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kamotoshi · 3 years

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intent [kamo noritoshi x reader]

pairing: kamo noritoshi (the good one) x sorcerer! fem reader

genre: fluff, comfort

warnings: the whole story revolves around the reader being injured so there are brief mentions of medication, pain, and injuries; toshi bein a headass

word count: 3.7k

overview: you have to wonder what your best friend’s intentions are when he’s gone out of his way to visit you during every day of your recovery, no matter how busy he is

On one of the walls surrounding you, the clock’s hand shifts from one minute to the next. Through the speakers of your laptop, the movie you’ve stopped paying attention to long ago drones on in the background. Instead of focusing on the plot, you’ve taken to gazing out the window, watching the lush foliage outside painted vivid oranges and blues by the sunlight breaking through dark clouds dance in the breeze, as if celebrating the end of yet another spring shower. It feels hard to remember the last time you went for a walk outside—or anywhere, for that matter—and the more you think about how painful it is to be bedridden and out of action, the more you start to feel the dull, seemingly constant aches laying siege to your exhausted body.

Thankfully, the sound of the door to your temporary living quarters opening and closing again distracts you from your depressing thoughts, and, instead, makes your heart flutter with hope. Plastic crinkling, fabric shifting, and footsteps padding along the floor reach your ears next before a tall and familiar figure appears in the doorway to the bedroom. There’s a moment’s hesitation on his journey into the room, as if he’d been worried about disturbing you, but he continues with confidence when he sees you’re awake and expecting him.

With a small smile, you greet him, “Hey, ‘Toshi.”

“Hey,” he replies, “how are you feeling?” The long sleeves of his loose-fitting robes flutter behind him like a butterfly’s wings as he wanders over to the chair beside the bed you’ve been confined to for the past few days.

You shrug, glancing down at the bandages peeking out from beneath the sleeves of your sweater. “I’m alright, I guess.”

His eyes dart from the screen of your laptop to your own gaze, then back again. With furrowed brows, he adds, “What are you watching?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

“What’s the point of putting something on if you’re not gonna watch it? What else were you even doing?” he questions.

A scoff echoes from your throat at the fact that you’ve become the sudden subject of an unnecessary interrogation over such a trivial topic, but you can’t help the wry chuckle that follows upon noticing his unfazed expression. As usual, he doesn’t see the issue in such small debates. “I always could leave it to you to argue about the most irrelevant things.” In spite of the dull, warning pain that pangs in the side of your torso, you reach over to move your fingers over your laptop’s trackpad, but Noritoshi quickly stops you and does the job for you.

“Has everyone here been taking care of you while I’ve been gone?” is his next, surprisingly relevant question.

Leaning back against the pillows propped up behind you should give your body a sense of ease, but after spending so much time in one spot, you’re desperate to do the opposite instead. “Yeah. They’ve been checking in on me and bringing me food and painkillers, so I can’t complain.” Your lips curl into a small, devious grin when you mention, “You know, I went on a walk around the place with one of your servants and he told me all these funny stories about you when you were little, including the one where you accidentally gave yourself an awful haircut and refused to leave home without a hat.”

Self-consciously, he fingers the wrappings holding his dark strands of hair together, mindlessly beginning to unravel them. Though his attention is conveniently directed at the computer screen, you can see the blush that dusts his cheeks before his hair falls in front of his face when he removes its bindings. As much as you want to tease him over the event that had happened during his childhood, you find yourself at a brief loss for words at how he looks now. The way your heart thrums just a bit faster and harder is undeniable and fills your body with a different kind of pain, since you wonder if he’s ever looked at you the same way you’re looking at him.

Tracing over the handsome features of his face with your gaze, resisting the urge to separate the kinks in his hair from being held together so tightly all day, hoping you become the center of his attention again.

“You know we have movies here, right?”

His comment abruptly interrupts your thoughts, and you clear your throat before shooting back a, “What?”

“The one you’re watching is horrible.”

“Oh? And how would you know?”

He purses his lips and glances over at you out of the corner of his eye. There’s a somewhat uncomfortable pause before he blurts out, “A friend.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” you retort with a snicker.

You swear you see a hint of a smile playing at his lips as he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’ll bring back a better one from my room for us to watch after I go and change.” When his dark eyes meet with yours, there’s a tinge of something indiscernible in them. Sadnesss, regret, maybe a bittersweet kind of relief? It reminds you of how he’d first looked at you when he’d helped you into the bed in which you lie now.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” You shake your head. “Alright. I picked some stuff up from the store. I’ll be back to cook in ten minutes.” He frowns at the shocked expression that appears across your face at the mention of him cooking, since it’s such a rare occasion—due mostly to his lack of skill in the area—and rises to his feet once more. He does, however, extend his hand toward you and say, “Come on, I’ll help you into the other room since I know you’d be too worried sitting in here while I make us something to eat.”

A coy smile forms across your lips as you shove the covers aside, exposing your legs clad in sweatpants to the cool air in the room. “You know me so well, don’t you?” is the remark you send his way in a facetious manner that only fuels Noritoshi’s chagrin. His hand feels incredibly warm against yours when he grabs it to help you out of your confinement in the shape of a memory foam mattress, and you tighten your grip around it as your legs tremble with fatigue. Moving closer to you, he allows you to wrap your arms around one of his to support yourself, bringing your body flush against his

“Eight years.”

“Huh?” Your eyes, which had been formerly directed at the floor to mask the effects of your racing heart, shoot upwards toward him.

His eyebrows furrow in that judgmental, what do you mean ‘huh’? type of look he always made and wondered why others recoiled at the sight of it. “That’s how long we’ve known each other, so it’s no wonder why I know you so well.”

Giving his arm a playful squeeze, you shoot back, “Didn’t know you’d been keeping count.”

“It’s basic math.”

“’Toshi… you’re so, brutally honest. No wonder I’m, like, your only friend.”

“So?” he murmurs, arm dipping to support you, then lifting once more when your leg nearly gives out on you, “I’d rather have you than anyone else.”

The way he lets what he’s just said be known in his unabashedly straightforward manner of speaking, without tacking any other comments on to verify his intentions are purely platonic sends a wave of comforting warmth washing over you. Over the years, you’ve known him for his sometimes abrasively candid nature, but you’ve always appreciated that he’s never left you to question the value he places on your friendship. In spite of his shy tendencies that seemed to be limited mostly to interactions with you when the two of you had first become friends, he’d never been one to beat around the bush—and he still didn’t now.

Though you’ve always assumed his comments like the one he’d just made were meant in a friendly way, you can’t help but wonder if maybe there is something he’s not being forthcoming about. If maybe his more relaxed pace while walking with you accompanied by his lingering touch as he helps you onto the couch is his way of prolonging the time during which he gets to be closer to you. If maybe the subtle softness to his expression while he watches you settle is a result of love rather than just a superficial level of concern. If maybe him opening his clan’s estate to you as a refuge where you could safely recover had been done out of a deeper affection he harbored for you instead of his own guilt at not being able to protect you in the situation that had led to your injury.

But these are speculations you force into the back of your mind out of the fear you’re being imaginative and presumptuous. Surely, if he’d felt anything more than friendship towards you, he would’ve said something by now… right? It’s getting harder to believe with each visit he spends at your bedside, falling asleep with his head on your shoulder while he’s sitting beside you or resting by your legs as he slumps over onto the bed from where he sits in his chair. Seeing him go out of his way to support you, as he’s doing now while he stands in front of the stove—glaring at all the ingredients before him like he’s attempting to intimidate them into making a meal out of themselves—doesn’t help rid you of your persistent thoughts either.

Thankfully, you’re able to find a bit of distraction through conversation with him about his day. Between your glances over at him, you take to staring out the window, watching the rain come pounding down against the earth once more. Unbeknownst to you, Noritoshi finds his eyes on your form each time he looks up from what he’s doing, but they flicker back to the task at hand upon noticing your head turn back to keep a careful watch on him. Unfortunately, the moment you smell good food is when you let your guard down, and it’s not until there’s a haze in the room that you realize you’ve had too much faith in him.

Tearing your gaze away from the flowers Tōdō had brought you earlier in the morning, you shoot a pointed look over your shoulder at where Noritoshi stands in the kitchen. “Noritoshi, the food’s burning.”

“No, it’s still cooking,” is his swift response laced with confidence, as is usual for him. There’s a loud sizzle when he nudges whatever’s in the skillet onto the other side, sending another plume of smoke upwards

“It’s literally smoking.”

With a sigh, he turns on the fan above the oven and quells the flame beneath the pan with a turn of one of the knobs. Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, he prods rather cautiously at what you can only assume is a lump of coal with a fork. You don’t need to see his face to know that he’s realized the error of his ways, since his broad shoulders slump ever so slightly. You’re sure part of him wants desperately to say that it’s not that bad, but you only hear the grating sound of him chipping away at the scorched food.

It’s hard to keep a straight face, especially when he turns away from the disastrous attempt at cooking to face you and ask:

“So, what do you want to eat for dinner?”

Your answer to his question finds a box of your favorite food in your lap about a half hour later, and him close by your side as the two of you eat and watch one of the movies he’d brought over from his room. With the darkness of the sky outside and the warmth residing inside you both at having enjoyed a meal much more pleasant than the one he’d tried and failed to make, it’s no wonder you find him dozing off. And it’s only a matter of time before his head comes to rest against your shoulder—an action you can only assume was done unintentionally in his sleep, but that sends heat rising up to your face anyway.

As much as you enjoy having him close and feeling his deep breaths tickle your collarbone, you decide to nudge him back into consciousness after about fifteen minutes of letting him snooze in case he wants to go back to his own room.

“’Toshi…?”

“Hey,” he murmurs nearly unintelligibly, “are you okay? Do you need anything?” The level of concern in his voice and the questions he asks before his eyes have even fluttered open make it challenging to hide the grin that threatens to spread across your lips. Your noses nearly brush when he lifts his head, and the small squeak you nearly let out soon morphs into a gentle chuckle at the way he blinks slowly and knits his brows together with confusion as he tries to regain his bearings.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you assure him, “I’m fine. I was just wondering if you wanted to go to bed.”

He frowns. “Maybe,” is his reply exhaled in a deep sigh as he stands so he can offer you his hand once more. “C’mon, I’ll help you back to the bedroom.”

There’s a somewhat heavy silence in the air after you thank him and latch onto his arm to steady yourself. Whereas his lack of chattiness is most likely from his own fatigue weighing heavily on him, yours stems from one of the many questions that’s been lingering in your mind. With the way he’d been going out of his way to assist you and keep you company between his missions, you can’t help but wonder what his true intentions are—and if he’ll tell you when asked. You don’t know if you can bring yourself to ask, however, and your own self-consciousness keeps you quiet while he helps you back into your temporary bed yet again.

He lingers, though, almost as if he can sense you have something on your mind with the way you’ve gone silent. So, he takes a seat beside you on the plush mattress and places his hands in his lap. The flash of lightning that brings a slow, rumbling roar of thunder along with it distracts him for a moment and his fingers grip each other tightly. He hates thunderstorms, and you’re one of the only people who know. In a movement that feels instinctual, you reach for his hand, sending a soft smile his way when he slides his clammy palm between your warm ones.

Maybe it’s because you know he’s feeling just as vulnerable as you are—which is a rare occasion with the walls he’s built up around his more personal thoughts and feelings—but words start rolling off your tongue before you can stop them.

“Say, ‘Toshi?” you ask. He hums in response, the low tone of his voice nearly lost beneath the rhythmic thrumming of rain crashing down against the roof. “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?” Though his words were laced with exhaustion not that long ago, he seems much more alert now. Whether it’s his fear or his intrigue, you’re unsure, but his eyes meeting yours makes your breath hitch in your throat for a moment. The way you’re acting now brings a question you don’t intend on voicing to the forefront of your mind: How did I manage to deny my feelings for so long?

But the one you ask is: “Why are you doing all this for me?”

His brow raises. “What do you mean?” In a manner that’s comedic to you, he glances around the room, looking for whatever it is you’re referencing.

“I mean everything. Letting me stay here, taking care of me when you’re here, baking me dessert; hell, you even tried to cook me dinner.” Another clap of thunder gives you pause, and his fingers tighten around one of your hands. “So, what’s all this for?”

Brushing a few strands of raven-colored hair away from his face with his unoccupied fingers, he states, “I wanted to be the one to take care of you.”

Your face tingles with prickles of heat at his comment, but the sensation fades slightly when you notice his gaze has dropped to his lap and he’s allowed his bangs to shroud his expression. He doesn’t have the look of determination or even adoration in his eyes of someone who’s ready to confess their feelings. No, he looks guilty.

“Why?”

He fills his lungs with a deep breath that he releases in a drawn-out sigh before answering, “Because if I hadn’t suggested we split up during that mission, then this wouldn’t have happened to you.” The warm feeling of hope that had been swelling in your heart grows cold, like a flame extinguished by an icy gust of wind. “I needed to be the one to take care of you since I got you into this mess. This whole thing was my fault.”

“Oh, I see.” The biting undertones of your words don’t go unnoticed by him like they might normally would, since he lifts his head to look at you. With a shrug, you snap, “So you’re only doing all this to clear your guilty conscience, then?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” is his rebuttal spoken with brows furrowed.

“What the hell else was that supposed to mean, then? How was I meant to take that? Because to me it just sounds like you’re doing this to make yourself feel better.”

He shakes his head in an act of irritation toward himself. “Yes, I feel guilty, but that’s not the main reason why I’m doing this.”

“What, did you do it to be seen as a hero? An amazing sorcerer who’s also an admirable friend? Someone capable of doing the right thing?” you retort sarcastically, the sting of rejection parading as rage tainting your tongue.

“I’m doing it because I love you!”

In the long, somewhat awkward silence that follows his confession, you almost expect his face to fall. For him to realize that he’d revealed something that he hadn’t meant to. Or, worse, for him to tack the condition, “as a friend,” onto the end of it.

But the honesty in his dark eyes doesn’t waver. He doesn’t turn away and mutter about wishing he hadn’t said what he did. He doesn’t backtrack to revise his confession in a way that would keep you safely in the friend zone.

Instead, he says it again with the same level of confidence: “I love you.”

And adds, “More than I think you understand.”

His grip around your hand tightens in a gentle manner different to the fear with which he’d clutched it before with each flash of lightning outside. “You… do?” you whisper as your heart begins to ache in the tight vise of regret you now feel at your outburst. He nods without hesitation in response, and a small tug on his sleeve beckons him closer to you, driving away the chill in the air between your bodies.

For a moment, neither of you move, and, instead, gaze at each other as if your eyes are speaking silent reassurances. Despite the confident nature of his words, his actions are somewhat timid, since you don’t feel his breath fan across your face until you cup his in your hands. But, as soon as you utter those same words in return and press your lips to his, he kisses away any lingering doubts or worries, as well as your quiet apologies. While the storm rages on outside, you can only hear your own heartbeat and the short breaths you take between each tender yet passionate meeting of your lips. It feels as if a great deal of time has passed before you pull away, and you’re grateful for every second of it.

Without so much as a second thought, you make yourself at home in his arms already wrapped around you, resting your head in the crook of his neck. His warmth envelops you when he carefully tightens his grip around you to avoid hurting you, and any pain you’d felt earlier seems to dissipate in the glow of happiness and overwhelming relief that have taken its place. Noritoshi nestles his face against the side of yours, and his body steadily becomes heavier against yours until the peace is disturbed by another roar sounding from the skies above.

“This storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” he sighs, “Want me to stay here with you?”

Before you can even answer, he starts peeling back the covers and settling himself down in bed beside you. And in spite of your heart fluttering with joy at the thought of him spending the night with you, the opportunity to tease him is too enticing for you to let it slip away. “Why would I need you to stay here with me, huh?”

As usual, however, he’s unnerved by your attempt at catching him off-guard, and calmly replies, “In case the power goes out or you can’t sleep because of all the noise, obviously.”

A wry chuckle bubbles in your throat as you lie down beside him and move the side of your head onto his chest. “Obviously. Where would I be without you here to take care of me? I’m very lucky to have someone as diligent as you are by my side, aren’t I?” you simper.

His fingers interlace with the ones you have resting on his torso running absentmindedly along the soft fabric of his sweater. Giving your hand a tender squeeze and pausing a moment to admire the way your palm fits into his, he murmurs, “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Your last statement had been delivered somewhat facetiously but seeing the way his cheek comes to rest against the pillow so he can look over at you with only pure, unwavering honesty makes you add, in a more serious tone, “That makes two of us, then.”

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kamo noritoshi x reader #noritoshi x reader #tw injury

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onbeinganangel · 3 years

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warmup ficlet for @the-starryknight! she picked 'i know we’re not together but i might die today so i’m going to kiss you just in case there is no later' from this wee list of kisses and asked me to drarry it up and I rubbed my hands together in glee knowing fully well i was about to put together a hell of an angst sandwich

not beta'd, not edited, just angst with a happy ending directly from my heart to yours! (cw: some canon-style mentions of blood, violence, injury and also kind of patient/healer relationship)

damned if you do it and damned if you don’t

(draco/harry, 1.8k)

Draco had pictured it so often throughout his life he sometimes couldn’t honestly believe he had made it all the way to twenty-seven.

He remembers saying it after being thrown on his arse by the family Abraxan. He’d been very little, then. Five or six, maybe. He’d cried, big fat tears running down his face, and when his Mother finally managed to pull his tiny fists down and stop him from hiding his crying behind them, he’d announced, “Maman, I am dying.” She had assured him he very much wasn’t. They’d had scones with big heaped spoonfuls of clotted cream and raspberry jam in the garden and he’d soon forgotten about his fall.

A few years later, he fell off his broom and straight into the lake. Dobby had spelled him dry to avoid him getting in trouble and he was still heaving, coughing up water and panicking when he told the Elf, “Dobby, I am dying.”

