger and waves his hand for a guard to take the offensive offering away.

Loki…

He stiffens in his chair, heart doing a drumbeat in his chest. It beats hard enough to hurt. Something pings against his cheek and he cups his jaw, glowering in the direction of the assailant. But he sees only his subjects, growing increasingly ravenous for him

They are clamoring toward him, desperate to glimpse the true king. Yes! Loki! The…ne  T..Ru… Ing of aSgD …afYsoN Glor…urpse…

--LOKI!!

Loki throws himself to his feet, a cry clawing up his throat. The room goes dark. The roar of his subjects hammers against the howling wind of Frigga’s voice.

…dying…

Loki growls, “What are you saying!” he shouts. He will be obeyed. His subjects fall silent as the dead. All Loki can hear is the pulse in his ears. 

“Am I dead? Is this…Hel…” his fingers graze his chest and he feels it pulsing, as if his heart were in his palm. 

His neck cranes down, so slowly it barely displaces air. Dread pools in his gut as his King regalia fades and he is wearing a uniform and tie. There is a slash in the middle where a dull red glow pulses…the same tune as his heartbeat.

“What…”

His head jerks up. Everyone is gone. Loki stands alone in a blaring white hall. Frigga’s voice clangs around in his head.

TR IS DYG.

Memories explode in his head. The fight. The virus. The spear…

Thor is dying.

“No…” Loki hobbles across the screaming bright tile, steps echoing, clattering around his head in the formless world of white. “I’m dreaming,” he rasps, picking up speed even as blood begins to rush out of his wounds. “I need to wake up!” 

Thor is dying. 

He spins, breaking out in a sprint, chugging air. No walls appear, no doors, only the white void of his mind. “I need to wake up!!” He skids to a halt and claws at the hole in his chest. Pain. He needs to feel pain. That will wake him. 

Wake up! Wake up damn you! Wake--

Pain shocks him with each rake of his nails, and he gasps, heaving air as if he’s broken the surface of the ocean.

His eyes fly open, his body jackknifing upright. The pain is white hot in his chest, his shirt painted onto his skin with sweat. The bitter splash of reality washes over his vision.

His head whirls, finding the body next to him. Thor. Battered, broken, breaths ragged and sporadic. His body held at an angle, the snapped end of the spear cutting through his chest.

“Thor,” Loki’s attempt to squeeze out the word comes in a whimper. He scrambles to his brother’s side, palms slipping across his motionless form, painting them red.

He presses his stained hands to Thor’s cheeks, vision blurred and drunk with grief. “No…this can’t happen.” The heat from him is sweltering, like hovering in front of an open oven. His face is pale and bathed in sweat. 

"Thor," Loki cups the back of his head and gives it a tiny jostle. 

Thor’s breath snags and he chokes out a wheeze. His voice is brittle, “Er du virkelig her, Loki?“

Loki blinks salt from his eyes, “I’m here, brother,” he squeezes Thor’s hand, “I’m here.”

Thor’s muscles tighten, body shifting, nose pressing against the cool stone as his chest inflates. “Hhhh-EXSHH-hhh!”  Small spider legs of lighting crawl from him, flickering across the damp stone. He lets out a stormy cough and goes limp once more.

He’ll survive the spear--Thor’s lived through worse. But there is too much damage to his body, already being ravaged by the virus. 

Even if Loki used the tempad, he can’t interfere with his own timeline to prevent the injuries. Every time traveler knows that, even the ones who don’t follow the other rules.

Shit. Loki’s jaw feathers, tears shivering down his cheeks. He has to do something. And only one thing comes to mind.

His fingertips wink to life, bathing the cell in an emerald hue. He presses his hands over Thor’s wounds and pulls with his magic. The wounds begin to knit together under his palms, flesh stitching closed. 

Loki snarls into a grimace as his skin splits, pain spiking in a mimic of Thor’s healing wounds. His body starts to shake, blood cutting red lines down his arms to dot the stone floor.

Loki transfers all but the spear wound--if he takes that on, he won’t be able to get them to safety. He peers around and notices how rudimentary the cell is. Clearly, his Variant didn’t think they’d be in a state to escape. Only a small coating of magic along the bars prevents the cell from being a simple dungeon. Loki can easily get out, but Thor…he’ll have to carry. 

It’ll be easier to teleport straight to help. He fumbles for the tempad. It slips around in his wet, jerky grasp. 

“Hhhih-EKSZHH!” his hands shudder and the tempad slips from his grasp, landing on the stone floor with a clatter. Loki reaches a shaky, blood streaked hand to press the button.

A portal opens on the other side of the cell. Loki frowns. He was sure he set it for Asgard. He needs to get Thor to a healer.

“Holy shit,” the sound of Tony’s swear startles Loki, making his jaw unhinge.

“Wh-what…” The room begins to fill with the Avengers: Stark, Banner, Widow, Barton, Rogers. “What are you doing here? And how…”

Tony tosses the tempad to Loki. “You brought us here.”

Loki stares at the new (well, older) tempad. “This means…”

“It means we have a bad guy to fight.” Tony gestures for Loki to follow. 

They all look well. Devoid of illness. Even Banner, who didn’t even get an antidote. How long has it been for them since they last saw Loki?

Loki hesitates, eyes flicking to Thor. “I can’t leave him…I…”

Tony sees Thor and blanches. “What the hell happened to him?”

“We were a-attacked--ngh!” Loki wobbles to his feet, cracking open his wounds. “Hhh-hizzSCH!” the sneeze wrenches his body and he gasps, pain singing to life.

“Well, we don’t know where to go. Can you tell us?”

Loki swallows and nods. He splits himself into two, and his physical form kneels beside Thor. His duplicate passes through the bars like a ghost.

“This way,” Loki takes the lead down the hall. As he walks, his wounds bleed, dripping from his glamoured form to vanish before it hits the ground. Loki explains everything: the time stone, undead Thor, Necro Loki’s magic to revive and control the dead. 