Then there was the incident at Hogwarts. He still felt the sharp talons on his skin way after the hippogriff was far, far away, as he bled, holding onto the gashes on his arm and announced to the whole class, “I am dying, it’s killed me!”

Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, it was more constant. It was the heavy burn of the Mark settling on his arm, it was the feeling of all his organs lighting up in pain and his bones breaking under Crucio after Crucio, it was the sounds of Nagini slithering outside his bedroom door at night, the sickening thud of death, the unsettling screaming, his aunt’s shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice, Greyback’s growls. A neverending chant of “I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, I am dying” inside his head.

It was confiding in a ghost, it was crying because the fear of failure was so intense he reckons he would have preferred to be dead then, it was the only person he believed was actually kind and pure and incapable of willingly inflicting pain on anyone slashing him open and leaving him for dead on a bathroom floor. Draco had looked at Snape, murmuring spell after spell over him, and he’d whispered, “I am dying.”

It was learning how to be numb, how to not feel, how to keep everyone out of his mind and away from his thoughts, it was the paralysing terror of crawling around in the shadows, the bone-deep dread of dropping leftover bread rolls on the floor by the bars on the dungeon and kicking them swiftly into the other side, where they kept his classmates. It was sneaking a blanket or two down and saying to himself, “If they find out…”

It was the persistent horror of knowing you don’t believe in what you’re doing and knowing you’re damned if you do it and damned if you don’t. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Draco would lie in his bed at night — his own at home, his own in the dorms, Pansy’s in the girls’ dorms when it got bad, and he would say it to himself, hoping it would become true, “I am dying.”

But he hadn’t. Despite all odds, Draco is happy. Twenty-seven. He’s got friends, a flat, a job he loves and he’s good at. He’s no longer spat at on the streets. He survived, he made amends, he managed it all. Most of all, he had managed not to die.

Until now, that is. This time he’s pretty certain he won’t be afforded such luck. He feels the curse hit him square on the chest. It’s his own fault, really, for not realising there was someone already in the room he entered. He’d been too busy throwing a rather flourished Incarcerous across the room at the two potions dealers he’d been running after for the past five minutes to notice the third man.

Draco is falling backwards before he has time to even think about anything, his wand clanking noisily seconds before he joins it on the floor.

Then: “Incarcerous.” He hears it — muffled but there. And after, “Fuck, Draco.”

He’s way too familiar with the way his Auror partner works not to know it’s him when the strong arms wrap around him and pull him up. “Oh, Merlin,” he hears. His eyes flutter back open for a couple of seconds and he can tell he was right, even if it’s all blurry: red robes, orange hair, worried blue eyes.

Fear. “I am dying,” he thinks. “Harry,” he says.

“You’re gonna see Harry alright,” Ron says. “He’s gonna have words about having to heal you again,” it’s almost like a joke. Like a Ronald-typical joke. But there’s an edge of worry there. There’s panic. Ronald doesn’t panic.

And it dawns on him. Draco tries to look down but it’s all red. The burgundy of his robes, the sticky dark red of drying blood on his hands and the fresh and vivid blood still pouring out of his chest. He’s not gonna make it to St. Mungo’s, he’s never going to make it to Harry.

“I am dying,” he says, and Ron makes a noise that can only be described as half agony, half agreement.

It smells like St. Mungo’s when he wakes up thinking “I am dying.” Very faintly, he hears the same voice he always hears in his dreams. Maybe he is dead. The voice never sounds like this in his dreams, though: disembodied, frantic, quick. Draco catches half words, half sentences, half conversations that don’t make sense. A different voice is saying “just do it” and “you’re powerful enough” and “sod protocol” and “I am his partner, I brought him here.” The voice from his dreams responds with things like “unstable” and “I don’t know” and “can you please try” and a “I can’t get in touch with her” and “not without consent forms” and a louder, angry “he’s not going to d—“

Draco tries to move towards the voice.

“Draco!” Says the first voice and three pairs of feet come towards him.

“Don’t try to open your eyes, don’t try to talk, don’t try to move, okay? We have stopped the bleeding for now, but we’re still trying to reverse the curse.”

“Harry.” His Harry.

“Yes, hello. We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I am dying,” Draco croaks out.

“I won’t let you.”

Draco wants to speak. He wants to say “I am dying, I don’t want to die without telling you,” but he has no strength. His thoughts are going faster than the newest Firebolt as he hears Harry tell whoever else is in the room (Ron?) to leave. He wonders if this is it. This what they show you in the films: your life flashing before your eyes right before you die. He thinks of Harry shaking his hand after his Auror graduation ceremony. “Well done, Malfoy,” he’d said. He thinks of that first time he’d been invited over to Ron and Hermione’s, a few weeks after he became Ron’s partner, and Harry had laughed at his stories, lips wine-red and plump, eyes kind like he’d never expected. He thinks of every moment of almost in between them, every moment where Draco considered blurting it out, saying what was on his mind. The Christmas Gala as he towered over Harry and fixed the little chain on his robes for him, and that night at that dingy club for Hermione’s birthday where they’d stared at each other for forty minutes and when Draco had decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he found out that Harry had left. Or just last month when they’d gone out to buy a housewarming present for Luna and ended up eating leftovers on Harry’s sofa, exhausted from people and walking. There are too many. Too many instances of hesitation, too many “nearly-but-not-quites.”

And he’ll die and won’t ever get the chance to tell him, to kiss his handsome, stupid, precious face, and it aches — it hurts almost as much as that spot just to the left of his breastbone where the Curse had hit, where he was profusely bleeding not long ago.

“Closer,” he manages, very quietly.

Harry approaches, but not close enough, not even close enough for Draco to grab at him.

“Cl— clos—uh—closer,” he tries again.

And Harry’s right there, by his bed and he looks beautiful in his Healer robes (unheard of, really) and Draco is blinking his view into a sharper focus and listing all the things he knows he loves, the things he doesn’t want to forget: the white-ish storm of a scar that slashes through Harry’s eyebrow, the shiny (shinier than usual?) green eyes, the touch of stubble, the slightly crooked nose, the lips — oh, the lips, plump and sweet looking and Draco will never get to find out just how sweet. And then, he has to do it. Because if he’s going to die anyway, he may as well use his last breath on this.

He pushes himself off the pillow slightly and his hand pulls Harry’s green robes closer until their lips meet, clumsily and hard — Harry not expecting it, Draco waning from the efforts of pulling Harry closer, but Draco will die knowing he’s kissed Harry. And if there’s no later, at least he’s done it. At least Harry knows.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Harry says, and pushes him back down. Gently, like everything he does.

“But—“

“I know, darling. Me too.”

Darling? Harry… too?

“I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m going to heal you and we’ll do that again. I’ll take you to dinner, or brunch, I know you like brunch. Or just coffee. We’ll go to the pictures. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go flying. We’ll go clubbing and I’ll dance with you, I promise I will, and I’ll let you tell me how bad I am. I’ll find you a copy of that book you were talking about with Hermione, no matter how much it costs. I’ll throw my name around if I have to, okay? And we’re going to do that again, properly. When I’m not your healer and you’re not hurting. I’m going to heal you now, you just—“ he stops, then, breathing wild and panicked.

Then, a small sob. A kiss to his forehead. Draco doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“You just hold on, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

And Draco would cry if he had the strength, he would say yes to all those plans and more, but he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s magic sinking into his body like and he holds on, just like he was told to. He holds on, even if he doesn’t know exactly to what. And he thinks maybe he’ll get lucky again, and he’ll stop picturing himself dead like he’s been doing his whole life. Harry’s magic feels like love, like poetry, like cascading words of affection whispered into the space between his ribs, it feels like hope. And Draco holds on and thinks to himself, as loud as a thought can go, “I am not dying.”

#i may actual edit this and pop it on ao3?#i kind of like it?#thank you starry baby for this delicious prompt #warmup ficlets #drarry #m writes #angst with a happy ending #cw blood #cw injury #cw violence

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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What about Mc asking Belphie for his demon form just so they can cuddle his tail? Please? 🙂

I don’t think I’ve written a piece where Belphie’s been fully conscious, yet, and that’s not going to change now. He’s just so sweet when he’s half-asleep, isn’t he? So cuddly, so loving… I’d say gentle, too, but I’d hate to lie.

TW: Choking, Emotional Manipulation and Unhealthy Relationships.

You couldn’t remember the last time Belphegor slept in his own bed.

It’d been cute, at first, a little tick he latched onto for the sake of comfort. You’d find him burrowed under your sheets when you came home, curled up and clinging to one of your pillows, or sprawled out over your comforter whenever you forgot to close the door, not unlike a cat determined to sneak into every room it knew it shouldn’t be inside of. He’d pull you into his side and nuzzle into you, and you’d stifle a laugh, making a comment on his apparent clinginess and melting into the familiar affection. It was a miracle he survived in that attic for so long, honestly. He could barely go two minutes without something to hold on to, now.

It was still a little cute, the way he slotted himself against you, his lips slightly parted and his head resting on your chest, arms tucked under your back in a half-hearted attempt to bring you closer. Part of you didn’t want to wake him up. He was always so tired, always exhausted, and you hated the idea of being the one to disturb his peace. But, it was late, and you were uncomfortable. A raw, gnawing hunger had formed a pit in your stomach, shooting pains having quickly become a slow, constant ache. You’d missed dinner, thanks to his prolonged nap, and breakfast was a long way off.

But, you couldn’t tell Belphegor that. He’d pout, and whine, and when he realized you weren’t kidding, he’d get so angry, it’d kill your appetite for the next week.

No, you’d have to make this about him, if you wanted to get anywhere.

You shifted reluctantly, pulling your arms out from under him and attempting to prop yourself up on the small stack of pillows that’d migrated from his many, many hideaways to your bed. He groaned softly as you sat up, but you soothed him with a small rub to his shoulder, already knowing Belphegor would take any excuse to go back to sleep. Instead, you ran your fingers through his hair, tugging gently and watching as he blinked once, twice, eventually focusing blearily on your face once he came-to. A small frown pulled at the corners of his lips, a display of his discontent, but you couldn’t help but be relieved. A frown was nothing, compared to his usual warning signs.

“Belphie,” You started, your voice barely audible. Too weak to be assertive, but not weak enough to be pitiful. It didn’t matter, though. You just had to badger him until he was awake enough to move. “Can we change positions? My legs are getting sore.”

He hummed, his focus already beginning to wander, a squeeze to your midriff being the only sign of acknowledgment you received. “‘m comfy,” He mumbled, the words drawling out into something between a yawn and a slur. You narrowed your eyes, but if he noticed, he didn’t seem to care, content to maintain the one-sided status quo he’d established. “Give me a few more hours. You can decide what we do later.”

Later. That mysterious, distinct, unobtainable later. There wasn’t a later, there would never be a later. Not unless he intended to pay his debt when you were already too broken down to care. “It’s already been hours,” You persisted, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders, shaking when he failed to move. “Just… let me hold your tail, alright? We’ll still be touching, and I’ll be able to move without bothering you. It’s a good compromise.” He was already nodding off by the time you finished, but you only clicked your tongue, attempting to be a little louder. The hunger was getting worse, now that you’d acknowledged it. “C’mon, it’ll only take a second.”

He glanced towards you, pulling away slightly. “My tail?”

You nodded, smiling. “It’s only fair.”

You weren’t sure when you looked away, but you must’ve. One moment he was lying still, staring on as you beamed hopefully, and the next he was straddling your waist, clad in black and white and totting a thin, coiling tail, waving lazily in a nonexistent breeze. He was smiling too, suddenly, raising a hand to toy with the tips of curling horns, as if he still wasn’t used to them. Like there was something on his mind, keeping him from focusing on the matter at hand. When he opened his mouth, but there was a pause before he spoke, the silence soon filled with a half-hearted chuckle. “Why would I want this to be fair?”

Your composure faltered, but you didn’t have time to ask what he meant. As soon as you moved, his tail shot out, below his arm and over your shoulder, wrapping around your neck in a tight, suffocating noose. It was only one loop, but the appendage was strong, leathery skin rubbing against yours and scratching too deeply into your skin, irritating everything it touched. Scaley, spiked ridges dug into the nape of your neck, drawing blood, you were sure. Biting into your throat and tearing what was under it, unyielding despite your attempts to claw it away.

You tried to scream, but the sound was caught in your lungs, choked down as Belphegor’s grip tightened, pinning you to the headboard and keeping you quiet. He laughed freely, now, the sharp, crisp sound bubbling up in waves, only getting stronger as he went on uninterrupted. Even when he managed to suppress it, his grin remained broad, wide, toothy. More ecstatic than any amount of sleep could ever make him. “This isn’t supposed to be fair. This doesn’t have to be fair.” He spat the word as if it was venomous, his disdain seeping into his tone. “If I wanted to compromise, I’d say so. You’ll be the first to know, when I do.”

It was all you could do to gasp, the air in your lungs depleting quickly. “P-Please don’t--”

“Sweetheart, baby,” He interrupted, leaning closer and settling his weight against your diaphragm, making it all-but impossible to inhale. “I’m doing this for us, alright? First you want to keep me at a distance, then you want more time for yourself, and soon enough, you won’t want to see me at all. That wouldn’t be very good for anyone, would it?”

His grip loosened slightly, allowing you to take a breath, and you shook your head without hesitation, gritting your teeth to keep yourself from saying something vile. You stuttered out an apology, voicing your gratitude as meekly as you could, but Belphegor didn’t seem to care, he couldn’t care. All he seemed capable of was keeping up that fucking grin as he draped his arms over shoulders, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck as his tail fell to your legs, serving as a lingering reminder of why exactly you put up with this. You couldn’t believe you’d ever managed to forget.

“Go back to sleep,” He whispered, his grin still pressed against your skin. You doubted it would go away, any time soon. “Neither of us are going to be happy if I really have to explain myself.”

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littlemoondarlingarts · 3 years

Text

Unfortunately it happened

A short story about two of my ocs that I've been writing for a while, please read the trigger warnings carefully before proceeding to the story.

Genre: magical realism with hints of psychological horror.

Word count: 4293 words.

Tw: Abuse, domestic abuse, past abuse, ptsd, hallucinations, claustrophobic scenes, blood, glass shards, mild sexual scene, possible sexual assault, disrespecting the boundaries of an autistic child, abandonment issues.

If there are any more possible trigger warnings that I didn't write, please let me know.

Drip.

The thick warm blood irregularly dripped onto the rotting floor as Theodore tried to wrestle out the large glass shard that was lodged deep in his skull. He knew that pulling it out would only cause him to bleed more, but he had no other choice, his body just wouldn't heal around it. It's not like he could even go to a hospital. They ask questions there. Too many questions. He hissed in pain, fingers slipping over the smooth, wet surface, making the job ten times harder than what it already was.

Fear and pain overwhelmed his senses to the point where he couldn't even hear the squeaks of the wooden planks that normally annoyed him to no end. He only noticed that someone was in the small room with him when a pair of tiny pale feet stopped right infront of him.

"Stay back baby, there's glass on the floor." He let his hand fall down, the stubborn shard finally dislodged from his forehead, "Go back to your room, I'm okay." The obvious lie slipped through his blooded lips like smooth butter, if there was something Theodore excelled exceptionally at, it was lying with confidence so great that you would believe him over your very own eyes.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran asked meekly, shoulders tense and lips pouty, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his favourite shirt violently enough to tear the delicate embroidery his dad had spend countless hours on.

Theodore lifted his head, his tired eyes taking in the heart wrenching sight of the boy he grew to call his son. Fran's whole body was trembling, his small fingers red and bruised from unconsciously fighting with the thread, his nose was swollen, the skin around his eyes was puffy. It was clear as day that the little boy had been crying for a while now.... probably since the fight started.

"Franny," Theo started softly, "I'm alright now. It's over, okay? Just go to your room, I'll follow you in a bit. Promise."

But the little vampire didn't budge, his cold feet planted firmly on the floor, lips forming a thin line accompanied by a deep frown barely hidden by loose white curls. Theodore sighed, he wanted so badly to hold his son's hands and carry him back to his room like he did every night before, but he was scared if he'd moved even an inch more he'd tear his shirt even further, revealing more bruises and cuts, subsequently traumatizing the boy more. So he stayed put.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran repeated.

"Baby you know I-"

"WHY DON'T YOU STOP HIM?!"

The abrupt outburst took Theodore by surprise, making him flinch back on the bed. His wide blue eyes were chaotic as they searched the smaller one's face for any ounce of sympathy. It was silly, really, to be looking for such emotions in a clearly overwhelmed and traumatized kid, but Theo couldn't help himself, couldn't help the fear that was eating away at him, one angry word at a time.

"I know you can, Teddy. You used to stand up to daddy! And he was a VAMPIRE!" Fran said with a bit of pride in his voice, "You know what? I think we should go back to living with him! Maybe Elliot is waiting for us there! And the-"

"Elliot left. He isn't waiting for us anywhere, he doesn't want us anymore." Theodore shrunk back to himself when he noticed the amount of venom in his voice, "Besides Franny, you know I'll never let him hurt you. I'll never let anyone hurt you." He tried giving the most reassuring smile he could muster with the dull ache in his bruised cheeks.

Fran was silent for a long, dreadful second before hot tears raced down his face, "You can't even protect yourself..."

That sentence was like a punch to the gut. He never thought about the consequences that their constant fighting had on his son. He thought, no, he made himself believe that as long as Fran was in no immediate physical danger, everything was okay. It almost frightened him just how much he was willing to ignore and sweep under the rug just to let himself feel like a good father.

"I don't feel safe here... I'm scared." Fran sniffled, "I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and-and find you dead!" It was getting harder for the little vampire to speak as the tears kept flowing, "Or.. or that you would... would just leave me here like Elliot did... or.. or yo-" violent sobs wrecked his body, forbidding him from finishing his sentence.

Theodore was lost. He promised Rouge and Elliot.. fuck those two, he promised himself that he would give Fran the best life possible, and yet here he is... shaking and wailing helplessly... He needed to do something, and he needed to do it fast. But what? What could he do?

What would dad have done? Dad wouldn't let himself be in this fucking situation. But if he was ... what would he have done?? Theodore's hands were now shaking uncontrollably as he tried to think of an answer. He would've pulled me close. Held me tight in his arms and told me that he'll keep me safe no matter what. That everything will be okay. Yes. Yes... that's what he would've done.

And so he reached forward, taking the now bloodied tiny hands in his and pulling Fran into his arms, holding the sobbing boy as tight as he could.

But the truth is. What his father would've done is vastly different that what Theodore should've done. Because in that moment of pure loss and desperation, he forgot one crucial detail... Fran can't handle being touched. Especially not being hugged.

Fran yanked himself backwards with powers unnatural to him, his body was sent flying until he hit the floor with a loud thud that almost made Theodore's heart stop, but to the boy, anything was better then being held like that.

"Franny... I'm so sorry... I forgo-" Before he could finish his sentence, the vampire was on his feet and running out the room. His loud footsteps quickly fading into nothingness before the deafening slam of a door shook the old house to it's core.

Theodore let himself fall back on the bed, sending small dust particles flying all over him and irritating his allergies. He quickly placed a hand over his nose to stop himself from inhaling any of that dust, he can't afford having his brains ooze out his wounds if he sneezed.

His eyes closed before he could decide otherwise. It's okay... it will be okay.. he'd probably gone to bed now, I should do that too. Tomorrow will be different, it will be better, I'll make some scrambled eggs and bacon.. wait no, Fran is a vegetarian you idiot, he doesn't eat that shit!... fuck. I can make uh... grilled cheese sandwiches.. yeah he'll surely like that....

But deep down Theodore knew that he isn't a kid that can go to bed when he is tired or in pain anymore, he is an adult now, with a kid of his own and all the responsibilities that come with it..

The obnoxious sound of the sports channel blaring from the living room and the rhythmic pouring of rain on the window along with phantom barking of a distant dog were like a hammer smashing into Theodore's head over and over again. Every little sound was cranked up to a hundred, even his own heartbeating was agonizing.

He forced his body to sit back up, becoming face to face with the long mirror nailed to the wall which seemed to be closing in on him. Theodore instinctively pushed himself backwards until his back hit the cold wall as the room began fold in on itself until the mirror was nearly touching his feet. He wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to ground himself as his claustrophobia kicked in and his breathing quickened to a painful degree.

He forced his eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the walls that were now touching every inch of him. And his thoughts drifted back to the only place they could... Is it possible Franny is scared like this now? He feels unsafe.. he said that himself.. I can't just leave him alone in his room until the next sunset... that's not what dad would've done.. that's..that's what mom did... leave me alone and ignore me when I needed her most then pretend nothing happened the next day... that's what I was going to do...

The thought made his eyes shoot open only to be faced with her image in the mirror, blue eyes staring down at him with familiar disappointment. His blood boiled. He is becoming her! Repeating the cycle of neglectful abuse and torment until noone survives. In a moment of blind rage he balled his fist and swiftly moved to shatter the mirror and all the pain it was causing, but he found himself slammed to the floor, bloody knuckles causing a dent in it... it seems as tho the wall was still as far away as it always had been.

He stayed there for a moment, tears pouring down unapologetically as he tried to compose himself. He soon found enough willpower to stand up, but before he could take a step forward, sharp pain shot up straight to his head, forcing him to grab onto the nearest wall for balance.

Once the pain dulled down enough for him to be able to open his eyes, he looked down at the apparent source, only to see that his right ankle had doubled in size, blue and swollen as if there was a tennis ball underneath the skin. He rested the back of his head on the window, feeling the cold droplets of rain leaking through and falling on his cheeks.

He sighed, he would heal, he always did. But it would take time, and unlike Silas, this fucker never cared for him after beating him up. Theodore chuckled to himself, never in a million years did he think he would use Silas as a positive example for anything, goes to show just how low his life had sunk.

Nevertheless, he needs to persist, not for himself but for the little vampire that depended on him.

He thought about taking a quick shower to wash off all the blood, but something told him not to, to just check on Fran as soon as possible, and Theodore's gut feeling had never failed him before, so he always followed it, even if he knew that his son was safe in his bed, wrapped in a fluffy blanket that Theo had spent all his money on. He smiled, remembering how Franny's eyes twinkled when he first saw the bee pattern on it. Oh how he wishes he would see him this happy every second of every day.

Still smiling, he managed to take off the ripped shirt without aggravating his injuries too much. He held the black tee in his hands, staring at the bright neon pink "Angel♡" written on it in a metal font with the white signature of the singer along the neck.

He got this shirt 2 years back when he went to the live performance, Angel wasn't even the main performer back then, they were merely the opening act. Given how small they were, they didn't have a signing booth, it was actually pure luck that Theodore managed to meet them outside while they were waiting for a taxi.

And he thought that Rouge was tall! Angel was at least eight feet, to the point where he felt like a little cat after cranking his neck up so high just to be able to see their face, and what a truly terrifying face it was! Almost nightmarish with their black bug eyes and their long pointy teeth! But they were nice, maybe a bit blunt and lacking a social filter, but after being with Fran for a while, Theodore got used to unwanted comments... wait.. Fran... now THAT is what he was here to do!

He immediately put his favourite shirt down on a nearby wooden chair, promising to fix the rip the moment he can carry something as delicate as a needle without his hands shaking and dropping it, he threw on an oversized sweater that used to belong to Elliot, a pair of ghost patterned pyjama pants and made his way to the corridor.

Theodore was still grabbing onto the walls as he limbed his way to the door covered in stickers, it was slightly ajar which was strange considering that Fran had slammed it, but with how rusted the hinges are, anything is possible. He slowly pushed the door open, peering into the dark room, noticing how the moonlight softly illuminated the blanket-covered lump on the bed.

He should be happy? Maybe relieved? But instead, all he could feel is the bile rising to his throat, and he just couldn't tell why, perhaps he was just anxious about the impending talk. Yes. It must be that.

Theodore slowly stepped toward the small bed, feeling the mattress sink under his weight as he sat on it. "Hey Franny..." no answer, "It's me Teddy," again, nothing. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his aching neck, "listen I came here to apologise, and I... are you asleep??" He pulled down the blanket only to see that it was only a group of plushies in the vague shape of a kid.

Adrenaline shot through his body making him forget all about his pain and injuries as he quickly opened the closet, looked under the bed, tore the covers from the bed. Yet.... Fran is nowhere to be seen.

"FRAN!" Theodore yelled at the top of his lungs, "FRAAAANN!" He stood aimlessly in the little room filled with the missing boy's trinkets and drawings, his breath so fast he could hear it as he impatiently waited for an answer, "Baby where are you?!"

He could feel the little plushies staring at him, knowing where his baby is but not telling him, they don't want Fran to go back to being with such a horrible father. Theodore grabbed his son's favourite one, a large fluffy bee he had won for him during a passing carnival. He forcefully held it, his fingers smearing the blood all over the bright yellow as he shook it back and forth in the air.

"Where is he goddamn it! Where is he?" He screamed over and over again at the defenseless bee.

To anyone passing by, this seems like complete and utter madness, a father interrogating a stuffed animal instead of searching the whole house for his missing son? But to Theodore in the moment, it made sense. These plushies were the closest to the little vampire, they know his secrets and feelings more than Theo ever apparently did. So it must be obvious that they would be the ones knowing where his precious baby would be.

"I know you know! So just tell me!" His voice broke as a pained sob took over him, making him hold onto the door handle as his knees seemed to buckle under him. "I'll make it better... I swear.."

"He went out you crazy bitch!" The familiar gruff voice came from the living room, it was naturally loud enough to drown out everything else, even the news channel. Or perhaps that was just Theodore's mind only focusing on what matters to him, whichever case it was, he heard it loud and clear.

"What?" He whispered, soft and almost silent; like a deer caught in headlights, he couldn't move a single muscle in his body. He was painfully aware of this, too; the fact that he is just. Sitting. There. Like a useless piece of shit. His brain screamed at him to 'MOVE IT YOU FUCKER! MOVE!' But his body was almost paralyzed, unable to do anything, not even blink.

It may have taken mere seconds to get up and be in the living room, but it felt like years. Years of him being useless and worthless.

He ran down the short corridor.

He ran.

And ran.

And with every step, the corridor seemed to stretch further and further, the end feeling more like a mirage as countless doors strung on the walls. Screams were erupting from behind them, defeaning and terrifying. A minute of thinking would've made him recognize the voice as Fran's, and this was one of the many instances where he regretted ever doing that. Theodore shut his eyes, covering his ears with his hands and just ran forward like a fish in the deep dark ocean where the sun can't reach.

"What do you mean?" His voice was erratic when he finally made it to the living room, gripping the worn down sofa that his "boyfriend" was sitting calmly on, as if a kid isn't out in the dark and rain all on his own.

"He's just breathing some air after all that shit you caused!" The man turned to look at him, "You think I didn't hear all that? Well news flash baby, I have ears."

His absolute nonchalance about the whole thing was irritating Theodore to no end, and Theodore wore his emotions on his sleeves. His eyes darkened dangerously as he almost felt himself growl, but he had to control himself as that would definitely get him another beer bottle to the head.

The man chuckled softly, putting his large hand on top of Theodore's much tinier one, "You're too worried about him, Francis is-"

"Fran." He corrected in a low, deep voice.

"Whatever, same thing. Point is, he is a little man now! If he wants to go out and calm his nerves after you wrecked them, then let him!" He smiled, trying to pull the shorter man towards him, but he didn't budge. "Listen baby, you need to give him some time to work out his emotions, stop getting in his business you little helicopter!"

The man pulled again, this time successfully getting the half dissociated Theodore around the sofa and onto his lap. When he said it like that.... it almost made sense. Fran isn't eight and he really was hurt by all that Theo had done tonight and most nights before that, he does need some time to process all that. Or maybe that was just his way of feeling less guilty, believing that this is just a natural reaction rather than face the fact that his son's terrible immune system won't handle the cold and rain.

"That's right baby," the man held Theodore close, and like a moth to flame he leaned into it, craving any sort of affection and sympathy, "calm down now," his rough hands gently petted Theo's curls which were now matted with a mixture of blood, bear and sweat, "it's all okay," He moved his hand down, moving over Theodore's back in slow and rhythmic circles. "Daddy's here," testing his luck, the man moved his hand further down and gripped Theodore's buttocks firmly.

This sent reality crushing down on the poor man, this isn't okay. Nothing about a frail and sickly eleven year old kid being alone outside in the raining night in a place surrounded with dangerous wildlife is okay. No matter how hard he wants to shake the guilt off. How hard he wants to lean into this rare moment of gentleness. He can't. Not when his son is all alone. Not in a million years.

Theodore placed his hands on his boyfriend's large chest and pushed himself off his lap, getting to his feet as quickly as he can without losing his balance and running to the door as if he is a prisoner that just found the keys.

"Well fuck you too slut! I never wanted your trashy ass anyway! Go get eaten by wolves! You and your annoying ass kid!"

But Theodore had already made it outside and started the long process of running around aimlessly and yelling Fran's name at the top of his lungs. After thoroughly running through the front yard, he took a deep freezing breath and made his way into the surrounding woods where the fading moonlight didn't reach.

He quickly lit up the lighter, the rain putting out the flame before he could do anything, so he bent down, wrapping his body around it like a deer would to her fawn, and tried lighting it up again. The small flame persisted long enough for it to turn blue and be transferred onto Theodore's palm.

He extended the demonic flame infront of his face, making his eyes twinkle with otherworldly lights, he was hoping that animals would find it's strange color intimidating rather than inviting, and that Fran would recognize it as his and find him. Clearly too much faith in a silly little flame, even if it is magical in nature.

Theodore's feet got sliced and bruised by the rocks and thorns on the ground, but nevertheless he persisted, his dark fingers gripping the ancient trunks for dear life, not caring about the skin being scratched and peeled off if them.

He opened his mouth to yell for his boy, "Fraaan.." he coughed, hoping that his voice would come back, "Fra.... fuck me." His voice was gone, almost completely after the endless screaming and yelling he did this night, both while searching for Fran and the big fuckin fight that had happened before.

With no voice to speak of, Theodore felt... weak. He couldn't yell for Fran and the hope that the boy would see the flame on his own and follow it is... statistically very low. He was defeated. He failed himself, his father, Fran... everyone that can be failed.

He made his way out of the forest, he had already searched the surrounding area on foot. He had the small tiny twinkle of hope that Fran had made his way back home alone, that he really was just breathing some air. That he is now safe and cuddled underneath the blanket. Safe. And sound.

Theodore stood infront of the closed door. Body shaking from the cold rain and pain, he stood there for a while, just letting the tears silently fall down, not daring to go inside and face the truth.

"Teddy?" A small familiar voice echoed in his head, making him smile a little. He had been first given that nickname by his mom, but now that Franny used to call him that, it no longer feels... humiliating. It feels warm and comfortable, it feels like a purpose and having someone that depends on you and trusts you.

"Teddy!" The small voice came again, this time angrier, like a tiny kitten's hiss.

Is it possible that this.. isn't in Theodore's head? That Fran was actually yelling for him?

He tore his eyes away from the door and looked around, and sure enough, he easily spotted the head of white fluffy hair struggling to get out of under his boyfriend's car.

Theodore rushed to help his son get out without being scratched or injured, he held the boy's tiny hands and pulled slowly, stopping to fluff down his shirt to make the sliding easier. Once his bottom was out, his short legs were an easy task.

"Thank gawd! I thought I was gonna be stuck under there forever! Or that that bastard was gonna drive tomorrow and I'll become tomato paste!" The little boy was flailing his arms around as he spoke, finally settling for a dramatic break as while saying "tomato paste!"

He tried keeping himself composed, he really did, slowly stroked his son's curls, but quickly enough Theodore crumbled. Exhaustion, pain and all that worry that he was barely holding, finally broke him. He hid his face behind his hands as he cried uncontrollably. His drenched shoulders shaking with each painful sob.

"Teddy?" Fran asked worriedly, his soft voice kept quiet as if Theodore was a rabbit that he didn't want to scare off. "Why are you crying?"

It might seem like a stupid question given the circumstances, and if it was anyone else, Theodore would've given them the deathglare. But he knew that Franny genuinely couldn't understand the consequences of actions, wether they were his own or others. So he simply sniffled and smiled as bright as he could, resuming to fluff up his baby's hair.

Fran's face scrunched up as if he had tasted a lemon, his soft features all grouping in the middle of his face. But he didn't mind this, not really, he just found it fun to do this face because he doesn't get to often. And Theodore knows this, they spoke about this before... before this.. him.

"I wanna sleeeeeeeeeeep." Fran whined while pouting, earning him an honest chuckle from his dad.

Theodore opened his arms as his son jumped up, landing perfectly on his waiting shoulder. Fran swung his feet, accidentally hitting his father's chest a few times, not too many times tho as he was doing his absolute best to avoid it. But that swinging was making it harder for Theo to safely stand up, but he made do and made his way back indoors carrying his son like a sack of potatoes, which is the only way Franny likes to be held.

Deep in his mind, Theodore knew that this won't be the end of this abusive relationship, he was too dependent, too afraid of being abandoned and left alone to leave. But the cracks were only becoming more and more prominent, and hell was knocking on their door.

#my art #my writing #my oc #oc #theodore #fran #do i have to add all the tws here?#i don't think i do #anyway #take care

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recollins · 4 years

Text

Doctor’s Doctor (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Request: Could you do a Reid x reader where he has a secret significant other who is a surgeon or doctor? Pairing: Spencer x Neutral Reader Length: 4,568 Contains: Fluff, angst if you squint Warnings: None A/N: I have exactly no knowledge of medical procedures or the actual inner workings of a hospital. All of my knowledge for this was based off of my Scrubs obsession from like 2005 and harassing my CNA sister. Do not hold me to accuracy on any of it. Masterlist

Spencer was a notorious worrier. There was no denying that, no matter how much he tried to do so. From the amount of germs gathered during his commute to and from work, to the reliability of your alarm system that had gone out on more than one occasion, he always had something nagging at the back of his conscience.

After almost six months with your boyfriend, you’d grown used to his constant concerns. Overall, they didn’t bother you, despite his predictable worry that it did. Honestly, you found it endearing. You’d never really had anyone take an interest on your wellbeing the way he did, and it was just another reason to love him.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, you knew it stemmed from what he saw on the cases he faced. He’d tell you about the better cases, the ones they’d closed with minimal loss or the ones that hadn’t ended as badly as it could’ve, but he never spoke about the ones that didn’t have a reasonably decent ending. The ones that put the heavy, unyielding sadness on his shoulders that took his smile for days. The ones that woke him screaming in the middle of the night, leaving his bright golden eyes dull and haunted until you finally managed to lull him back to sleep.

He wouldn’t speak of them, but you could put the pieces together with the measures he started to implement into your life. When you’d first started dating, your own safety wasn’t something you ever really took into consideration, most evident by your old garage door.

Your house was pretty old – which is how you’d gotten such a good deal on it – and as you weren’t much of a do-it-yourself kind of person, you’d never put much effort into updating or remodeling the more outdated parts of your home. Most notably, your garage door was still the original one installed in the late 60’s. It was so old it wasn’t even automated; heck, it didn’t even actually lock. Since you had to manually open and close it, if you were in a hurry you’d just leave it open when you went to work.

Spencer nearly had a heart attack when he’d first found out.

He’d then hired a company to install a brand new door – complete with securing locks and an entry keypad – and spent an entire weekend testing and re-testing, ensuring you were safe. Ensuring you wouldn’t meet the same fate you guessed others had met on his last case.