They all take it without comment. Strange. Loki expected questions, quips, maybe a bit of Stark snark. But they all are treating him like…well…like they trust him.

“Hhhfff..” Loki’s illusion stumbles, flickering as if a dimming light bulb, “H-SZZCHhh!” it peters out completely before fizzing back to life.

“Stay with us, Loki.”

“Oh *snf* not dust bunny anymore? HH-ekgZH!” 

“If you keep sneezing like that, you will be.”

Several steps later, the illusion flickers again; Loki’s physical body sprouts buds of pain causing him to grimace and suck in air.

“Loki,” Tony reaches out to grab him but his hand passes through the glamour. “Shit, are you dying?”

Loki fades in again. “No.” He squeezes his eyes and sips a breath through his nostrils. “I am doing all I can. Not sure how long…”

“Just get us to the bad guy and we’ll do the rest.”

Loki nods and pushes his illusion forward. The hall forks and Loki splits his projections, mapping out the correct path as swiftly as possible. His duplicates multiply until he finds the way, then all but one illusion vanishes.

Loki points, “This way.” He leads them a few steps, “Be cautious. My Variant is quite powerful. And Thor’s…” grief shocks his breaths and he shivers. “He will not easily be beaten.”

“We got it, Loki. Go take care of Thor.”

Loki nods and his illusion vanishes, leaving the Avengers to do their job.

In the cell, Loki cups Thor’s cheek in his palm. “I’m going to help you, brother.”

An inhale, too soft, too stilted, “hhh-RRsssHHeh! hhh…!” Thor’s voice is mostly breath, shifting the air between his lips. “You…” he sniffles thickly, “wounded…”

“I’m okay. I’m taking you to Asgard--”

Thor grunts, shaking his head. “They…you’re dead…”

Oh. Right. They all think he’s dead in this timeline, but really, he is disguised as Odin. In fact, none of the timeline will be safe for them. 

Loki purses his lips, frustration a bubble in his throat. Thor seems to be growing more lucid as time passes. “Come,” he scoops Thor up, ignoring the jolt of pain skewering his bones. He heaves Thor to the portal. “We will get you help.”

He carries his brother through the portal to Earth, the weight of his guilt and grief heavier than his brother’s slack form.

[craykaycee]

Dizzy Evasion, Benevolent Capture

Sun/Moon & Reader | Sick Comfort

The day isn't starting so great when you wake up with a cheese grater in your throat and your body dancing between freezing polar chill and scorching volcano heat. However, bills don't pay themselves, so you drag yourself up and ready for work, regardless. There is, however, one person who won't take that lightly. The Daycare Attendant.

Heyo- I've been working on this on-and-off every time I got sick, so this has been brewing in my drafts for a while. This also includes hints towards the world-building of my more long-form fic that's been brewing on the down-low. Now, get your sick self in bed with a cozy blanket and a hot beverage and enjoy! (said with the upmost sincerity)

[stealingpotatoes]

I know the fic that Spycrab is thinking of! It's the story You Shall Become (Me), where events lead to the power of a Sith temple recognizing not only Obi-Wan and Anakin, but eventually Padme as True Sith Lords.

i've had a couple asks saying what the fic was but this ask is actually intriguing me 👀good for padme

[doomspoon888]

So I have a random question but hypothetically if the war ended like cyberverse(but In your missionverse of course with everyone alive and singing kumbaya and all the happiness and no dies) how would that play out with everyone having normal lives...I can see thrax being a Cybertron greatest therapist

Thrax would be out there living his best life and I think he'd make a great therapist to the post-war PTSD riddled population, mostly since he's involuntarily trained for the position since BIRTH thanks to being the only emotionally stable individual in the entire Decepticon faction. He's very well adjusted and has a perfectly normal life.

Mission wouldn't do too badly after an adjustment period, but he goes into medicine so he fits right in amoung all those antisocial grumps.

Megatron and Starscream... remain Megatron and Starscream.

Invicta? Enemy of the State

[ky-landfill]

oh you still take request, can i ask for another artwork of Jason being taken care of by his family? i love your work and i love jason whump too :D

[creative-caramel-coffee]

Travel Troubles.

Prompt: Sick in an Inconvenient Place

Pairings: Wandanat x R

Word count: 1.1K

Summary: Sickness doesn’t care where you are. You get sick but your girls are there for you.

TW: vomiting

A/n I suck at grammar. So there are like three commas in this lol. Plus I typed it with one hand because I’ve hurt my other arm :(

Wanda had been begging you and nat for months now and you had finally caved. You were going to the beach for a few days. You were actually pretty excited to be spending some quality time with your girls so when you woke up the morning you were suppose to be leaving feeling like you had been punched in the stomach you groaned and shrugged it off. Luckily most of the day was going to be spent in the car.

Dismissing it as your usual cramps after your period you stuffed your duffle-bag into the car, opting for the backseat so you could starfish across the leather seats. All seemed well for the first two hours, the car seemed to be getting hotter though. And the pain in your stomach began to increase. Nausea set in around hour five. Curled up in the backseat in a ball Wanda shot nat a look.

<shes acting weird nat do you think shes ok?> she asked in Nat’s mind.

<if she needs us she well tell us>

<we both know that’s not true> Wanda shot back

You were in too much pain to notice the silent conversation. Your face pressed against the cool glass of the window. It was way too hot in the car.

“y/n/n what do you want for lunch, Natty’s getting us maccas.” When all she received was a groan she frowned. Being stopped at a red light Wanda unbuckled climbing into the backseat despite Natasha’s protests.

“y/n/n?” she asked running a hand through your sweaty hair. She frowned placing the back of her hand to your forehead. She gasped. “natty shes on fire” you whined when she pulled her cold hand away from your flaming skin.

“oh bug why didn’t you tell us you didn’t feel good sweets?” muttering something unintelligent you flopped against her. Chuckling slightly she pulled you closer.

“natty can you get her an ice water from maccas?”

“sure.”