“Double-check that it shuts all the way, and doesn’t go back up before you leave,” he’d told you numerous times, demonstrating exactly how to do it over and over again. “Always watch when it shuts to make sure no one slips inside.”

Two months ago he’d replaced the GPS in your car, explaining the model you’d had was susceptible to being hacked. That one you hadn’t fully understood – so what if someone hacked it? All they’d get are some addresses you’d gone to.

“What are they going to do with that, Spence? Figure out I spend way too much time at Target?”

You’d asked it to joke with him, trying to get a smile on his face for the first time that day. Though he tried to turn away before it showed, you caught the ache of regret in his gaze before he dropped it to the ground.

“Yes,” was all he had managed to force out, but it was all you needed to hear to understand why he was so worried. Since then, you didn’t question him. Though he couldn’t take back what had happened to the victims his team couldn’t save, he could keep it from happening to you. Worrying over your safety helped alleviate some of the guilt and sorrow that had taken up permanent residence inside him, you knew that much.

If it eased Spencer’s mind, it was worth the constant concern he showered you with. That’s what you repeated to yourself as, for the third time that week, you set off your own alarm trying to get into your house at just a little past two in the morning.

Cursing under your breath, you finally got the damn door open and rushed to the keypad on the wall, punching in the code Spencer had set up for you. Unsurprisingly, you got it wrong. He’d picked a completely random string of numbers, reminding you how easy it was to guess someone’s password or code because they made it personal.

There was only about fifteen seconds left before the system would alert the company, and that was the last thing you needed right now. Dropping everything in your arms to the floor, you jammed in the next six numbers you thought it was .

ERROR – WRONG CODE

“For the absolute love of fuck,” you snarled, going for another attempt. Your phone was ringing before you’d even hit the third number. With a tired sigh you propped the phone on your ear and muttered out a weary, “hello again.”

“Hi, this is Macy from ADT. We see your alarm was triggered and we were calling to ensure you were alright.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” you assured, still jamming numbers. Your phone beeped, and a quick glance confirmed Spencer was trying to reach you. “My boyfriend set up my passcode so well that even I can’t crack it.”

Macy chuckled on the other end and quickly ran through the security questions (that thankfully you’d set up) and in a few minutes the alarm silenced. Spencer had already attempted calling another two times, and if you didn’t hurry he’d show up there himself. Not that you didn’t want to see him, but you both were in desperate need of sleep with how hectic your work had been lately.

“Would you like to change your passcode?” Macy offered, and though it was tempting, you knew Spencer would be upset.

“No, it’s fine. Thanks so much,” you rushed, as Spencer called for the fifth time. You quickly accepted the call and said instantly, “I’m fine, Spence. I’m perfectly fine.”

On the other end of the phone you heard him give a sigh of relief, and you smiled just a bit. His care always touched you and settled the irritation. You’d never been in a relationship with someone who cared about you as much as you did them, and despite the annoyance you really did love how much he cared.

“I’m sorry,” he told you instantly, his voice sounding rough with sleep. “I know this happens a lot –“

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” you promised, scooping up your discarded things from the floor and shuffling yourself into the kitchen, dumping them all onto the counter now. “I’m sorry I woke you up again.”

It was a real pain, having the company call your emergency contact every time this happened. But, just like all the other occasions, Spencer assured immediately, “don’t be. I’d rather be woken by a false alarm than by hearing you were hurt.”

The smile toying on your face couldn’t be helped, and you both sat in warm silence for a few moments. As much as you’d like to talk with your boyfriend – especially after the chaotic night at the hospital you’d just had – you knew how exhausted he had to be.

“You should be sleeping,” you murmured after a few more moments. When he didn’t respond at first, you thought he’d actually fallen asleep. And then, in the background, you heard the sound of someone crying. “Spencer?”

“It’s – that’s Henry,” he mumbled as you heard him get up. You could just picture him rubbing at his eyes as he yawned and explained, “Will and JJ wanted some time alone so I took him for the night. I… think he might be getting sick.”

Your eyes narrowed as you leaned back against the counter. Sure, you weren’t a profiler, but you knew your boyfriend, and you knew that tone of voice. That was his ‘knee-deep in the pit of worry’ voice. The only person he was more protective of than you was his godson.

“You were already awake when ADT called, weren’t you?” He didn’t answer immediately and that confirmed your suspicion. You let out a heavy sigh as you chastised, “Spencer. You just got back from a case and you’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours –”

“He had a fever when I put him to bed,” he defended as you heard him open the door.

“It’s common for children’s temperatures to rise a bit at night,” you reminded him. “And kids his age are prone to colds, which is nothing some sleep can’t help.”

“It wasn’t there this afternoon, though,” he persisted; you could hear the beep of the thermometer, and instead of arguing with him (which you’d learned was a fruitless edeaver not even an hour into your first date) you stayed quiet until you heard it beep again.

“What’s his temp?” you prompted; there was no reply. “Spencer.”

“99.9,” he mumbled. “But that’s higher than it was an hour ago –“

“Does he have any other symptoms?” Again, there was silence. If you could’ve reached through the phone to smack him you would’ve. “Spencer –“

“He didn’t eat as much at dinner,” he finally replied, and you heard him put a hand over the phone as he asked softly, “Henry, does anything hurt?”

There was a tearfully mumbled no and you stifled a sigh, dropping your head back to stare at the ceiling. This man was gonna worry himself to death before he even reached forty. “Okay, Spence. Give him some Tylenol and get him to drink some water. If there are no other symptoms present, he probably just has a cold. It could even be allergies, and he’s just uncomfortable.”

He was quiet at first; you heard him walking down the hall, and then the snap of a light. A moment later he was rifling through what you assumed to be a medicine cabinet as he finally said meekly, “I’m sorry. I know I’m overreacting –“

“Hey. It’s fine. You’re just concerned,” you reminded him gently. “But between the almost back-to-back cases you’ve been working and now me setting off my alarm every other night, you’re wearing yourself out.”

Spencer was quiet again, and you knew him well enough to know he was trying to think of a way to refute what you’d just said. Thankfully though, whether it was the exhaustion or a hint of rationality surfacing, he finally gave a sigh and just mumbled, “I know. You’re right.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you teased, playful smile taking over. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Finally, you got a laugh out of your boyfriend. He chuckled into the phone, and you easily pictured the bright, toothy grin he was flashing as he huffed, “I know you heard me.”

“Huh, did I? You’ll have to remind me what I heard…”

“I’m not repeating it,” he giggled. You heard Henry’s door opening again and he said a little softer, “I’ve kept you up long enough. I’ll get Henry to sleep and I’ll lay down. I promise.”

“Good. I want you to try and get at least a couple hours of sleep, alright? Doctor’s orders.”

Spencer gave another soft chuckle as he assured, “I’ll give it my best shot, given Henry stays asleep.”

“Alright, baby. I’m gonna go shower and lay down,” you told him, making the executive decision to leave all your crap on the kitchen counter until after you’d slept. “I’ll text you when I’m up. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Spencer murmured, the smile clear in his voice. It was still a relatively new thing to say, and you both got a little giddy every time. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“’Night, Spence.”

Smiling to yourself as you finally hung up, you checked the time and groaned. It was just a few minutes shy of 3am now, and you had to be up in four hours for your next shift. The hospital was ridiculously understaffed; you’d been working overtime just to make sure there was coverage.

Honestly, it was a miracle you’d even gotten to leave tonight. You were pretty sure that if one of the nurses had caught you before you reached the door, you’d still be at work. As much as you wanted to pass out right away, you forced yourself to shower. Finally, ten minutes later you were collapsing into your bed, falling asleep almost the second your head hit the pillow.

Your phone was ringing what felt like only minutes later. Groaning, terrified it was the hospital calling you back in already, you blindly pulled your phone off the charger and dropped it onto the mattress, laying your head on top of it, too tired to hold it up.

“This is Dr. Y/L/N –“

“Y/N,” Spencer’s panicked voice interrupted. “I’m so sorry to wake you, but Henry’s gotten worse.”

It took every shred of self-restraint to hold back the groan of pure frustration. Wearily, you peeled an eye open and peeked at the clock on your nightstand. 3:58am stared back at you. “Spencer it hasn’t even been an hour –“

“He threw up twice, and he says his stomach really hurts,” he rushed, his voice pinched and at least two octaves higher than normal. “His fever’s at 100.8, it’s going up quickly –“

“Hey, okay, okay,” you said quickly, forcing yourself to sit up so you didn’t doze off, the symptoms starting to float around in your groggy head. Escalating fever, nausea, vomiting, stomach pain… those weren’t a good combination. “Alright. Spence, take a breath.”

“Y/N, I’m worried about –“

“I know. But I need you to calm yourself down,” you insisted. Spencer huffed at you – and you rolled your eyes at his stubbornness – but you heard him take in a deep breath and blow it out. “Alright. One more.”

He did as he was told, and when he started speaking again his voice was at least a little less panicked. “I – should I take him to the ER? He’s gotten a lot worse and he’s crying, but I don’t want to worry Will and JJ if I’m just overreacting –“

This time, you were worried he wasn’t, and it’d be quicker to diagnose him instead of having them hole up in the ER. You were already slipping on your sneakers and tugging a sweater out of your closet to throw on over your pajama top. The sweats you had would have to do; you didn’t have the energy to put real pants on.

“Text me their address,” you cut in as you jogged down the steps, swinging through the kitchen to snag your pile of necessities from the counter. At least the laziness paid off; you didn’t have to go hunting for your crap.

You heard the ping of a text as you got into the car, and Spencer’s voice was back a moment later. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry. I know you’re so tired –“

“Spence, really. It’s okay,” you said gently, glancing at the address and typing it in. “My GPS says I’ll be there in about ten minutes. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

“Drive safe,” he told you instantly, and then before hanging up he reminded you, “be sure your garage door shuts all the way.”

The little bit of irritation that had risen up was put out instantly, smile tugging your lips up as you watched the door shut all the way. Despite the exhaustion, you knew this was how Spencer expressed his love. Making sure he and Henry were alright was the least you could do to show him you loved him just as much.

Spencer had the door open before you even finished knocking, pulling you into a hug you both really needed. He clung to you, face burying into your neck for several moments before he mumbled,

“I really am sorry, Y/N. You’re so tired and if this is nothing –“

You pulled back and wordlessly cupped his face, pulling him in for a hard kiss. He relaxed under your touch almost instantly, his hand flitting up to wrap around your wrists, keeping your hold on him.

You broke from the kiss just enough to murmur, “Spencer, I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m being completely honest when I say it’s okay. You’re not overreacting. Henry’s worsened and it’s a legitimate cause for concern. You have every right to worry.”

Spencer nodded, his nose brushing yours, thankfully not picking up on the undertones of genuine concern in your voice. You didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily, but you’d seen these symptoms so frequently you were almost certain this was well-deserving of his panic.

You didn’t pull out of Spencer’s hold; you never did. It was an unspoken rule that it was never you that cut off contact. He wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy, but when he was, you never wanted to be the one to push him away or shut him down when he needed you. When he finally did release your wrists to step back, you swept your thumbs over his cheekbones, comforting him before motioning for him to lead the way.

Henry was curled up on the corner of a dark blue couch, clinging to a stuffed Spider-Man toy as he whimpered into the cushion. Kneeling in front of him, you gave a warm smile as you reached out and swept his hair back, feeling his forehead.

Way too warm, you noted; before you could even ask, Spencer was holding out the thermometer. He sat beside Henry at his legs, and despite the pain he was clearly in, Henry instantly shuffled himself around to lay his head on Spencer’s lap, one of his hands coming to tangle into his pajama pants.

Your entire heart melted instantly, seeing the two of them together. You’d never seen Spencer with kids, but it had instantly become one of the top five most beautiful views in the world.

“This is my friend, Dr. Y/N,” he introduced, his large hand settling on Henry’s side, rubbing soothingly. “We need to take your temperature again, okay?”

Henry sniffled and nodded, opening his mouth. As you started the thermometer, you shifted a little closer and said, “Hi Henry. I hear your tummy hurts.”

He gave a small nod, and when the thermometer beeped he reached up and held it out to you as he whimpered, “it hurts real bad.”

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good,” you apologized as you took a quick look at his temperature. 101.2. That wasn’t good. “Henry, can I take a look at your tummy really quick?”

With another small nod, you and Spencer helped him roll onto his back. Even just that small movement had more tears flowing, his little face screwed up as he turned and buried it against Spencer’s thigh.

There was no doubt in your mind now, but just to be thorough, you pressed lightly against the right side of his stomach. He let out a yelp of pain, and that was all you needed. Spencer caught the look on your face as you got to your feet.

“Spence, can you set up Henry’s car seat in my car?” you asked, keeping your voice calm so you didn’t panic the tearful little boy staring up at you with wide, worried eyes. Picking up on your demeanor, Spencer said gently,

“Of course. Henry, I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay Uncle Spencer,” he mumbled, allowing himself to be settled back on the couch. The moment he grabbed the car seat, Spencer all but sprinted outside. You tugged out your phone, moving to stand in the hall while keeping an eye on Henry as you dialed the nurse on call.

“Hey, Ashley, it’s Dr. Y/L/N. I know I’m not scheduled until seven, but there’s an emergency and I’ll be bringing in a patient,” you explained hastily. With the hospital so understaffed, even with priority it might take a while for Henry to be taken care of. You’d be his surgeon today.

“Is everything alright?” she asked hastily; you heard her already assembling the paperwork you needed.

“I’ll need an operating room and a team ready to perform an appendectomy.”

The sun was just coming through the window of the post-op room, illuminating Henry’s sleeping figure in a soft orange glow. You’d stopped in on your way to the waiting room, just to make sure he was okay.

Ashley held his chart out to you and you gave her a smile of thanks as she said, “I know it’s usually me talking to the family, but since this is personal I figured you’d want to do it. I’ll stay here with him for now, he should be up pretty soon.”

“You’re the best,” you said, giving her arm a thankful squeeze before you made your way to find Spencer and a couple of very concerned parents.

This wasn’t how you and Spencer had planned to introduce you to his team; he’d wanted you to come to one of their dinner parties in a few weeks to meet everyone at once. Though it was sudden and unexpected, you’d be lying to say you weren’t eager to meet JJ and Will. She was his best friend and after all you’d heard about both of them you were more than ready to make introductions.

The first waiting room only held a sleeping couple and a frantic woman pacing around the chairs. As you got closer to the second room, though, several different voices could be heard. When you stepped into the room, though, you hadn’t been prepared to see every member of Spencer’s team gathered inside.

He’d shown you dozens of pictures, and it wasn’t hard to match the faces to names. Penelope had to be the extremely colorful woman in a seat against the far wall, leaning on a painfully attractive man you instantly recognized as Morgan. Two older gentleman – Hotch on the left and Rossi on the right – were standing aside, talking casually with one another, their eyes on the panicked couple across from them.

Will and JJ were on the edge of their seats, hands clasped together as they talked quietly with a women who was unmistakably Emily. She was the first to spot you, brows raising in question. You cleared your throat and asked,

“Henry LaMontagne?”

All seven heads snapped to you instantly, catching you off-guard. You met each stare briefly before an eighth head popped out from behind Hotch and Rossi. Spencer looked exhausted, but his soft brown eyes lit up seeing you.

“Y/N, how is he?” he asked, hurrying out of his chair and coming around to you. JJ and Will got up as well, and though they were focused on you, you didn’t miss the way the rest of the team was looking between you and your boyfriend.

“He’s just fine,” you assured, and everyone visibly relaxed. “Thanks to Spencer, we got him here before his appendix burst and the surgery went through without a hitch. We’ll have to keep him overnight – it’s just normal procedure after an emergency surgery – but he’ll be good to go home tomorrow morning.”

Spencer moved unexpectedly, his arms instantly encircling you and pulling you into a tight hug. For a quiet, blissful moment the chaos of the morning came to a halt. Instead of panic and exhaustion and worry, it was just the two of you, caught up in your own world, both relaxing into one another after the last few grueling hours.

“Thank you so much for all you did,” he murmured against your neck, pressing a swift kiss against it as he reluctantly pulled back, smiling up at you with nothing short of love in his eyes. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”

You went to answer when a throat cleared from behind Spencer. Your boyfriend’s eyes slowly widened in realization, as if he’d just remembered the other people around you two. When he turned and stepped aside, you saw the rest of his team watching you both with grins.

Spencer’s ears and cheeks were flushed a dark pink, and you knew your own face wasn’t any different. Morgan was the first to move, stepping up and clapping your boyfriend on the shoulder as he looked between the two of you.

“Well, well, well. Look’s like the doctor’s got himself a doctor.”

Spencer, bless his adorable heart, was still at a loss for words. Whether it was the lack of sleep, the adrenaline of the last few hours finally wearing off, or the buzz of what you guessed was probably way too much caffeine (because you knew he’d been abusing the free coffee down the hall), you really couldn’t say. All he managed was a quick nod, and then a feeble attempt of,

“This – um, Y/N is my doctor – no, wait. So, we’ve been dating, um –“

With a laugh, you reached out and squeezed Spencer’s hand and then held your other out to Morgan. “I’m Y/F/N Y/L/N.” After a brief moment of deliberation, you grinned and added, “I’m the doctor’s doctor.”

The others laughed as you shook their hands briefly before turning to Will and JJ.

“I’m sure Henry’s awake by now. If you’d like, we can go check on him and I’ll have my nurse bring your entourage to meet us in his room.”

“That’d be fantastic,” JJ sighed, looping you into a hug of your own as Will rubbed her back soothingly, smiling in thanks at you. “Really, we’re so glad you dropped everything to help Henry.”

Giving her a hug of reassurance, you motioned for her and Will to start down the hall. Before you got more than a step and a half, Spencer’s hand had caught your own. When you turned to him, you were surprised to see the characteristic frown of worry on his face.

“What’s wrong?” you asked quickly, looking between his soft hazel eyes, concern of your own starting to spark.

“I just – is this okay? This was all so sudden, you just got thrown into the middle of everything, I didn’t give you any warning to meet everyone and –“

“And you know what?” you cut in gently, and he tipped his head a hint in question. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Really?” he asked softly, a small smile peeking through his frown. “I just… I didn’t want to overwhelm you or… or scare you off.”

“You don’t need to worry, Spence. Really.” He raised his brows and gave a pointed glance around us, and I let out a laugh. “Okay, okay. Garage doors and sick kids are one thing, but me leaving you? Never. You’re sort of stuck with me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he teased, and to your surprise, he leaned down and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to your lips before stepping back. “For the record, though, I now have proof that I don’t always worry too much.”

Well, shit. He had a point. Rolling your eyes, you made down the hall after JJ and Will, shaking your head at Spencer as he started down the hall for the coffee machine. Alright, if his constant anxieties didn’t send him to an early grave, the ungodly amount of caffeine he consumed certainly would.

You’d save that to worry about for another day.

#criminal minds #Spencer Reid x reader #Spencer Reid x you #Spencer Reid x y/n #Spencer Reid imagine #Spencer reid #reid #fluff #rea writes #requests

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mamabearcatfanfics · 4 years

Text

This little ficlet doesn’t really have a name. It’s set in the world of The Importance of Ramen and occurs sometime between Chapter One and Two. Not quite angst I don’t think, but not very happy either. Because not everyone gets their happy ending. It was just something I needed to write today. The image below is of Yanaka Cemetery in Tokyo.

“This really cannot continue Higurashi-san”, droned the school Principal’s voice over the phone. “I understand you have concerns about your daughter’s health, but we can no longer accept phone calls and sick notes signed by you for her absences. Unless you start providing medical certificates, signed by a medical professional, we will have to alert the proper authorities. She may even face expulsion over her non-attendance, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The man’s tone was critical, condescending, his disbelief regarding Kagome’s illnesses barely concealed, and Mama swallowed the sharp retort that wanted to slip past her teeth. Deep breath. She needed to stay calm.

“No, of course not, Yamato-san”, she said, enunciating clearly, her voice dripping with feigned politeness. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me today. We all have Kagome’s best interests at heart.”

“I hope we will not have to repeat this conversation again, Higurashi-san. Good day.”

Mama placed down the receiver on the phone with a deep sigh. She really couldn’t blame the man for his skepticism though. It had been a mistake on her part to ask ojiichan to provide the excuses for Kagome’s constant absences from school. Varicose veins for a sixteen year old? She had recently taken over, providing much more credible excuses, much to Kagome’s relief. She had to admit though, it was hard to keep up the constant pretense of Kagome’s illness, although she had no problems in playing the role of concerned mother. That wasn’t an act.

She’d bid a cheerful goodbye to Kagome and Inuyasha early this morning after they’d eaten breakfast, waiting for the flash of light that signalled their disappearance down the well to let the fake smile fall from her face.

Every time her daughter left, she had to swallow the panic that rose up, imagining all the gruesome and horrific ways it was possible to die in that time period, even without the addition of battling the supernatural. Every time she said goodbye, she worried it would be the last. She’d taken to reading medical books in the evenings when Kagome was away, just in case the knowledge might be needed someday.

She sometimes wondered if Inuyasha could sense her fear – he’d been looking at with a very serious expression this morning before they departed. But her Toshi had always said that fear was something that should be faced, that it was something that should not stop you living life the way that you wished to, and she was doing her best to support Kagome in what the fates had chosen for her. Her daughter was working so hard to train and learn and keep up with her school work. She was inordinately proud of her. But it was hard.

Eri’s mother had called yesterday, wanting to know if she could assist in any way with Kagome’s health. She had clucked sympathetically over the phone, but Mama had immediately recognised the call for what it was. Questions must be circulating again about Kagome’s continual absences through the parent’s grape vine, and Eri’s mother was fishing for gossip. The line being cast became even more obvious when she’d commented on Kagome’s ‘boyfriend’, a topic Mama refused to either confirm or deny. She’d managed to fob her off this time with a vague excuse saying they were waiting for results from a clinic, but that woman was persistent, the thin edge of a very large wedge of parents who were all ready to judge at the slightest sign of weakness.

After making ojiichan his lunch, she decided the monthly accounts could be put off no longer. She sat at her desk, the hot cup of tea she’d made herself neglected until it turned cold and bitter while she struggled to make the figures stretch as far as she needed them to. The government allowance for keeping the shrine running was not huge. The Sunset Shrine was only small, visited by faithful locals, rather than large crowds of city dwellers and tourists ready to spend money on omamori and fortunes that the more popular shrines attracted. She would have to think about ways to bring in extra money. Ojiichan was getting older, and she wanted to be able to look after him and provide all the comforts he deserved in his old age. And then there was schooling for Kagome and Souta.

She was startled out of her calculations when Souta burst in through the back door like a whirlwind, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag with a thump in the genkan. School was over already?

“Hi Mama! Can’t stay, I’ve got kendo practice! Sensei said last week that my gi is getting too small and I need a new one. And the competition fees for next weekend are overdue! I gotta go get changed or I’ll be late!”

“Souta! Your bag does not belong in the entryway where everyone will trip over it young man!” Mama called out, but he’d already flung himself up the stairs. She looked over the figures again worriedly. Maybe they might have to sell some of the family ‘treasures’ out in the shrine store room. If she could pry them out of ojiichan’s reluctant fingers that is.

Her head was thumping, and the figures seemed to be making even less sense than they did when she’d first sat down more than an hour ago. She finally gave up, shuffling the paperwork back together to file it away in her desk, then reached up to the small box that sat on the top of the fridge filled with more regularly used medications, to get herself some paracetamol. But the box was empty. Kagome had obviously raided it again, taking all the paracetomol and ibruprofen to restock her medical kit. Right. She took a slow deep breath in, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. It wasn’t that she minded Kagome taking them, they were obviously needed, but she could at least inform her that they needed to be replaced.

There was a hollow feeling in her chest. An empty ache. All day long, there had been a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something important. It was dragging at her memory, wanting her to concentrate on it, but everyone seemed to need something different from her, and she’d not been able to concentrate. Maybe it was a shrine anniversary of some sort? She checked the calendar, and her heart dropped into her shoes.

Oh Toshi. It was their wedding anniversary. She’d got through more than half of the day without even thinking about him on a day which had once been so important. Her throat felt thick, and she bit her lip hard, trying to force back the tears that wanted to spring to her eyes. Don’t cry. You can’t cry when Souta is home. She pinched hard on the inside of her wrist, a trick she’d learned over the years to help push back the grief when it surfaced at inappropriate times. Deep breath. She heard Souta’s heavy steps as he thundered back down the steps, wearing his gi and hakama with his kendo gear bag over his shoulder. She was ready to greet her son with a bright smile as he headed out the door.

“Straight back home after practice okay? I’m making curry, seeing Inuyasha-kun isn’t here!”

“Okay Mama. See you later!”

The door slammed as he took off, and Grandpa grumbled as he re-appeared in the kitchen carrying his empty plate, complaining about the noise.

“He’s just young, ojiichan – he didn’t mean any disrespect. How is your back feeling?”

“Not too bad. At least Inuyasha-kun didn’t break anything this time”, he said, rubbing down low on his spine. He’d been taking an inventory yesterday, and had made Inuyasha help him with the heavier boxes.

“He’s actually a very helpful boy you know, when you let him get on with things, and don’t hover over him with sutras”, Mama remarked, teasing him a little. Grandpa snorted.

“That ‘boy’ is probably older than you and me put together”, he huffed. “Plenty of time to have learned the good sense he doesn’t display that often. The kitchen has never been the same since he took a swing at that cockroach with his sword.” He looked carefully at his daughter-in-law, taking in her overly bright smile. “Are you okay Kaori-chan?”

“I’m fine”, she smiled. He gave her a hard stare and her smile faltered. “Alright, I will be fine. But I might go and to the family haka by myself for a little while, if that’s okay ojiichan? I promise I will be back in time to make dinner.”

The old man reached out and took one of his daughter in law’s hands in his, the look on his face sombre but understanding.

“I probably don’t say this enough Kaori-chan, but my son chose well. I could not have asked for a better daughter.”

“Thank you ojiichan”, she smiled, patting his hand. “I feel the same way about you.” She dropped a kiss onto the old man’s balding head, then went to genkan to put on her jacket and shoes., letting her mind wander as she walked down the steep shrine steps to the bus stop, waiting for the familiar bus that would take her to the family plot at the cemetery.

Her own family had turned their back on her when she’d refused a marriage offer by an older, much wealthier man to marry Toshinori, her high school sweetheart. Her parents had not spoken to her since she’d left home, but thankfully Toshi’s family had welcomed her with open arms as the daughter they’d never had.

She loved Toshi’s parents, and had come to think of them as her own. She’d been there for Toshi’s mother Hana, nursing her at home when she was diagnosed with cancer. She’d done her best to ease her growing pain with all the love and care she could until she’d died a year later, surrounded by family. Then Kagome was born, a few weeks after Hana’s death. It had helped to have a baby to focus on, even though it was a hard time. Kagome had been the apple of her grandfather’s eye, she still was, and he had spoilt her rotten.

After years of trying, when Kagome was nearly eight, she’d become pregnant again, a boy this time. Toshi had been overjoyed. They were so happy, so in love. It didn’t seem fair that not everyone could have a life like theirs, and she pitied those whose marriages were not a true meeting of hearts like hers was. They knew each other inside and out. Teased each other constantly, laughed at ridiculous things, loved their baby daughter with all that they had. And now they would have a son too. It felt like the kami were smiling down on their little family. Right up until that night that the police came to the door, to inform her about the car accident.

Toshi had never woken from his coma. She had been the one to make the decision to turn off his life support, with ojiichan’s blessing. Toshi had been a man full of life, full of joy, and she knew that he would not have wanted to continue in the state that he was. She had wept beside him, gripping his hand and repeating ‘I love you’ constantly, as if trying to complete the next forty years of being unable to say it to him in person into the short time left. And then she had left the room, knowing she would never see him again. If it had not been for Kagome waiting for her at home with ojiichan, and their son still growing in her womb, she would have left the hospital and gladly walked straight into the oncoming traffic so she wouldn’t have to live in a world without him in it.

The sound of the bus pulling up alongside her stop startled her out of her thoughts, and the bus driver nodded politely at her when she mounted the steps – he’d been driving this route for many years, and knew where she was going.

“It’s a little later in the day than you usually go Higurashi-san”, he remarked as she tapped her bus pass. “Make sure you don’t miss the last bus back.”

Mama smiled politely. “I’ll remember. Thank you.” She made sure to keep the mask of politeness set on her face as she moved to her seat. Being part of a shrine family meant being recognised on sight by everyone in the area. Expectations must be upheld.

It was a twenty minute trip to the cemetery, which she spent silently, her eyes gazing out the window but focused internally on the many happy memories replaying in her mind. She paused to buy a bunch of rust coloured chrysanthemums from the flower stall at the gate, then followed the path down through the maze of family graves, the tall markers reaching up towards the sky like a well ordered stone forest. Finally she arrived at the Higurashi marker.

Kneeling down, she washed her hands, then arranged the flowers carefully in the vase, straightening bent stalks. She lit the sandalwood incense stick, watching the swirling ribbons of smoke disippate through the crisp breeze, then clapped her hands.

‘Hello Toshi. I’m sorry I’m late dear heart. Happy Anniversary.” She leaned forwards, pulling out a stray weed that had grown up through the pebbles around the marble. “Were you waiting for me? I can’t stay very long this time. I promised Souta I would make curry for dinner this evening; he always works up such an appetite after kendo practice. And he’s a growing boy, your son. His kendo hakama and gi are getting too small for him.”

Her fingers traced over the graceful incisions in the marble that marked her husband’s name, the gold inlay glinting in the afternoon sunlight. The thought of Souta’s hakama sparked a memory.

“Do you remember all those photos we had to sit through, after the ceremony?” she smiled. “We kept giggling, and your mother scolded us, because she wanted some serious photos. You looked so handsome in those traditional striped hakama. Our wedding day was one of the happiest days of my life.”

Without warning, her bottom lip trembled, and the hot tears that she’d put aside earlier in the day returned with a vengeance, falling thick and fast. “Why did you have to go my Toshi? I miss you. I still miss you. You were such a good good man, how could all that disappear in an instant? Why did you have to leave?” she sobbed, her fists clenched in her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt tightly as she bent forward to rest her forehead against the cool stone. It took her a moment to calm her sobs, breathing deeply, letting the coolness of the stone soothe her aching head.

“I’m sorry for the tears on what should be a happy day”, she whispered, “I’m just so tired Toshi, so very tired. I’m always worried about Kagome. She works so very hard, trying to do her best for everyone. I know Inuyasha is there to protect her, but I’m her mother. I’m always wondering if I’m doing the right thing, letting her do this. Your father was against her going through the well at first, but you always told me to trust what my heart said, and my heart says this is right, even though my head is terrified.” A small breeze swirled around her, lifting the chrysanthemum petals and wafting the incense towards the grave in a steady stream. She smiled a small teary smile. “I’m glad you think so too. I’m still not quite sure what to do about her schooling, but I will figure it out, I’m sure.”

She spent the next half hour sitting silently, listening to the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the muted sounds of Tokyo traffic. It was such a peaceful place. A place where she could sit quietly and regroup, try and regain her strength. She checked her watch, and realised that it was time to leave, if she were to make the next bus.

“Thank you for letting me ramble on koishii. I will come again, as soon as I can. I might bring your father with me next time. I’m sure he would love to visit with you and obaachan.” She got to her feet slowly, hissing a little as the blood rushed back into cramped feet.

It was a slow walk back to the bus stop, then a winding route back, but she didn’t mind. It was nice to be alone with her own thoughts once in a while, without the constant needs of others crowding in. By the time she’d climbed back up the steep stone steps and walked back into the kitchen to cook dinner, she was ready to tackle the world again. For a while at least.

#mama higurashi #mamabearcat fanfics #the importance of ramen #inuyasha fanfic

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brideofcthulhu10 · 4 years

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Alright orginally I wanted to do these all in one go, but I figured it'd be easier for me to get them in segments that way you guys get more content. Okay heads up, guys I will be going with my family to the zoo tomorrow so I'm not gonna be posting much that day. I'll try to push something out but no guarantees!

Lost Boys Fem!S/O Gives Birth [1/4]

David

Days pushed into weeks. Weeks to months. Finally, months turn to weeks. Now it was to the point David was getting increasingly impatient. While the due date was up for speculation, 9 months began to tip towards ten. Anxious couldn't even begin to cover it. He wanted his child, he wanted to see their face, most of all he wanted you to stop hurting!

Early mornings of you crying from the sheer aching pains in your back sent him into a tizzy, he couldn't get any sleep while you were in agony. He'd lie beside you in the wee hours of the morning flipping through the stupid pregnancy book Dwayne found for him.

"A late due date is not uncommon. Your baby will come when they're good and ready," David read to himself out loud laying beside you in bed, his face souring into a grimace. Patience was a virtue he had yet to achieve. "I don't want to wait."

With the prospect of childbirth looming over the two of you he had decided since your first trimester to sacrifice his comfort by sleeping beside you. Originally they had simply housed you in Star’s bed, but due to her wretched half-vampire form she would have no risk if the sun were to catch her. David, on the other hand, would quickly burn to a crisp at the first sign of daylight. Thus, he took it upon himself to search his way through the dismantled hotel until he found the most stable room held together between peeling walls and cave formations, tucked away from any prying light. Holes were sealed up, cracks were filled, your bed even had a canopy of thick black curtains covering it to prevent any stray beams that felt welcome.

Laying beside him you only shrugged your shoulders with a soft sigh, running your hands over your stomach. You had just gotten used to this speech by now. David tried everything to help you go into labor. Weird foods, extra long walks, those stupid exercises, even sex!

Nothing. Your little one was as stubborn as their father.

"You know color me crazy," you started to say, petting the platinum blonde vampire tenderly ", but I don't think grumbling at a fetus will make them come any faster."

"Shows what you know." David laid the side of his head atop your belly ready to burst. Carefully he peeled away his leather glove, sliding his hand beneath your shirt. Your skin was warm and taut, stretching to its limits. He had watched the time slip away faster than he expected, and yet somehow it felt not fast enough. When he closed his eyes he could hear the muffled, warped heartbeat submerged below. The momentary peace soothed his soul. He could sense their stirring mind. It was muddied, a cluster of emotions, no thought.

The silence gave you a moment to breathe and savor the tender moments with David until a sharp sting pulled at your abdomen. It spread across the base of your stomach, digging into the small of your back and spreading outward. You nearly recoiled from him with a harsh gasp hissed through your teeth. David sat up immediately.

“What is it,” he demanded, taking your hands into his. “Are you okay?”

It only lasted a minute or two and just like that the ache had faded away. Taking a moment to breath you simply smiled and waved it off. "Relax it's just a cramp," you assured him. “It just caught me off guard is all.”

"I'm not so convinced." He pulled himself to your side. "That's the third time it's happened in an hour, love. They’re getting shorter in between. Are you sure you aren’t in any pain, kitten?."

You kissed his cheek softly, tucking away a lock of snow that had fallen in his face. "I'll be fine. I promise. Don’t worry about me okay? It’s already gone."

What you weren’t aware of was that you had spoken far too soon. The discomfort persisted even into the daytime, and David's observation was starting to hold some weight. Earlier that night it had only begun as a slow ache that came once every two hours. But that time had split in half. Then again. Until you were feeling a persisting ache in your muscles that left you gasping for air almost every five minutes. In the late hours of the afternoon you softly awoke still wrapped in David’s arms. Again another pain came and went, this time you had to bite down on your lip to avoid any sudden sounds. Slowly you managed to wiggle out of his grip, hoping another blood bag may be enough to curb your discomfort. It wasn’t a surprise when even motion became a taxing endeavor. Every step weighed heavy on your body, you thought you might have to sit down before you had even left the room. Barely shuffling through the corridors, you had begun to use the walls as support.