Pulling into the drive through the nausea only worsened at the smell of greasy food. Wanda noticed the colour drain from your face. Rushing she seemingly pulled a sick bag from thin air with her magic, guiding it under your shaking chin as your breakfast reappeared. Nat tried not to frown at the gagging noises coming from the backseat as she ordered for the three of you. Asking Wanda if you were ok when she had finished ordering.

“I’m not sure natty shes a bit too warm for my liking and joined with the vomiting I don’t want her to get dehydrated. Did you order the water?”

“yes. We’ll keep an eye on her temp, I can stop of at the chemist for a fever reducer and thermometer if you like?” Wanda nodded her agreement chewing on her lip as she brushed back your hair as you laid against her thigh in a fever induced haze. She had used her magic to rid the bag of sick and had a fresh one on hand if you needed it again.

After a quick stop, nat returned with the goods and Wanda fed you the tablets passing the water to you and holding the straw to your lips. Your eyes were glazed and your body ached.

“oh sweetheart. You really don’t feel good do you love?” nat asked looking at your shaking body. You whined like a child in response too tired to form proper words. Wanda tapped your cheek, using her thumb to tilt down your chin and open your mouth. She slipped the thermometer inside and waited for it to beep. When it did she removed it guiding your head back to her lap before looking at the number. Wanda hummed her disapproval upon seeing the flashing screen.

“what is it love?”

“102.8 too high for our sweet angel hmmm” she ran her hands through your hair again, rubbing your back to help you rest.

“that doesn’t sound good baby.”

With about a half hour to go, your eyes flew open, Wanda startled by your sudden movement pulled you upright, shoving the bag under your chin just in time as what small lunch you had spilled down you chin. With a choked sob, you continued to throw up. “shhh baby your ok. Your ok” Wanda cooed, still holding the bag. When you stopped Wanda waved her hand replacing the bag with her magic and guiding you back to her lap where you fell back into a fitful sleepy fever induced haze. Wanda took your temperature again slightly happier with the number but it hadn’t lowered by much. It would be a matter of a cold shower when they reached the cabin. You were silent the rest of the trip there save for fevered mutterings and the occasional groan. When you finally pulled in, Wanda peeled you off her lap. Passing you to nat who held you bridal style as Wanda climbed out and unlocked the door. Heading straight for the shower you were stripped of your clothes whining at the ice cold air on your fevered and flushed skin. Wanda guided you to the shower practically holding you up as the water ran over you. Despite your struggling she didn’t once let go as she held you and nat washed your body clean of the sweat that had soaked your clothes.

“shh love its ok” she cooed stroking back your damp hair from your face

After the shower from hell, as you called it, nat and Wanda dressed you in fluffy

PJs before carrying you to the bed and putting the sick bag on the bedside table. Your girls snuggled up with you.

“what about the car. We need to unpack” you yawned.

“don’t worry your pretty little head about it love your far more important.”

“plus I can use my magic to unpack it from here love” Wanda stated.

“okay” you sighed curling into Nat’s shoulder as Wanda wrapper her arms around you.

“goodnight sweetheart.” Nat cooed, stroking your hair back.

“night wands. night Tasha. Love you guys.”

“good night love. We love you too. Now sleep baby.”

Masterlist

[romanarose]

No.

No outbreak!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Join my taglist : Masterlist

Summary: You're sick and Joel won't let you go to work.

Warnings: Being sick. Extra for talking about covid, but reader doesn't have covid.

Immersability: Reader is fem bc this is specifically written for someone. Usually in drabbles I try to make the reader gender non descript just to make them accessible to people of all genders but this is for someone. I toyed around with sick indicators like looking flushed or pale, but I just landed on describing a change in coloring. I'm sorry if that's not vague enough.

A/n: Written for @joelsgreys who I saw was sicky wicky and I just wanted to give a few short paragraphs of comfort.

Support writers and content creaters! Reblog and leave comments!

***************

"No."

Joel stands in front of your bed, arms crossed and already dressed for the day. You had been sleeping in, or trying to. How was he not cold? You were freezing.

You try to get out of bed, but Joel walks over, gently but firmly laying you back down. "Joel! I have to go to work!"

"Like hell you do." Joel pulls the covers up over your shaking form. "You were up all night hack'n up a lung, what if you have covid?"

"I don't have covid, I checked last night."

Joel furrows his brow as he looked down at you. "What? When?"

Coughing loudly, you try to convince your husband you were fine. "I took a test around 5 when I thought *cough cough* I was gonna puke."

"Sweetheart..." He kneels down beside you, brushing hair out of your sweaty forehead. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you have to work too! It made no sense for us to be miserable."

Joel sigh, pulling out his phone. "Try and look as sick and sad and possible."

You didn't have to try too hard. Your change in coloring was apparent and your face gleaned with sweat. Your nose was raw and dry and chapped from wiping it and your eyes held deep bags from no sleep. To top it all off, you frowned and pouted, eyes glistening from the sickness.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he snapped a picture. "Good, you look awful." He sent the picture to Tommy. 'You're on your own today.'

"Joooooeeeelll" You whine. "I can't stay home if it's not covid, boss won't have it!"

He snatched your phone off the bedside table and dialed your boss, letting him know that you were running a fever and puking, and he was certain he wouldn't want you spreading that sickness to others knowingly, right? Your boss conceded, Joel tone leaving no room for discussion and his implication promoting your boss to say you can stay home tomorrow too.

Your smile greeted him when he got off the phone. "I love you, you know."

"I do."

*Ding!* Went Joel's phone, loudly. Joel always had it on loud so he could hear. He didn't trust the vibration or flash and his hearing was bad enough he wanted to make sure he always got important phone calls and texts involving you, Sarah, and Tommy. It was annoying, a slight irritant and sometimes made you jump, but it was a small sacrifice for him and his peace of mind. He looked at his phone, opening the text from Tommy. 'Disgusting. *puke emoji* Both of you stay away from me. I got it here.'

Taking out the Vaseline you always kept for your dry lips, he rubs a glob on your dried up nose. "I'm gonna drop Sarah off at school, then run to CVS and get you shit. THEN I'm going to IHOP and getting a breakfast fit for a princess."