You clutched at your stomach, dragging in labored breaths trying to catch yourself against the edge of the lobby fountain when you finally stumbled out. It was too much even to move now, and the reality of the situation was settling in. These weren’t your false contractions that visited you maybe once an hour, if that. There was maybe a minute in between them now. With what little strength you had left, you lowered yourself onto the floor. You couldn’t hold back whatever agonized groans that had previously been stifled, clenching your eyes shut. This was definitely a bad decision on your part.

Your absence was quickly noticed by David. The bed felt lighter, he could sense some sort of difference in weight and with a tired groan he rolled over to reach you... Where were you?

At first he lazily ran his hand over the sheets, expecting you to only be a few inches from him. When you proved further than he expected, he began rapidly patting around the mattress. His body began to panic when his fingers still failed to find you, then across the cave he heard an echoed whine. That's when he shot up out of bed from his slumber, looking at the empty space where you should've been. "Y/N," he called out, hearing you scream a second time. "Y/N!!"

In a frantic dash he swung himself over the bed, nearly flying through until an unexpected obstacle had him skidding to a horrified stop.

You were clinging onto the edge of the fountain just out of his grasp, the cruel sun enveloping you entirely leaving him to cower in the shadows. Paul and Marko had dove from the cave when they overheard you crying, circling through the dark until they saw David diving into the room just as limited against the ring of fire as they were.

“Y/N, hang on,” Paul called, but the moment his fingers touched the light they burst into flames. Immediately he recoiled with a shriek, grasping at his burnt flesh. There was no way they could reach you. Not until the sun went down. Everything began to hurt at once. GThere was a heavy layer of perspiration coating your skin. You hadn’t even realized your water broke until you could hear it. Like someone pouring out a bucket of water, the ground beneath you now soaked.

David rapidly paced watching you sob alone against the fountain. What should he do? What could he do?? Just like Paul, he began to reach his hand out to touch the light. Of course it caught aflame and he rapidly shook it to dispel any further burn.

“David please, stay back,” you begged, trying to prop yourself against the concrete edge behind you. The sun proved a worthy adversary to you as well, firmly planting you in place with not an ounce of strength to spare between you and the constant contractions. David steeled his resolve, stepping forward towards you. Your words were falling on deaf ears, even Paul and Marko making a mad dash to hold him in place. With every ounce of strength he had, David tore away- right into the sun.

Within moments the merciless rays lit his back up into a cruel bonfire. You screamed, sobbing and begging him to go back. Instead he fought to lift you into his arms, dragging his feet through hell. You were clinging to his jacket, unable to watch the look of agony he presented until finally he had collapsed with you in tow into the dark. Marko quickly covered the flames with an old tarp draped over the couches, patting it away as fast as possible. The stench of charred flesh made his nose ache, it was foul.

Even in his weakened state David dragged himself to your side, pushing away your hair from your burning face. It took everything you had to stay still. There was no doctor here to warn you of when it was safe to push.

With every passing hour it grew more intense. David had no choice but to feel how dilated you had become. To hell with modesty, if you weren’t ready and you tried to push the baby out you’d both die. He’d read enough of those books Dwayne brought to know what to do. Paul held your hand, helping you sit up in place. He swore you might break his hand, and once if was time you began to panic. Both vampires had to keep you firmly in place while your body began to stretch and tear. Dwayne had finally arisen, bringing in an armful of towels and a tub of warm water. At the suggestion he took over, you rapidly shook your head. It was one thing to have David with his hands up there, so instead he was on cleaning duties. Your screams filled the cave, every room vibrating with the unimaginable pain you felt. It was pushing out, all you could do was cry. All four boys were talking you through it. No one could have really prepared you for this. Stories and films always made it seem like the birth could easily take three hours tops. It had been almost the entire day. Thirteen hours from the contractions to now your labor, clinging to every excruciating minute. You felt like you were dying, everything becoming numb… and then you could hear the first sounds. Coughing and sputtering as fluids were thrown up.

All of you were just silent, David’s face in utter awe. Gently Dwayne handed him a towel, scooping up the blood caked infant now wailing in his arms. Tears spilled over his cheeks, wiping away the muck that hid his precious child from him, utterly speechless.

“Oh… shit dude,” Paul finally spoke, causing a breathless laugh from you. Even David chuckled.

“Well c’mon man don’t keep it a secret,” Marko chimed in, trying to get a peek. God, it was so tiny. Dwayne leaned over David’s shoulder at the newborn nestled against his chest.

“..It’s a girl..,” he asked. David’s nod sent a rush of warmth through you, an uncontrollable wave of tears and laughter spilling from you. Still recovering from his own endeavors into the sun, he handed your newborn daughter to Marko, who in turn, placed her in your arms. Her petit fingers grasped at your shirt, whimpering against your chest.

“She’s… beautiful,” you hiccuped, utterly breathless. You looked over at your burnt partner trying to recover with a blood pack stolen from the fridge, bits of flesh reviving back into healthy skin. When he could finally recover enough to move beside you, he simply pulled you into his arms, softly thanking you over and over for his beautiful little one. She clung to his hand as it ran over her petite head whimpering until he gently cradled her in his arms once more. A sense of relief washed over you, laying against David's chest barely able to catch your breath. Tonight he would go hunting to recover, and for the first time he wouldn't be bringing back blood for you, but for your newborn daughter.

#lost boys 1987 #lost boys imagine #the lost boys #lost boys fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction writing #lost boys #fanfic #80s movies #vampire pregnancy #lost boys vampires #vampire boys #lost boys david #lost boys drama

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 4 years

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Falling Ch. 2

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader [and a few more to come]

Summary: For a moment you had something good, something wonderful. But moments pass. Now, left with nothing but the ashes of a life and a love you fought so hard for, you find yourself in a free fall. Who will you be once you hit the bottom? [Sequel to Only For A Moment but can be read independently.]

Warnings: Loss, grief

A/N: Honestly, idk what to say. I 100% made myself cry with this one. So there’s that. Also, I love Steve Rogers.

Hope y’all don’t hate me too much.

TAGS ARE OPEN

It feels like falling. You wonder if the very ground beneath you is crumbling as he did. When your knees crash into the solid earth you realize that isn’t the case.

Still, the feeling persists.

Plummeting. Untethered. A free fall you can’t stop.

Until Okoye’s cry cuts through your consciousness like a knife.

Sucking in a breath you return to yourself. But… Everything feels wrong.

The pain that had burned through your body and mind has faded to a low hum replaced with the distinct feeling of drowning as you become acutely aware of everything around you.

It feels like your perception is being pulled in a billion directions. Your power had gotten out of hand before - causing you to be hyper aware of even the salt in your own sweat - but this… It was as though you could feel the composition of creation.

Shuri told you, after studying your ability, that your brain erected subconscious buffers to regulate your ability, preventing you from going too far. It explained the headaches that plagued you when you used too much of your power and, you supposed, your newly hemorrhaging eyes. Just your body doing all it could to force you to self preserve.

Clearly, those barriers had been blown to hell.

You don’t speak - the way sound shakes the air, the particles undulating like ripples on water, was honestly unbearable - but on shaky legs you rise to find Okoye.

Gently you lay a hand on her trembling shoulder, trying not to feel the rush of blood through her body or the tiny innumerable particles that made her. Just like you felt Bucky before-

She rounds to look at you and that falling feeling returns, pulling you from those dangerous thoughts. The shocked, horrified woman before you isn’t the Okoye you know, something has broken inside her, a thought you cannot bear.

“The king,” her voice, barely a whisper, still makes you flinch. Her eyes begin to search behind you, a bit frantic before returning to meet your gaze. “Buck-” You cut her off by shaking your head.

She doesn’t move to embrace you, doesn’t try to offer comfort, and you couldn’t love her more for it. All you’re both able to do is stare, immobile, for several beats as the weight of what has happened settles over you.

“Shuri,” she hisses.

Immediately you both bolt, sprinting full speed for the lab.

You chose to ignore how far behind you Okoye is, or how your feet are hardly touching the ground. Just as you choose to ignore the sounds arising from the battlefield, or the tangible feel of ashes on the air - of ashes in your still clenched right hand.

There’s only room for one thought. Shuri.

The madness on the landing deck is the only thing that draws you up short. Running feet stir piles of ash, sending the fine substance up in plumes that make it look as though a low fog has settled in. Making it worse, shouts and cries roll through the air like thunder. You never knew sound could be so heavy.

You feel Okoye run up behind you, somehow recognizing the space she occupies almost on instinct. It makes you think of the void that remained after-

“Bast,” she says in a voice dripping with horror. A glimmer of the Okoye you know shows as she squares her shoulders marching forward into the chaos. Determined to not leave her side you follow, focusing on planting your feet one before the other lest you be swept away, lost in the feeling of the world around you.

Stepping into the seating area outside the lab brings back the falling sensation.

Maybe if you’d tried harder, demanded that he say back, refused to let him fight. Maybe-

A cry so heart-rending and feral blots out any other thought. It’s the kind of sound that could only come from a mother.

“No,” Okoye breathes.

A mournful King’s Guard stands by a pile of ash. Ramonda’s hands search through it as though she could pull her daughter from the grey substance. Her cries fill the space, thick and haunting.

“Queen Mother,” Okoye whispers, falling to one knee behind Ramonda.

“General, where is he?” Ramonda turns, her hands covered in ash, eyes wild and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Okoye’s voice breaks. “I… I couldn’t…”

You expect Ramonda to scream, rage, anything. Her children were gone, she could scream until the end of time and be justified. Instead, she sits back on her heels, eyes on the ceiling. Some pain is so great there is no way to express it.

After a moment her gaze falls to you, still standing frozen in the entrance.

“Sergeant Barnes?” She asks. They’d been close, sharing many afternoons together over coffee or tea talking about everything and nothing.

You want to honor her with the dignity of an answer. Truly you do. But something churns in your chest, trapping the words. All you can do is shake your head.

“Bast, save us.” She pulls Okoye to her, holding tight as the tears come. Ramonda extends a hand out to you but... you just can’t.

In a daze, you turn, walking away from the lab unsure where your feet are taking you until you stand before the door to the ready-room you and Bucky had prepared for the battle in.

Almost. You almost make it inside. Instead, you walk past a few doors before stepping into another ready-room. With a whoosh, the door slides open and then closes behind you leaving you in blessed silence.

Why were you here? What good was being in here? What could you possibly… Your right-hand rises, still clenched in a tight fist, holding…

Anything not nailed down begins to tremble in the small room. The mirror above the sink makes almost imperceptible creaking sounds as it splinters. A book hurtles from somewhere unseen and slams into the wall with enough force to break the binding sending pages fluttering. Then it stops.

A page flutters up and over to you, even though the thought of grabbing one was barely half-formed in your mind. You don’t care what the page says, you just hold it with your left hand while you ever so slowly convince your right to open.

You can feel your power buzzing around your hand, plucking away every last speck of ash from your skin, not letting one small piece fall away. With the utmost care, you guide the small grey mass to the paper and set it down.

It strikes you that it’s such a small amount, barely a handful, and yet to you it is the most precious substance in existence. It’s him. It’s all you have-

The room begins to shake once more and you cut off your thoughts. Carefully, you fold the paper around the ashes and tuck the makeshift packet into a pocket sewn into the lining of the vest you wore.

Unsure of what else to do you make your way back to the chaos of the landing deck. Warriors from the field had begun to return, shellshocked or enraged.

You see M’Baku towering above a small cluster. When his eyes fall on you he scowls before looking away.

For a moment you simply allow the chaos to overwhelm you. Each sound rattling in your bones. The feeling of that hunger you’d felt after the stones beginning to ache. You almost hope it will all drive you mad. Madness was prefferable to mourning.

Someone grabs your arm, pulling your focus to them. Ayo.

“There were several crashes in the city, we could use your help,” she says, voice oddly calm. You just nod and follow her, grateful for any distraction.

This feeling wasn’t a new one to Steve. He knew far too well what it was to fall so deep into himself that the world around him became an echo. It was the only way he’d made it through the first leg of his life - through the sounds of his parent’s fights, the constant street scrapes, the anger in him that always threatened to crest into something as ugly and violent as his father.

And he felt it the last time he watched James Barnes die.

Sam would say it wasn’t healthy, that he needed to process the situation. But Sam wasn’t here, and honestly, over the last 60 or so hours he’d been deeply grateful for the feeling.

Just like it always did, it protected him, allowed him to get back up. Or in this case allowed him to let Natasha and Rhodey take the jet to go find Clint and Pepper, let him be of some use here in Wakanda while he waited for them to return. It let him do what he needed to - eat, drink, sleep, keep moving - in order to make them all think he was ok, that he had a plan, that he could still be what they needed.

He’d been grateful. Until he saw you on a stretcher, blood staining the side of your face.

Maybe if he’d been present, he would have noticed that you hadn’t stopped since the battle. Maybe he would have realized that you hadn’t slept or eaten or-

“I don’t think she’s said a word since he died…” Okoye says in a small voice. Her eyes glued to her clasped hands, leg bouncing in anxiety.

He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because the couple of times he saw you it seemed you were on a mission, moving with intent, doing what needed to be done just as he was. But he should have known.

You were his friend. You were his family. Bucky’s gal… How many times could he fail Bucky Barnes?

His chest constricts. Absently he rubs at the ache, trying to think of something useful to say. He opens his mouth to offer some banal platitude but Mosi - the medic seeing to you - saves both him and Okoye from the embarrassment.

“She’ll be alright I think,” he says with a tired voice. “Dehydrated, so we got her on a drip. She’s still unconscious but that may be for the best right now. Her scans are… different from the last ones Shuri-” He pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows his emotions. “The last ones Shuri did. It could be due to the head wound but it’s hard to tell.”

“What do you mean different?” Okoye asks. The tone in her voice makes Steve shift uncomfortably.

“I…” Mosi pauses. “Honestly, I’m trying to quantify it. None of us were actively involved in the assessment of the Barnes’ enhancements, we only assisted when requested.” He sighs, his exhaustion evident. “There doesn’t seem to be damage per se but the readings are erratic. There are parts of her brain that seem to be activating her power that never showed on past scans and…”

“And what?” Steve asks, his anxiety mounting.

“None of Shuri’s research shows Y/N’s power remaining active in a truly unconscious state. They tried it under sedation and it was completely dormant.” He sits heavily in one of the chairs. “Right now, there is a constant flow of energy, like someone just left the tap on.”

“Dammit, Y/N,” Okoye grumbles. Steve looks at her confused. “She pushed herself too far. You saw her eyes during the battle right?! They were bleeding.”

“Ah,” Mosi sighs, “that explains the ruptured blood vessels. If she did over use her power it’s possible that she just needs rest - like any overworked muscle.”

Steve nods, rubbing his temples as he leans back in the chair.

“We’ll closely monitor-” A distinct tremble pulses through the building cutting him off. No sooner does it pass than another, stronger, shake comes.

“Earthquake?” Steve asks, getting to his feet.

Okoye shakes her head as she stands, “No, the building’s frame is vibranium it shouldn’t-” The next tremor almost knocks them all down and sends the monitors in your room screaming in alarm.

Whatever Steve expected to see when he rushed into your room it was not what awaited him.

The door slides open as the thick glass shatters outward with a deafening crash. Just outside, your body floats, head lolling to the side, pieces of glass continuing to shatter about you sparkling like glitter in the twilight. He calls out to you but is helpless as you float out into the growing darkness.

Okoye stands just behind him, eyes wide with fear and worry.

“Keep an eye on her as long as you can and update me on where she may be heading.” Okoye nods in acknowledgment as he sprints from the room.

Steve’s chest burns like his lungs just can’t bring in enough oxygen. Suddenly he’s a kid again, gasping for air, praying that this won’t be the time his body chooses to quit on him.

Doubling over, once he reaches the landing deck, he rests his hands on his knees, trying to count his breaths, trying to center himself. There wasn’t time for him to fall apart. Not now.

“Steve?” Thor asks from his perch on one of the hovercrafts. The raccoon - Rocket - sits beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Thor’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder. It’s too much like a gesture Bucky would often make. He pulls away.

“Y/N,” he pants, still trying to force his lungs to work. “Something’s wrong, she-” Okoye’s voice in his ear interrupts him.

“Steve, I… I think she’s heading to where… it happened.”

There was no need to explain what it was.

“Copy,” he answers.

“I’m on my way down,” Okoye says.

“No, I can-”

“I’m coming.” Her tone brooches no argument.

“We’ll come too,” Thor says, getting on the craft. Rocket just shrugs.

When the four of them arrive at the edge of the woods it’s eerily quiet.

“There’s no breeze,” Thor comments quietly. He was right. A slight wind had been blowing on the landing deck but here, everything was unnaturally still. “Her power…”

Steve doesn’t like the awe in Thor’s voice. You were gifted, of that there was no question. But you’d been clear enough that there were limits to what you could do and how long you could use your abilities.

With a pang, he remembers Wanda teasing you about it over dinner more than once.

“There,” Okoye whispers.

He sees you and feels a pain shoot through his heart.

You’re standing just as you had days ago, in the same place, but your hands - palms out - are pressed to nothing but empty air. Around your feet dust swirls in a slow circle, the only movement to be seen. From here, he can’t see your face, but your head is cocked to the side, almost as if you’re listening to something in the distance.

Part of him wants to run. Just leave you to your sorrow because he can’t bear it. Because this, this brings to gut-wrenching clarity a thought he’d been avoiding for days.

You had tried to use your power to save Bucky.

He can’t begin to comprehend what that must have been like. What must you have felt as your husband died…

The snapping of a stick beneath Thor’s foot causes your head to twitch in their direction though you don’t move otherwise.

“Y/N?” Okoye calls softy. “Sister, why don’t you come with us?” She extends her hand, “I’ll take you home.”

Steve wishes it was just his imagination making him feel the tremor move from your body into the ground. But the shaking of the leaves above them in response to Okoye’s last word tells him it was real.

He looks to the others, seeing tense faces stare back at him. Rocket’s ears twitch wildly.

“We need to back up. Now.” Immediately he begins to put more space between himself and you. Thor nods, following his lead. Okoye looks from them to you and back, unsure.

No. He’d failed you, failed Bucky, and Sam, and Wanda, and everyone. He couldn’t turn away from you now.

Slowly, he makes his way to your side, his body tingling with an entirely foreign sensation.

“Y/N,” his voice almost a whisper. “Come on, let’s-” As soon as his hand touches your shoulder he’s flung back. Thor catches him, pulling him away from you and settling him on the ground.

Gobsmacked Steve stares, hardly able to breathe or think, only capable of gaping slack-jawed as the dust at your feet begins to spin faster and faster.

Slowly, the air around you begins to swirl with debris from the ground. A foot, two three, the radius grows until there’s a five-foot minimum of dirt, dust, stones, and other forest refuse filling the space, up and up past the tops of the trees.

Even so, it remains strangely quiet save for the rustling of the foliage. It could almost be peaceful. Until your scream shatters the illusion.

He’d heard this scream before. It was the scream that rang through bombed cities in the war, through New York when the Citauri attacked, and Sokovia as buildings crumbled burying families inside. It was the sound of loss so profound that it reduced someone to their basest animal nature.

It seems to pull every ounce of pain he’d tried to run from to the surface. Desperately, he tries to tamp it down, gritting his teeth as tears slide unbidden from his eyes.

Thor hits his knees beside Steve, coving his face. Rocket looks away. Okoye stares, tears silently carving paths down her cheeks.

What could any of them do? What comfort could they give?

Your cries shake the ground, cause the trees to groan, small thunder-like rumbles rise and fall as though you were ripping the particles in the air apart like lightning. Maybe you were…

All he knew was that at this moment your pain was the pain of a universe in mourning. You expressed what they all felt but did not have the capability to release.

A strange creaking groan slowly gets louder as the earth shakes.

Tear it all down, Y/N, he thinks. I’m too tired to save it anymore.

His sight is blurred with tears he can’t seem to let fall so he thinks he imagines the woman stepping past them, moving serenely toward your maelstrom, her white hair tumbling down her back.

“Queen Mother, don’t!” Okoye cries, shaken from her stupor. She grabs the woman's arm. Ramonda turns to her, a sad smile on her face.

“Let go of me, General.” Okoye doesn’t move. “Oko,” Ramonda coos, cupping her face with a hand. “It will be alright. She’s just hurting.”

Okoye takes a halting step away from the Queen before collapsing back to the ground.

Steve holds his breath as he watches Ramonda enter the cyclone of debris surrounding you - so sure that a rogue branch or rock would strike her down. You’d never forgive yourself if-

He shoots to his feet, ready to rush after Ramonda, pull her to safety for all your sakes but he freezes.

Incredibly she’s made it to you unscathed. Through the haze of dust, he sees her arms wrap around you, your body still shaking with screams, and pull your back against her chest.

Relief only has the briefest moment to touch him before, with one final groan, the ground around you gives way.

Falling.

You’re falling and you don’t want it to stop.

The further you fall the better, the further you fall the more likely this pain will end when you reach the bottom. And that’s all you want right now. Just for the pain to end and to take this insidious hunger along with it.

“I know child, I know it hurts,” a voice, thick with tears whispers in your ear. “I know.”

The sound cuts your scream off at the root leaving you gasping and bringing the ground up to meet you.

It was not far enough.

Though both of you are sent to your knees the arms around your chest do not release you. They only hold tighter.

“Let it out.” The voice whispers. Only then do you realize your scream had morphed into a guttural sob.

It hurt.

The salt in your tears stings your eyes so badly it feels like someone is grinding sand in them and your throat is so raw you’d think you swallowed fire. Your body feels like it was hit by a bus, muscles throbbing, a bone-deep ache permeating your whole being, and that strange hunger grinding somewhere deep within you. But you can’t stop. The tears just keep flowing.

Gone. He was gone. And you failed to save him.

This was worse than the loss of your chosen family. Then, you were trapped, held prisoner, unable to get to them fast enough. Now…

You had him in your hands. You had power beyond comprehension at your literal fingertips. And still, it wasn’t enough. Still, you felt him leave you bit by bit.

“Bucky!” His name trips over your lips, a desperate plea, a prayer. Again and again, you call for him knowing he will not answer you.

Eventually, you run out of tears and slump into the arms holding you, your head on their shoulder. Forcing your eyes open you look up at Ramonda’s tearstained but serene face. A mother’s face.

Gently she brushes the hair from your damp cheeks before pressing her lips to your forehead. If you had the ability to shed one more tear you would have. Your own mother had feared you, maybe even hated you, so this kind of care was foreign but god, you never wanted her to let go.

Your eyes slide shut as she starts humming a low song. It isn’t something you know but the cadence of the notes sound like a lullaby.

The presence of others presses into your awareness. She doesn’t react so you feel no need to either.

One of her arms releases you to draw another person near. A person you know. Okoye.

Opening your eyes the best you can you reach for her, the warm feeling of her palm in yours feels good.

A small hand rests on your thigh. The feeling is an odd one and you look down. Rocket, the one who tried to buy Bucky’s arm, gazes at you with wide shimmering eyes - pain clear on his features. With your free hand, you cover his and he leans into you.

With eyes half-mast you barely see Thor draw close. Ramonda reaches her other hand to him and he takes it. A soft cry comes from him.

“I know,” Ramonda pauses her song to whisper. “Captain?”

Steve is before you all, standing, looking away. When Ramonda calls to him he closes the small distance and kneels before you. His eyes look red from tears but he seems so solid otherwise.

With a knuckle, he brushes your cheek, it comes away pink. Your eyes must have bled again… You must have-

It’s then that you look just over Steve’s shoulder and realize… You are all huddled in a fucking crater.

Falling. You had felt like you were falling. You had thought about the ground crumbling when Bucky had and… You pull away from the others, pushing past Steve to the other side of the crater.

You press your hands to the wall, about six feet high, and they come away black with fresh earth. Slowly you turn, taking in the size of the thing.

When your gaze settles on the group, most still leaning on one another, they look concerned.

“Y/N?” Steve’s tone is cautious.

“I did this,” you breathe in realization, voice hoarse.

“It’s ok, Y/N. No one was-”

“No!” You snap. “It isn’t ok. I can’t do this! I shouldn’t… I can’t-” Breathe. You cannot breathe.

Grasping your chest you heave, feeling like your heart may burst. Panic overwhelms you.

“You just need to rest,” Okoye’s voice this time. “You haven’t stopped since-”

“No,” you rasp, shaking your head frantically. You begin to pace. “No. You don’t understand.” You lean against the wall and sink down, hiding your face in your knees as you begin to shake all over.

Your mind buzzes trying to sort all the things it’s sensing, like trying to pick out each individual voice in a crowd of thousands. Beneath the chaos is the low rumble you remembered from before, that hunger. Your fingers run through your hair, grasping your skull.

“Something is wrong. Wrong with me. I can’t… I can’t…”

“What can’t you do, Y/N?” Steve asks.

“Control it!” You shout looking up at them. The soft earth beneath you shifts and you gasp covering your mouth, scared you’ll just start screaming again. The tension hangs heavy in the air.

“It’s alright,” Ramonda says moving closer. “We are all struggling to control this grief. It must make it harder to harness these gifts.” Her soft smile makes you wish she was right, makes you want to let her mother you and tell you it will all be fine and believe her.

But she’s wrong. You shake your head.

“That isn’t it. I-” Your voice cracks. “Something is wrong.” You’re too tired to think but you have to say it because you know it must be the cause.

“I touched them,” you manage.

“Touched what?” Okoye asks.

“The stones,” Thor whispers. “You touched the stones with your power.” You meet his mismatched eyes and nod.

“Christ,” Steve hisses, pacing away.

“You’re lucky you’re even alive,” Rocket says. “That’s cosmic, concentrated energy you tapped into, you should be-”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that pours from you.

“Lucky,” you growl. “Lucky. That’s me, so fucking lucky!” You push yourself quickly to your feet.

The world tips sideways and everything goes dark.

When your eyes flutter open again you’re on a hovercraft, Steve’s arms cradling you tight to his chest.

Shame thrums through you.

“I’m ok, Steve,” you say. “You can put me down.”

“It’s fine,” his tone is hard edged, cold.

“Really, I-” His arms flex, holding you tighter. When you get to the landing deck you pry yourself from his grasp with your power, landing softly on your feet. He tosses a look that isn’t quite a glare at you but says nothing.

Instead of going back to the lab, you all follow Ramonda as if on instinct, to the royal residences. A line of wayward children.

Being in Ramonda’s welcoming home threatens to send a tremor through you - and everything around you. Too many afternoons you’d come here after training to see Bucky sitting on the balcony, lit golden in the sunset, drinking tea… The thought of his smile makes some deep place in you ache.

Thor collapses into one of the couches, looking like a husk of a man. You had seen him earlier that day but perhaps he too was reaching his breaking point. It looks like Rocket will join him for a beat but he heads to the balcony, his eyes fixed on the sky as though looking for something.

You stand, unsure what to do.

“Sit,” Ramonda insists. You do as she says, avoiding the large chair you usually shared with Bucky, opting for a pile of floor pillows instead.

When Steve, Okoye, and Ramonda return with food and tea you realize, guiltily, that you hadn’t noticed their absence or even really registered time passing. No one moves for the food, lost in their own misery.

“Eat, all of you,” Ramonda says in a maternal voice.

She needs to care for someone, you think.

Not wanting to disappoint her you force yourself to take some tea and nibble on a piece of flatbread. It all tastes like dust.

At some point you lost the thread of the conversation. Mainly Okoye filling the silence with plans, Ramonda saying something about the elder council meeting.

You kept playing the events of earlier through your head - hating that you had broken like that, hating how you likely terrified them all - when Okoye coughed. It wasn’t subtle. Neither was the pointed glance she and Steve exchanged.

You bristle.

“Come on,” Steve stands, extending a hand to you. Choosing to not take it you rise fluidly to your feet, your power, rather than your tired muscles propelling you.

Ramonda cups your face in her hands before kissing both your cheeks. She doesn’t say a word, just presses her forehead to yours before releasing you.

With no explanation from him, he leads you to the apartment he uses when he visits. You manage to hold your tongue until the door closes behind you both.

“Were you assigned to babysit?” At any other time, the venom in his glare would have stung. “I can-”

“Don’t,” his voice is low. He turns and rummages through a drawer, pulling out a plain black tee and boxers. “Here. Go shower.”

There’s something barely contained in his actions, a tension begging to be released. You feel guilty for your quip but don’t think an apology will be welcome. Plus, you can feel every grain of sand, every bit of dirt, the salt from your sweat all clinging to your skin, it’s unbearable.

The shower doesn’t help. All you can think of as the hot water hits your skin is that you should have showered with Bucky this morning… Two mornings ago? Three? Honestly, you didn’t know how much time had passed.

You finish quickly. Looking in the mirror you notice the swath of scalp showing where they shaved your head around a wound.

Vaguely you remember helping to clear the alien debris that had been left behind. Someone slipped and got pinned, you’d easily freed them but lost focus and your grip on the metal.

You press a finger to the skin, soft and beginning to bruise but sealed with Wakandan perfection. Staring listlessly at your reflection you press harder, the pain making you feel present, reminding you this was real.

This woman in the mirror… you don’t know her. Your fingers rub around the wound and slip into your hair pulling it tight. If you pulled hard enough… On the open shelves by the sink, you spot the clippers. That would be faster.

The buzzing noise is almost unbearable as is the sensation of all the little whirring parts. But you push past it.

Bit by bit your hair - grown long and thick over these past few years of love, of hope, of rebirth and rebuilding yourself from what Hydra made of you - falls to the floor.

When you finish you look back in the mirror. You know this ghost.

It isn’t a comfort.

Your chest seizes. Gripping the edge of the counter you fold forward. One question screams in your head over and over.

Shaking your head you try to clear it, feeling strands of hair slip from your shoulders. Frantically you reach for the t-shirt and pull it on before flinging the door open.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging.

“Steve?” You ask in a tremulous voice. He looks up, his face a map of pain. “What do we do? What… What do we do…” Without Bucky. That was what you really meant. Without Bucky what were you supposed to do?

“I-” His voice cracks. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, “God help me but… I don’t… I don’t know.” When the sob breaks free he almost looks startled by it, his hand flying to his mouth, eyes wide with fear.

He keeps shaking his head, “Y/N, I don’t know… I’m sorry I-” That’s it. That’s all he has left.

Here, away from the world, Steve Rogers breaks.

For a beat you’re unsure what to do. You’d never seen him cry, never seen him fully lose his grip on that invisible shield he never put down.

There is so little you can give him. Still, you go to him, pulling him to you, holding tight. It isn’t much but this is all you have.

His face presses against your abdomen, his tears soaking through the shirt fabric. Even though you thought you’d cried all you could, you feel the tears come, rolling quietly down your cheeks and landing in his golden hair as you run your fingers through it.

When your tired legs will no longer hold you up you crawl into the bed. Neither of you speak but you hold on for dear life until oblivion offers relief from this consuming grief.

TAGS

@bluegirlusa1 @l0kisbitch @tazzi-baby @disagreetoagree @woodyandbuzz20-01 @mooniightbucky @saundrasays @breezy1415 @alyssaj23 @mywinterwolf @wonderlandmind4 @anamcg317 @buckaroo-barnes @jazztherebel @peachthatdrinkslemonade @regulusirius @auskitty @babyimp1967 @katecolleen @handplucked @stevehesaidabadlanguageword @darkdragonphoenix @issanitydead @thestorydetective @buckysstar @greyeyedsmile14 @watchoutforfrostbite @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @jewelofwinter @siriuslycloudy2 @jdoenson @gamorazenn @wildmoonflower @cutie1365 @demonlover87 @winterboobearsworld @this-kitten-is-smitten @amorluzymelodia @nutellakirb @nighttwingg @coffeebeforewater @shesalatesh

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers #post endgame #angst fic

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firewoodfigs · 4 years

Text

we might be made of scars, but we’ll be alright

read on ao3 | song: miho fukuhara, let it out

For @royaiweek day 3: old wounds - thank you mods!! 💕 y’all are amazing ✨

(a/n: it’s my first time trying out the “5+1 things” tag, and I thought I’d experiment with another writing style again xD feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated! <3)

“This one had it coming, this one found a vein This one was an accident, but never gave me pain This one was my father's, and this one you can't see This one had me scared to death But I guess I should be glad I'm not dead” - Stone Sour, Made of Scars

Lieutenant Hawkeye traces the long scar on the back of her calf idly as she changes out of her military uniform. It’s coloured a faded, nostalgic pink, and it reminds her of the innocent childhood that she shares with the Colonel.

She’d gotten it from a bad fall when she was only twelve, and her father’s apprentice had been terribly worried when he witnessed her limping back home. He had rushed over immediately with a first aid kit in hand, before propping her gently on the couch as he pleaded with her to let him take care of it.

It was hard to say no to such an earnest face like his. Having already suffered enough from the long walk back home, Riza wanted nothing more than to rest at that point. Eventually, she relented, though with a hint of distrust.

Because they weren’t even friends then, and what business did he have being so nice -?

“It might hurt,” Roy whispered before dabbing the damp gauze pad on her wound.

Hydrogen peroxide on open wounds, of course, stung like hell. But for every wince, every grimace, he’d responded with a soft apology, whispering soothing platitudes as he worked on the gaping wound meticulously to avoid causing her further pain.

It was the first time Riza had felt a touch so tender and kind.

Even then, his compassion hadn’t stopped there. After he was done with the bandages he had practically ordered her to bed and appointed himself as head chef despite her objections.

“You can’t be moving around like that,” he said, ushering her into her room while lending his shoulder for support. He had helped her - much to her abashment, and much to his amusement - onto her bed, before commanding her to stay put while he prepared dinner. She obliged reluctantly, fiddling with her blanket while waiting for him.

Not too long after, he came back with a bowl of hot stew and a delighted, affable smile.

“Thank you, Mister Mustang,” she said shyly.

Roy frowned. “Please don’t call me that. Just… just call me Roy?”

She politely refused, telling him that it would be terribly inappropriate to do so, but something between them had changed. Any tension that might have existed previously was beginning to dissolve, and Riza was starting to treat him less like the plague.

Sensing this, Roy continued to stay by her side despite her proverbial disinclination for small talk, hoping to finally befriend the introverted blonde.

Over dinner, then, he’d regaled her with tales of his unfortunate misadventures with alchemy when he first started out and silly jokes that he often made with his sisters. In turn, she had reciprocated with reserved laughters and hunting mishaps of her own and a budding trust.

In the end, the injury became an insignia of when her loneliness ended, and when their friendship started.

ii.

Then, of course, there were the scars on her back that contained deadly secrets, prolix poems and meaningless apologies. To an alchemist, the intricate, complex array might have been beautiful. A transfiguration of sorts, even.

To Riza, though, it was nothing but disfiguration in its purest, most unadulterated form. Engraved within were memories of pain and abuse and estrangement, and she would have honestly appreciated being able to live without a daily reminder of those.

He had known he was dying, even before Roy returned from the military, and had called this his parting gift. To her, to an apprentice worthy of its power, to the world. Donatio mortis causa.

Riza thought it was the furthest thing from a present - it was her father’s curse to her, and it would haunt her even after his death.