"Oh my god I'm starving."

"I know, baby." Joel kissed your gross forehead before shoving a few things in his pocket as Sarah called for him downstairs. "Try and take a nap, I'll be home in an hour and take care of yuh, alright?"

"Okay. Thank you."

"For what?" He looked genuinely confused. That was Joel, alright. Joel Miller always took care of everyone around him. He raised Tommy, he raised Sarah always putting them before any need he had for himself. When you came into his life, he did the same for you. You liked to think you returned it, that you cared for him too, but to Joel, caretaking was second nature to him. He didn't need a thank you, because that's just what he did... but you thanked him anyway. Sarah was a great kid, but she was 14, and 14 year olds are in their own world. Tommy was like a brother to you, and you knew he'd care for you too and has before, but he lived his life knowing Joel would bail him out.

You would never take Joel for granted.

"For everything you do for our family."

**************

Hope you feel better soon Vee! I know we don't really know each others but I know how much a lil fic can perk someone up so I hope you are least feel comforted bc your right, Joel would NEVER let you work under these conditions!

@fandxmslxt69 @runa-falls @k-ra @whatthefishh @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @mikaelak @littlenosoul @stevenandmarcslove @pikapuff-316 @del-ightfulling @faretheeoscar @harriedandharassed @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @campingwiththecharmings

[botticelli-angels]

Trying to write a devil’s minion fic but it’s 90% personal headcanons and 10% actual content 🫠

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC 'EM

Chapter 1: Fetch

A/N: We're FINALLY ready to get started here! So excited to share my work with you guys after talking about it for so long. Each chapter will come with its own warnings, tags, etc. but the chapters are not stand-alone. It's... more just because I am a pantser and not a planner so lord knows what will happen in the future.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, future M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: mentions of period accurate anti-Romani racism, mental health issues, generally just being a PB fic

Summary: Tommy Shelby needs a rat for the Grand National at Aintree Racecourse. Runaway lovers Samuel Lovell and Florence-Maria Lee need the money. It's a bulletproof plan, an easy job, and a chance to make things right with the Lee family... so what other choice does Sam have?

The other Lee girl was meant to meet him along the road halfway between Haydock and Collins Green just over twenty minutes ago, according to Tommy’s pocket watch. Esme had promised Tommy that Florence-Maria would make good on her word, but her lateness was beginning to wear on his resolve. Still, he had no choice but to wait, cigarette after cigarette burning down to embers at the tips of his fingers. Thomas Shelby was a man who valued the soldierly punctuality that would have been the difference between life and death on the Front. Esme’s sister or not, Florence was still an unknown variable, and the far travels of the Lee family could prove difficult if it came to tracking the young woman down. If she did not want to be found, she would not be found.

She certainly had her fair share of reasons to balk at their meeting. If Johnny Dogs’ story was to be believed, Florence was the first to object to the deal between the Shelbys and the Lees. The sisters were best friends, the closest in age of all of Zilpha’s children. Esme was Florence’s whole world. Strike one against the Shelbys, then, for taking Esme away. John’s account of the young woman was that she was skittish and not easily comforted by the promise of peace between the families. Tommy himself remembered seeing a girl roughly Esme’s age shying away from Cousin Nipper’s offer of a dance, flinching as though a touch from their accursed family could kill. Strike two. Most compelling of all was Esme’s own warning, delivered with the pride of an older sister: Florence does not take unnecessary risks. And Tommy was asking a very, very risky favor. Strike three.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke thick and acrid as he let the wind carry his sigh away. The prospect of making this deal work was too tempting to give up now. It kept Tommy leaning against his car, resolutely opposing the strong wind buffeting his side, the slightly-too-warm late spring sunlight beating down on his jacketed shoulders. If this plan went well, the Blinders could expand to Aintree Racecourse, taking the Grand National Steeplechase and cementing a reputation in Northwest England. While their security with Solomons and his Yiddishers meant they already had a place in booming London, the idea of staking a claim on Liverpool and Manchester was tempting. Tommy was nothing if not enterprising.

A low snort alerted him to the presence of a stout black filly cresting the top of the hill before him, a petite woman astride her unsaddled back. There was no mistaking her: this was certainly Florence. Her resemblance to Esme was evident, from her upturned nose to the brunette curls brushing her shoulders. Even the way she carried herself was familiar, bearing the unmistakable poise and dignity of a daughter of Zilpha Lee. Her dismount from the horse was gentle, nearly soundless even with the oversized riding boots she wore. It wasn’t until Florence turned to face him that Tommy could see the slight curvature of her lower belly below the loose fabric of her dress. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she pulled her colorful shawl more tightly over her abdomen, frowning slightly. Ah. That certainly explained her sudden departure from the Lee family caravans. Her mother was a stern and practical woman. If Zilpha were to find out about her daughter’s pregnancy, she would likely have been married off immediately to save her girl and the family the embarrassment. Perhaps to someone she didn’t know, whom Zilpha would approve of far more than her man. Not unlike how she and I married off her sister, Tommy thought, not without a small pang of guilt.

“Thomas Shelby, then?” She called out to him from a distance, keeping herself close to her filly. God, she even sounded like her sister: birdlike and light, but with a sharp edge of wariness.

“Aye,” he responded. “Florence-Maria Lee?” She nodded, glancing over him suspiciously. Undoubtedly, she already knew about the razor blades tucked unobtrusively into the brim of his cap. That wouldn’t help matters. Slowly, Tommy removed the cap and lay it out on the hood of his car, palms raised placatingly. The tension in her shoulders unwound slightly, though there was still a stubbornness to her voice when she spoke.

“He told me this morning he didn’t want to see you,” she called out. “Said he didn’t want a part in the Peaky devils’ business.”

It wasn’t ideal, that. It was always a possibility, coming all the way out here only to be turned away by the man he’d been hoping to see. But he would be damned if he gave up now, when the North was so close to being his that he could practically taste the factory soot in the air. “What would it take to change his mind?” Florence tilted her head, silently scrutinizing some unknown detail on Tommy’s face as she brought up a hand to stroke the cheek of the little black filly. Tommy had seen this type of horse often, when he’d been young. Only broad, compact horses were strong enough to pull a vardo across miles of open plain without complaint. He wondered if this was the sort of creature that Florence’s man worked with often: sturdy, dependable, solid. Hardly the leggy, lean build of a pedigree racehorse, but it had a unique charm that was difficult to deny. Rough-hewn and efficient, they were all that was needed with none of the frills.

“She’s a beauty,” Tommy said, breaking the silence as he jutted his chin towards the horse. “What’s her name?”

Florence relaxed a bit further, allowing the little horse to press her velvety nose in the cup of her palm. “Fleet Ypres,” she responded proudly. “She’s practically his baby. Not for sale, nor barter. So don’t try.”

Tommy nodded, daring to approach the horse, who eagerly flared her nostrils to examine the newcomer. From his left jacket pocket he withdrew an envelope stuffed with money– Florence’s share of the payment for her share of the negotiating –handing it over so the woman could safely tuck it behind the plain neckline of her dress. From his right, he procured a small pink taffy, which he unwrapped and fed to the eager horse. “He fought in Belgium, then?”

She didn’t respond immediately, instead clicking her tongue at the filly so that she would sidestep closer to the wooden fence along the side of the road. Using the rails as leverage, she mounted Fleet Ypres carefully, a hand resting protectively on her small bump as she pulled herself upright and adjusted her shawl again.

“He’s in a bad way today,” she commented in lieu of an answer. “You were a soldier. You’d know how it is.”

All too well, Tommy thought bitterly, the phantom scent of thick, burnt-sweet opium smoke assaulting his nostrils at the memory of one too many sleepless nights ending in a drugged-out haze. “I’ve seen men behave in all manner of ways, coming home.”

Florence gave him a sympathetic wan smile. She held his gaze contemplatively, a furrow between her brows as another strong wind blew against her back, making Fleet Ypres shiver and shift her balance. Her comfort with silence struck Tommy as unusual. Growing up in a household as crowded and hectic as his own, it was difficult to develop the patience to be so still. Florence, despite her own large, close-quartered family, seemed to possess this affinity for quiet. He respected that; it took discipline and an even temperament. She was exactly the type of person Tommy could rely on to keep this negotiation running smoothly.

A creeping chill settled over them as a thick cloud blotted out the midday sun. In the overcast light, he could see where Florence had become different from her older sister. Where Esme’s defiant gaze was fueled by stubbornness and fire, the younger Lee girl held a quiet desperation behind her cautious dark eyes. Her cheeks were beginning to sharpen despite her youthfully round face, something he’d learned to recognize when food was scarce and his younger brothers were at risk of going hungry for too many nights in a row. The combination of these factors would have typically made him wary, like some sort of primordial survival instinct developed to recognize when a person was at their breaking point. Once again, the girl (consciously or not, Tommy wasn’t sure) protectively rested a hand on her lower belly. No, he thought, not a threat. Someone in her position wouldn’t risk ruining the offer he’d laid out for her.

Florence was the first to break the silence with a resigned huff and a shrug, the tips of her ears pinking with the confession: “Fine, let’s go then.”

Tommy blinked. “Pardon?”

“He’s waiting to speak to you. I needed to vet you out first.” Florence gave him another critical once-over, waiting on his reaction. “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Shelby.”

It took a moment for Tommy to realize what Florence was saying. Then, half a second later, that she’d been misleading him on purpose. The mix between relief that the tension had broken and irritation that she’d outmaneuvered him must have shown on his face, judging by the slight cheeky smirk the Lee girl was struggling to suppress. Sorry my arse, he thought. You’ve been conducting this conversation to the exact tune you wanted. I just happened to sing in key. “Very well,” he sighed, turning towards his car and placing his hat neatly back on his head. “Alright. You have the money, now I’ll need the address.”

Florence scoffed, as if the very idea of such a thing was ridiculous. “There’s no address, Mr. Shelby.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

She turned Ypres back down the road she’d rode in on, the horse’s long tail catching the breeze in an unexpectedly graceful about-face. “If you’re going to find Sam Lovell,” she shouted over her shoulder, “you’re going to need to think like Sam Lovell.” Fleet Ypres kicked up a cloud of dust behind her as she cantered off, leaving Tommy to hop into the driver’s seat and start the ignition on his Model-T.

Fuck’s sake. He knew enough about Sam to know exactly where she was headed. He would need to follow behind quickly and keep his eyes peeled for a little red vardo, the one that had gone missing from the Lee caravans just a few months ago. That was the last Zilpha had seen of her daughter, and the last anyone had seen of the elusive Samuel Lovell. From what Esme had said of him, perhaps that’s been for the best. With that thought in mind, he sped off down the dirt path, following Florence’s lead.

At a canter, the horse wasn’t overly fast, but she had a steady gait. That speed wouldn’t do on the track, Tommy reasoned, but it was well enough for a caravan horse. Certainly well enough for Florence, who rode at least ten lengths from the car without a second glance behind her or an ounce of concern for her delicate condition. Even with the rumble of the car engine just out of sight, something startling to a horse with little to no city experience to be heard of, the little filly kept her course without a hint of anxiety. Bomb-proof, he thought, and a wave of relief brought a smile to his face. A horse like that could only come from a handler of integrity, a man who understood mutual respect. The type of man Tommy could do business with and walk away from without sweating over the fear of a bullet in his back.

The path Florence took him down grew dusty and dotted with sparse patches of grass, leading them away from the main road to Haydock. Past here, only tip carts and sure-footed horses disturbed the dirt, the natural grooves in the earth rattling the chassis of the automobile as it sped carelessly over each bump. Tommy could just make out forked sticks left in the grass along the trail as patrin signs urging fellow travelers onward, indicating safe passage and friendly company up ahead.

Just as sunlight broke through the cloud cover, the road curved around a copse of thin trees to reveal their destination: a small, red vardo bedecked with hand-painted blue and yellow flowers. Outside sat a tent and cooking fire, and just before that was another horse tied to a stake in the ground. The chestnut gelding was snorting and pawing at the ground, ears tilted back in warning as a tall, dark-haired man stood patiently outside of kicking range. Florence slowed Fleet Ypres to a stop to dismount by the vardo, and Tommy pulled to the side of the road, closing the car door behind him as gently as he could so as not to unsettle the hotheaded gelding further.

Florence and the man– Sam, he presumed –conversed in hushed Angloromani, darting furtive glances back at Tommy as he approached. With one last reassurance that he was fine, that the state he’d woken in had passed, Sam kissed Florence’s forehead sweetly.

His eyes were the first thing Tommy noticed. Large and dove grey, they gave Sam a distinctly melancholy appearance, like the sky just before a downpour. The bruise-dark circles just below stuck out harshly against pale, sallow skin. Despite this, Tommy couldn’t find himself to be put off by his appearance. Sickly and unassuming as he seemed, he didn’t shy away from Tommy’s gaze. Call it simple intuition or call it recognition of a fellow soldier, but Tommy could tell that this man was not the same one who had enlisted. He must’ve been handsome before the war.

“Mr. Shelby,” Sam greeted, wiping his calloused palms on his farrier’s apron. Tommy removed his driving gloves, shaking his hand firmly. “Sam Lovell. Henry’s son.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samuel. Good to finally see the man I’ve been hearing of,” Tommy drawled, stepping back to take a look at the gelding as a whinny pierced the air. “And this is?”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. “Meska. Danny Lee’s new horse.” He rounded the gelding’s front and patted him firmly on the neck, despite the horse’s loud snorting. “He was sold with an abscess under the left back hoof. Danny-boy dropped him here a while ago to go, ah… have a word with the seller,” Sam looked askance at Tommy, quirking an eyebrow knowingly. “And to deliver a message from the Peaky Blinders. But you knew that already.”

Tommy pulled out a cigarette for himself, offering one to Sam. He declined. Instead, the man reached into his back pocket and revealed two slices of dried red apple wrapped in a handkerchief, popping one in his mouth and letting the horse cautiously eat the other from the palm of his hand. “Gave up smokes after the war. Gives me the shakes.” He sniffed and cleared his throat, trailing a hand along the gelding’s flank until he reached the troublesome hoof, bandaged and padded. “This’ll take some time. He’s got an attitude, won’t let me near without a fair bit of bribery. But he oughta be good for riding by the Appleby fair, God permitting.”

“You’re still a godly man after everything, Samuel?” Tommy lit his cigarette, letting it hang from his mouth as smoke curled around his head.

It was an innocent question, nothing more than a weak attempt at peeling back the layers of Sam’s guarded past, but it earned him a glare as cold and dead as still water in the trenches. Perhaps it was the change in light, the overcast above thickening as it cloaked the sun, but the circles under his eyes seemed to grow darker, deep and sunken. The man's lips were chapped and anxiously bitten to scabbing in places. It didn’t take a soldier’s experience to know that Sam was exhausted, laden with the kind of weight that didn’t shake with a good night’s sleep. If he could even manage such a thing, he thought. Tommy had seen men fall victim to their own minds with a lack of sleep in the Somme, going skittish and paranoid like cornered animals. Yet the look in Sam’s eyes wasn’t desperate, but fixed. Focused. It was a dizzying thing to be the subject of.

“You keep calling me Samuel,” he muttered, the ghost of a scouse accent coating his words as he stepped into Tommy’s space, breathing in his smoke. “God has heard, it means. D’you think God heard me in Ypres?” He leaned in close, right next to Tommy’s ear, lowering his voice to just a whisper. “Because I’ll tell you a secret, Tom. I did a lot of begging for it all to stop.”

Tommy steeled himself, slowed his breathing. It would do him no good to give in to the discomfort and back away, to put distance between himself and the war being stirred up in Sam’s brain. Whatever battle Sam had been fighting this morning had evidently not been won as easily as he’d told Florence it had. While Tommy did not come here looking for a confrontation, it was difficult to determine if Sam knew as much– or, rather, whether his mind could recognize the difference between friend and foe so far into this waking nightmare. The way he spat out God’s name felt like a provocation, tempting Tommy to fight back just to give Sam a reason to bite. Besides the fact that he and the heavens were no longer on speaking terms, Tommy knew better than to escalate. Knew that this was just the jagged edge the Western Front had left behind when it ripped Sam away from the safety of home. Something in the tension the other man held, an anticipatory rigor, told him that he had to keep playing his part in the verbal standoff if he wanted this conversation to go anywhere. He had to meet the soldier where he was at, even if that place was a trench only Sam could see. “And did God answer?”

Sam was the one to back up, hunching slightly to grin sardonically with that same ghostly eye contact. “Oh, yes. He sent me a bullet, right here,” He tapped a rib on his right side. “Nearly sent me up to my maker, it did. But the week I was due back on the front lines, the war ended. Lucky me.” He straightened up but didn’t move farther, just glared down at him like a priest at the pulpit. “So yeah, you could say that I’m a proper faithful man, Thomas.” Don’t fucking ask again, his tone said.

“Good.” Tommy looked him up and down slowly. Analytically. Waiting for the bite to follow his bark. “I like to see devotion.”

Sam’s nostrils flared, betraying his irritation that the older man would not stand down. He cut an imposing figure, Tommy had to admit. It was a shame how hard he tried to shrink into himself before this disruption, lean limbs pulled in and shoulders hunched as though he could hide in plain sight. This, in contrast, this…intensity was a force to be reckoned with. This was someone Tommy could use on his side. He had to teach him to harness that anger, refine him the same way he honed Arthur to a razor-sharp edge and wielded him like a weapon. Break him the way he might break a horse. Train him the way he might train a bloodhound. Their eye contact held until Florence stepped into his peripheral, a hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back gently. She whispered a question to him, inaudible over the sound of the gelding’s concerned huffs, to which he responded with a tight smile and slight shake of the head. The warm glow of Tommy’s cigarette quickly reached his lips, and he crushed the butt of it into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.

They didn’t have money, that much was clear. Between Sam’s unhealthy pallor and the frayed hem on Florence’s dress, they gave the impression of a couple working themselves ragged in an attempt to make ends meet. Tommy’s offer could get them out of the cold for the winter, put them up in a flat in the city where the factories could use a blacksmith. That wouldn’t appeal so much to someone like Sam, accustomed as he was to clean, fresh air and the sensitivities of horses, but it was work. Work meant food on the table. That realization must have reached Sam while he listened to Florence, because something like dread settled over his face as he took in the difference in their appearances: Tommy, clean-cut and offering him a job, and Sam, hunger gnawing behind his ribcage and no family left to take shelter with.

“Alright,” Sam returned to Tommy, the ice beginning to melt away from his pale eyes. “I’ll consider doing business with you, but it’ll be no tricks, aye? If I don’t like your plan, or if you change shit up on me day-of, I walk. Got a deal?”

Tommy nodded, emboldened by this show of trust. “Deal.”

Each man spat into his bare palm, and they shook on it.

Sam did not like Tommy. Not at first, at least. He carried himself as if he weren’t the upstart head of a Brummie street gang; an ill-fitting hand-me-down from his father that he had only just grown into, if he’d heard correctly. The tailored suit and shiny dress shoes were a poor fit for the dusty country road, as though he’d been planning to meet over crystal tumblers of gin and tonic at a fucking white tablecloth restaurant rather than the middle of a field miles from anything resembling a town. Sam had no such pretenses. Tommy knew he was just a farrier, knew he was the son of a farrier, knew he was dirt poor and barely scraping by even without the baby. But if Tommy wanted to flaunt his new status and play at the image of old money, he could go right on ahead. It cost him nothing when Sam knew he could see right through it.

Sam had to give him credit for one thing, though– he was a good businessman. The plan was solid, and the offer was just steep enough to be tempting while realistic enough to be trustworthy. He hardly had to act to fill the role he’d been set to play, just keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut at Aintree Racecourse. Tommy needed someone to integrate into the regular staff of farriers, veterinarians, trainers, and stableboys milling about the racecourse over the course of the two weeks leading up to the race, learning the ins and outs of the venue and discovering the weak points in security. After every few days he’d report to their go-between, Paul Knight– which he was sure was not the man’s real name –who was identifiable as a big bloke missing half a pinkie who would wait for him at the Queens Arms pub. But on Grand National day, his role would be the silent, inconspicuous observer posing as yet another nameless grunt in the stables, tracking the movements of every piece on the chessboard: the jockeys, the coppers, the bookies. Up until the minutes before the races start. From the bar, he’d create a distraction: a staged fight with another of the Blinders over something stupid and typical, like betting or women or offhand remarks. He’d involve others. Make a scene. And, with the Blinders’ help, their scuffle would escalate into an all-out pub brawl. The coppers would have no choice but to flood the scene just to untangle the whole mess, and Sam would flee. With no coppers and no eyes on the bookies, the Blinders could burn their permits and rob them of their earnings. A variation on the Epsom scheme, Tommy had said. A modus operandi in the making.

With the price Tommy was willing to pay for his cooperation, it was impossible to say no. He had a child on the way, a family to look after, a home to be the man of. There was already no other choice for him. The age of automobiles was upon him, and the type of people who could afford to pay good money for a good farrier were no longer the people who required his services. He wouldn’t be many clients’ first choice; it was easier to send the Rrom on his way and pay a higher price for someone whose parentage they respected. Anyone who wasn’t like him.

So there was no other choice. That’s what he told himself. It’s what he told Florence, later, when they were alone and settling in for the night. There was no other choice, and the money would be enough to keep them afloat, and she deserved to rest while he made things work. That he would take care of her. That he always did.

“Fia,” he whispered to her, fingers carding through her curls. Long ago, Florence-Maria became just Fia, and the name had stuck tighter than a burr in a wild colt’s mane. “Fia, listen. It’s just one job.”

She sighed, one heaping lungful of air saying more than words could. When it was just the two of them, words were hardly necessary anyway. “It’s always just one job with those men,” she muttered into his bare chest, “and then before you know it it’s just another job. And another. And a horse. And a few guns. And some cash. And a night in a cell.” And your big sister, he thought. It went unspoken.

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll just tell ‘em to fuck off.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just this time, I’ll do it. It’s not much effort, and a lot of money besides. The racecourse’ll pay me for the honest work on top of that. They’ll be none the wiser.”

She pouted. Sam couldn’t see it, but he could certainly feel it against his skin, the way her jaw tightened and her lower lip stuck out just slightly. He resisted the urge to poke that scowl, just to make her laugh. Something about this moment felt like no laughing matter.

After a moment of silence, she spoke up, her voice small and quiet: “I didn’t like the way he talked to you.”

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t be seen from her angle. “He hardly did, Fia. Puffed himself up like a rooster and said the vaguest shit you ever did hear, then it was right to business.”

“I don’t like the way he looked at you, then,” she moved, propping herself up with a hand on her cheek so that her chin rested on his shoulder. “Like you were a horse at auction.”

Like a piece of meat, more like. He shuddered. “And what if you’re wrong, eh? What if I do my job and go on my way, and the Peaky Blinders just leave us be?”

Florence shrugged, still skeptical. “Well, if I’m proven wrong, then I’m wrong.”

“My Fia? Proven wrong?” Sam gaped at her, gasping dramatically. “Hell might freeze over before I hear you admit that.” “Wanker.” That, at least, provoked a snort and a poorly-restrained grin to break out over her face. She wriggled up until she was partially propped upright by the pillows behind her, then took Sam’s hand and placed it right over her bump. A flicker of sadness shone behind her eyes for half a second. “Just… don’t let them keep you from being her father, alright?”

Sam grinned, scooting so that they were close again. “Her? You’re convinced we’re having a girl?”

“Oh, we are.”

“Nah, we’re having a boy. I know because I prayed.” He pressed his palms together and looked skyward, “Oh please God, send me a son! Send me a son so that I’m not stuck being nagged by two mares and a daughter and a wife all at the same time–”

She cackled, leaning down and bumping their foreheads together. “Sam, you can’t just say I’m your wife!”

“Gotta say that to keep the Big Man happy, eh?” Sam rolled so that he was hovering over her, nose-to-nose. “How else am I gonna get my prayers answered? Not with sex out of wedlock and spiriting you away from home, that’s for sure.”

That golden smile of hers deflated slowly, turning bittersweet as she stroked an overgrown lock of black hair away from his forehead. Ah. So that’s what this was about.

Sam sat back on his heels, taking her slender, work-calloused hands between his own. “Hey. Hey,” he waited until she was focusing on him, brown eyes meeting grey. “It’ll be okay, Fia. Esme’s the one who had Danny bring you the letter, wasn’t she? And besides, he left his new horse here, yeah?”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“Right. And if she was angry with you, or if your mum was angry with you… do you think they’d go and do that?”

Florence sniffled, shaking her head vehemently. “They hold grudges.”

Sam smiled. “Reminds me of someone I know. Fia, if your mum holds grudges, and Esme holds grudges, and Danny– bless his little arse-kissing heart –was sent all the way up here just to draw us into the Shelby family nonsense and then ‘borrow’ your mare while I doctored his proud-cut devil of a horse… do you really think they’d be upset at hearing from you?”

Florence sighed, reluctantly shaking her head no. Sam was sympathetic to her anxieties. It was world-shaking for her, finding out she was pregnant so soon after her best friend and older sister left home with a gangster. Their decision to leave in a stolen vardo when her monthly was late was impulsive, but not terribly unexpected. She’d threatened as much a number of times when Zilpha had told her that under no circumstances was she to marry the troubled boy from the troubled family in Liverpool. If Zilpha only knew the truth, her answer might’ve been different, he thought ruefully. It aggravated him, to think that they couldn’t see the way that he cared for her. That he would protect her. Love her. Do anything for her. Would they see that, if they knew why they’d run?

“They’ll have to figure it out eventually. You know that, right?” He tried to control his tone, struggling to keep the accusation out of his voice. Will you tell Esme? Will you tell Danny? Will you tell your mother?

Are you ashamed of me? Should I be ashamed of myself?

Florence rolled onto her side, curling up protectively. “I don’t want to go on about it, Sam. Not right now. I don’t feel well.”

Please tell me you aren’t ashamed.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s okay,” he said instead, lying down to hold her back against his chest. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. I promise.”

The tension in Florence’s shoulders evened out as sleep overcame her. Sam stayed awake, watching her breathe until the sun rose.

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

This is always the toughest because I have written over 100 fics (much more, if you count the ones in collections) and I truly do love pretty much all of them. I think I will keep this to Obiyuki fics I really found technically difficult, and creatively satisfying!

All Pain Will Turn To Medicine Joanna likes to refer to this as "as close a crossover between Jen's obiyuki fic and original writing as she can come and still call it fanfic" which is absolutely correct, since this fic require making an ENTIRE CAST of OCs to support the premise of "Obi and Shirayuki grow up as childhood friends in the canon universe." I worked on mainly original writing before I started posting fic, so I delight in making characters and then convincing people to care about them, sometimes even against their will.

And That's the Reason We Need Lips So Much Written for the VERY FIRST Obiyukiweek back in 2016, I had been talking about doing something just like this since I pretty much started posting Seven Suitors. Sorata has a love of taking tropes an twisting them, and I thought the "true love's kiss/kiss of life" would be a hilarious one to tackle because...CPR usually ends with vomiting and cracked ribs. I had to do some really in-depth research into the mechanism of hemlock poisoning, since there is no actual known cure, and make up a very convincing one for Shirayuki to discover-- half the reason U started writing fic for this fandom was because I had professional biology knowledge, I wasn't gonna handwave it!

Creatures of a Brief Season Like All Pain, this was for the first AU bingo we ever ran, and I was using a bunch of ideas we had all come up with almost six months earlier on the obiyuki server we had at the time. I'd been so taken with the idea of doing a retelling with daemons, especially with Shirayuki having a daemon that settled late, and Obi having a the witch's tether for his daemon...the biggest hurdle was hoping that I'd done the whole concept justice. It was a LOT of pressure, but it remains one of my favorite fics.

Family, Duty, Honor A Song of Ice and Fire is possibly one of my favorite fantasy series of all time (the show....exists), so when this showed up on my bingo board a few years ago I was ECSTATIC. I had many, MANY ideas for a long-form series that would involve SECRET PARENTAGE and POLITICAL INTRIGUE, and probably DRAGONS, but since it was just for bingo, I wanted it to focus on Obi & Shirayuki...and thus we started at the Fake Marriage, Real Baby plot 🤣 ASoIaF is very densely packed with lore and I wanted to keep this fic the same way...but also make it readable to those who do not shove themselves face first into 800 page fantasy novels. It was a balancing act that I feel like I ultimately got; there's lots of little hints left for fans of the series, but it's enjoyable to people who aren't!

A Color By Any Other Name I had been talking about writing a fic like this for YEARS before I got to sit down and write it; I was initially hesitant because sometimes relatively benign disabilities like colorblindness are used more as like...entertainment in fic, either just as jokes or something to be fixed by the end of the narrative. And my philosophy is always that if I am going to include and experience in a fic-- whether it be something playing a tabletop game, or experiencing grief-- it should feel relatable to a person who has experienced it. So if I wanted to write someone discovering their colorblindness (based more than a little off a close friend's experience in college), I didn't want the colorblindness to be the punchline. In the end I had more than a couple people mention they had read it out to colorblind boyfriends/husbands who had also thought it was funny, so I'm pretty happy with how it turned out!

[dayas]

MARLEY??????? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW????????