And when he’d finally passed… Riza had been terrified to show it to Roy.

It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust him, but - would anger consume him at the realisation that her father had done this to her? God forbid - would he think of her as ugly, marred? Would he still think of her as desirable?

But he was the chosen one; the one that her father had deemed worthy of learning flame alchemy. Ultimately, her desire to assist his goals, his wonderful dreams and ambitions for the future and for the country had outweighed whatever trivialities that might have deterred her from doing so.

With trembling hands, thus, she had unbuttoned her cardigan to reveal the array to him. He’d been speechless. There was a silence that lingered in the thin, dusty air of the Hawkeye manor, but before it could persist he had crossed the distance between them in two long strides.

“Riza,” he whispered. Her hands weren’t the only ones trembling - his hands were, too. She felt it when he rested them on the planes on her back, tracing the grooves of her spine reverently, affectionately.

The trembling hadn’t stopped even when he circled his arms around her waist to bring her into a warm embrace. He had whispered apologies onto her shoulder, then. Blamed himself for not being there to stop his teacher, her father, from doing this to her, for leaving her alone to deal with this. It was a sincere apology, unlike the ones inscribed onto her skin.

Suddenly, the weight on her back had felt a little lighter - perhaps from a burden shared, or from his sweet reassurances.

Either way, Riza remembers it as the night where her trust in him had developed into full bloom.

iii.

Eventually, though, Riza comes to learn that psychological wounds ached more than physical ones. The latter was temporary, but the former - hell, they were indelible, inescapable. This much was heavily reinforced, at least, by the horrors of war that they had encountered during their time in Ishval.

She’d told her superior officer that a gun was good, because it didn’t leave the feeling of a person dying in her hands. It was a partial lie. One that she was willing to let slip from her mouth placidly if it meant that she could be by his side and utilise her gun as a tool for protection, rather than murder and war and genocide.

Because no matter how much she scrubbed her hands after in the sink, she realised that she could never wash away the red on her hands. While the distance between her and her unfortunate victims meant that blood had never fallen on her hands, the entire experience had stained her soul a deep crimson.

It warped her heart; her conscience and morality, and it was a burden that she - no, they - would carry to their graves.

Nonetheless, Riza finds herself sending a short prayer of thanks to any god willing to hear from a wretched sinner like her as she stares at Roy’s peaceful sleeping form. Dreamless slumbers like these were uncommon for the Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval, but it seemed like they were getting increasingly frequent as they progressed along further with the project after the Promised Day.

(Of course, neither of them had come to forgive themselves entirely. They probably never would - for their burdens and sins and iniquities still remained, and would linger on to their very last breaths.)

But their work of atonement and reparation had assuaged their consciences somewhat, even if only marginally. Roy, most of all, deserved this brief respite. He’d been working himself to the bone ever since he regained his vision, and she found herself having to play the role of babysitter less and less.

Riza allows a subtle smile to cross her stern features as she drapes his coat over his tired frame before returning to her paperwork.

iv.

After the war came the burns on her back. They’re splattered across her upper back in irregular splotches of pink; etched with guilt and reluctance and self-reproach.

To say that asking Roy to burn her back was difficult would be a gross understatement. He had already endured enough, and to ask him to use the power bestowed upon him to burn even more skin was akin to putting him through another round of purgatory.

Riza was disinclined to repeat his suffering, but she needed it. Desperately. She couldn’t bear the thought of creating another Flame Alchemist, and the array was literally a back-breaking burden. She’d begged him once, twice before he relented. Very unwillingly.

They’d gone back together to Tobha to do it, back to the now-decrepit Hawkeye estate that held an eerie resemblance to a haunted mansion. In some ways, it was poetically fitting - ending it where it had first begun. The estate bore apparitions of their innocence, their childhood memories, but now it would bear the ghost of flame alchemy as well.

Riza came to learn, then, that whatever she’d conceived of as pain from having hydrogen peroxide dab at an open wound paled in comparison to fire searing her skin. It took all of her willpower to not scream, but she withheld the urge to do so. Even if it meant biting her lips, digging her nails into her palms until they bled.

Like he had once done when they were children, Roy was quick to come to her aid. He came with water ice-cold and embraces lovingly-warm; painkillers and repeated apologies and constant reassurances.

Riza manages to respond to all of this with reminders of forgiveness through her pain. Because for the first time since the needle had met her skin, since the war, she’d felt free. Liberated.

Libera me.

Roy had allowed her to be Riza Hawkeye - her own person, her own being - instead of just the bearer of a lethal, fatal secret that could kill thousands. Despite how much it pained them both to burn her back, she's never been more grateful.

Had she murmured her thanks, her apologies? Riza’s not quite sure. The memories after are a blur. She only remembers passing out in Roy’s arms and the tender, apologetic kiss on her forehead before unconsciousness had dawned upon her like a comforting blanket to stave away the unbearable pain.

The cold water falling on her skin in the shower reminds her of his warmth after the flames had died down. Riza can’t help but laugh slightly at the distant memory.

It’s ironic - Roy lives up to his moniker for reasons more than one.

v. / vi.

But none of the scars she’s sustained throughout her life can compare to the ones they’d gotten from The Promised Day.

The only comfort through all the hell they had endured was probably the fact that they were now lumped together in the same hospital room. Nonetheless, the quiet solitude of night-time is filled with unspoken apologies and unshed tears. It’s unbearable. Roy can feel the guilt radiating off every fibre of her being despite his blindness, despite the distance separating them -

- and so he orders his subordinate to come over.

Hesitantly, Riza complies. She crawls into his bed cautiously, careful not to jostle the wounds on his hands. They mark her failure. Roy was nearly killed before her very eyes, and she’d been powerless to stop it as the sword pierced through his palms. She wants to cry, wants to wail out loud and mourn for his loss of sight, for how useless she had been in the face of it all -

- but her vocal cords are strained. The only thing that escapes her throat is a soundless sob. Riza forces herself to hold in her tears - you don’t deserve to cry, no, stop - but Roy knows. He knows her like the back of his hand, and so even if she’s temporarily mute he can already hear what she’s going to say; even if he’s blind he can see the tears beginning to glimmer in her ochre eyes.

With a bandaged hand he carefully finds her face and caresses it tenderly. “It’s not your fault, Riza,” he whispers.

There’s a wetness to her cheeks now, like it’s raining. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he murmurs. “If anything, all the fault’s mine.”

As if to reinforce his point, his fingers make their way down - to her jaw, and then to the dressing on her neck. A sigh escapes his lips as he traces the scar underneath, remorse and regret dripping from his fingertips.

“No -” Riza croaks. Not your fault, Roy.

“If it’s not my fault, then how could it ever be yours?”

She’s silent again. There’s so much she wants to say - I’m so sorry, Roy, I should have been there, should have done something, can you ever forgive me, I was so afraid to lose you - but the wound renders it impossible.

Regardless, they’ve always had a knack for understanding each other, even without words or eye signals.

He searches for her face again, using it to guide his lips to her forehead. “Not your fault,” Roy says once more for added emphasis. His voice is louder than a whisper this time. It’s filled with conviction and relief and affection, and in their close proximity he can’t help but press a chaste kiss on her messy fringe.

“I was so afraid of losing you, Riza. Nothing scared me more than seeing you bleed on the ground, watching you almost… almost dying.”

They’re both crying uncontrollably now.

“But you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I might never get my sight back, but I have the Hawk’s Eye with me,” he manages to quip through his sobs. “With you by my side, I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, Riza. As long as we’re together.”

Riza manages a slight nod under his chapped lips, before reaching for his hand to place a gentle kiss on it. It’s a soothing salve to the dull ache underneath and a promise, a vow. I’ll always be with you, Roy.

Roy retracts his hand to wrap his arms around her, pulling her body to his chest in a tight, haphazard embrace. Riza feels his heart beating against hers, all life and strength and fervor, and she thinks he’s right.

“We’ll be alright, Riza. I promise.”

#royai #royaiweek20 #royai fic #royai fanfic #royaiweek #young royai #ishval #post-promised day #fma #listen I was listening to let it out while writing this and crying #especially at the last part #HAHAHAHA

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jaxl-road · 4 years

Text

Swelter

Same universe as Shiver//Shake and Suffocate. Can be read as a stand-alone, but probably makes a bit more sense if you read those first. Also available on AO3.

Summary: Tommy feels like he has to be strong and take care of Nikki, even if that means hiding when he needs help.

Warnings: None I think, let me know if I missed something!

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

It started with a cough.

A tickle in the back of Tommy’s throat, really, like he had inhaled a bit of dust or something. It wouldn’t go away though, even after multiple attempts to clear his throat and drinking some water. But as annoying as it was, the drummer didn’t think anything of it, distracting himself with booze and music and a beautiful boy in his bed.

He still got a goofy smile on his face whenever he fell into bed with Nikki, even after over four months together. Actually, according to Mick, he pretty much got a goofy smile on his face anytime Nikki walked into the room. But he couldn’t help it- as soon as their relationship was revealed, it was like the floodgates opened. The terror twins had always been affectionate, but now Tommy took every opportunity to kiss Nikki’s hair, and cheeks, and mouth, lacing their fingers together under tables and pulling him onto his lap at every after party.

Not that Nikki ever complained, laughing and throwing his arms around the drummer and playing with his hair. And when Vince made fake gagging noises at their kisses he simply kissed Tommy harder.

Yeah. Tommy felt more and more head over heels everyday.

Which was why he was beyond frustrated when he woke up and found that the tickle in his throat had only grown worse. It felt lower, closer to his lungs, and his breath caught in a desperate attempt not to cough. Looking over, he saw Nikki curled next to him, makeup smudged around his eyes and hair a wild mess, breathing softly. Tommy rarely got to see Nikki asleep- the bassist was usually the last to drift off and the first to wake, sleep a constant battleground for the man. So the drummer refused to disturb his boyfriend’s much needed rest for something as stupid as a cough.

Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem to understand that, and he felt his eyes watering the longer he held it in. Finally, he rolled over as gently as he could away from Nikki and buried his face in his pillow, finally succumbing to the hacking in his lungs. He clutched the pillow around his head, trying to muffle the sounds as much as possible.

“Hmmpf, T-Bone?” Tommy wanted to punch something when he felt the bed shift as Nikki sat up, “You alright, babe?”

It took a minute for the coughing to subside, but when it did, Tommy sat up with a frustrated sigh, “Yeah, just had something in my throat,” he coughed a little to try to clear the raspy sound in his voice, “I’m sorry for waking you,” he said softly.

Nikki smiled sleepily, “No worried, dude. I should be getting up soon anyway, I wanted to work on a couple songs before practice today,” he stretched his arms over his head, and Tommy cursed internally.

“Aw, come on,” he whined, “don’t get up yet,” he wrapped his arms around Nikki’s waist, rolling over to lay on top of him. He smiled mischievously, “Stay a little longer.”

Chuckling, Nikki smirked up at him, “Well… maybe just a little longer.”

Grinning in victory, Tommy leaned down to plant a soft kiss on the bassist’s lips before shifting down to rest his head on his chest, ignoring the ache in his throat and crossing his fingers that Nikki might fall back asleep for a little longer.

Things had been amazing recently, both with the band and their relationship, but the truth was Nikki still struggled a lot and the insomnia was only part of it. He was the strongest person Tommy knew, but Nikki was still healing from a lifetime of pain. There was still fear embedded in his chest like shrapnel, and some days his pain drifted closer to the surface, and some days his demons nipped closer at his heels, and some days his hands wouldn’t stop shaking and fuck, all Tommy wanted was to make it better. Tommy wanted to be strong for him, to take care of him, to support him every chance he got. He had to.

No point in burdening him with a minor cough.

~~~~~~~

The problem was that it apparently was more than just a “minor cough”. As the week wore on, Tommy found it harder and harder to hide the rasping in his lungs. He got exhausted so easily, almost panting by the end of rehearsal, his body ached, and by the end of the week he was suppressing shivers because he just couldn’t seem to get warm.

Nikki furrowed his brows as he looked at the younger boy, “Hey Tommy, are you… okay?” concern was heavy in his voice, “You’ve been kind of quiet the last few days.”

Tommy wanted to kick himself. He had to get it together, Nikki dealt with enough anxiety without Tommy adding more to it. Mustering up all the energy he could, he plastered on a wide smile, “Oh, I’m totally fine! Just kind of jittery for the show tonight. We’re playing a lot of new stuff, you know, I want to make sure I bring my A-game.”

He hated the thought of lying, but when Nikki relaxed, he figured it was okay. The bassist smiled, throwing an arm around him, “Hey, you’re gonna rock tonight, just like you always do!”

“We’re going to rock,” Tommy corrected, relieved that he had managed to dodge that bullet. He was fine, and he wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of him taking care of Nikki.

That’s what he told himself when he snorted a long line of coke and shoved a handful of cough drops into his mouth half an hour before the show that night. Their shows had been consistently selling out, and they had even been discussing how to go about putting out their first album. It was exhilarating, and a little overwhelming sometimes, but Tommy kept that part to himself. Right now, all he could think about was getting through this one show without fucking up. He’d already gotten weird looks from his bandmates for going on stage with his jacket on. Tommy was practically known for pushing the limits of how little clothes he could wear when performing, but he just felt so cold.

When the show started, the lights felt like they were stabbing his eyes, and his arms felt too heavy, and the drugs weren’t helping the exhaustion at all like he’d hoped. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it when it triggered that fucking persistent cough. Turning to duck his head into his shoulder, he coughed as discreetly as possible while the crowd was distracted by Vince introducing them.

Throughout the show, all Tommy focused on was not fucking up. He barely looked out at the crowd, didn’t even attempt to twirl his drumsticks, and only mouthed the words he was meant to be singing in the background. He concentrated his meager amount of energy into keeping time and hitting the right drums at the right time. Anything extra was out of the question tonight.

Usually Tommy was practically overheating by the end of a show, sweating more than any of the guys from all the energy he poured into his playing. Even now he could feel his hair plastered to his face, which made no sense to him because he was still shivering. If anything it has only gotten worse as the night progressed, and he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. Every time they got to a particularly loud part of a song he’d take the opportunity to hack and cough over his shoulder.

Simply put, Tommy was miserable. As the band took their final bows and made their way off stage, Tommy tried to think of some sort of excuse to get out of going to any sort of afterparty that wouldn’t be suspicious. He didn’t want to cause a fuss, but fuck, he just wanted to go home. All he wanted was to pass out in Nikki’s arms.

Poor choice of words, apparently.

Halfway down the hall to the dressing room, Tommy had to stop walking, because everything was swaying and spinning around him. It felt like he was on a boat in a storm, stumbling even as he stood still.

“Tommy?”

The voice sounded far away, muffled and soft. The lights didn’t seem so bright anymore, and the aches and chills were gone as he felt himself drift outside his body, floating gently towards the ceiling even as the floor tilted towards him.

“Tommy!”

~~~~~~~

The first time he wakes up, he doesn’t really wake up.

Everything is black. He thinks maybe his eyes are closed. But he aches again, and he’s cold again, and he feels hands gripping him gently to move him. He feels fingers running through his hair and then he’s out again.

~~~~~~~

The second time he wakes up, he manages to open his eyes a little, although it takes him a minute to notice because everything is still dark. Eventually he realizes that it’s dark because he’s staring at the ceiling of Mick’s car. None of the interior lights work in the rusty piece of shit, so nighttime left the vehicle dark as a cave.

“-what about- …. -ith me?”

“-uck that, I’m- …. -nything!- ….. -ing pay you back, just go!”

Words filter in and out, like breaking through water and then diving back under again and again. He tries to turn his head towards the voices, but a gentle hand rests on his cheek to keep him still. Sluggishly, his eyes drift up so see a dark, blurry outline. He sees red painted lips form the shape of words, but he’s already drifting away again.

~~~~~~~

The third time he wakes up, it actually feels like waking up.

Blinking wearily, it takes him a minute to realize that he’s home, laying in bed in their run down apartment. Something soft and cold smooths over his forehead, and while he was still shivering, it felt inexplicably incredible, and he found himself closing his eyes and sighing in relief.

“You back with me, babe?”

He’ll never quite get used to the soft, gentle tone that Nikki only gets in his voice with Tommy. Opening his eyes again, he turns his head and finds himself looking up at Nikki as the other man continues running the cold washcloth over his cheeks. He smiles warmly, “How are you feeling?”

“M’fine,” he mumbled without thinking, leaning into Nikki’s touch, “How’re you?” he asked habitually.

Nikki just laughed, shaking his head, “Fuck, T-Bone.”

Frowning, Tommy opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a deep, raspy cough. Nikki quickly helped him sit up, rubbing his back soothingly until the coughing subsided. When his breathing finally returned to normal, Nikki tugged him back so that his back was resting against his chest, keeping one arm wrapped loosely around his middle while the other held the washcloth to the back of his neck.

“Go back to sleep, babe,” he whispered in his ear.

Tommy wanted to protest, but he didn’t have much say in the matter. He blinked and sleep reclaimed him.

~~~~~

The next time he wakes up, he wakes up proper.

For a split second, it feels like a regular morning. The sheets are tangled around his body, and the sun shines through their thin, shitty curtains, and fingers are gently combing through his hair.

But then, he wakes up just a little bit more and all the shittiness hits him. His throat feels raw and torn up, his body is sticky with sweat, and his eyes feel hot and achy. A weak moan escapes him, and he buries his face in what he quickly realizes is not a pillow.

His head is resting in Nikki’s lap, and the bassist frowned when he heard the drummer wake, “Hey, you okay? You feeling alright?” He pushed Tommy’s hair away from his face so he could see him more clearly.

Tommy merely grunts in response. He wants to ignore everything, but Nikki doesn’t let him. Instead, he carefully turns his face until they are looking at each other, “How long have you been sick, babe?”

There is no accusation in his words, no anger, or disappointment, or annoyance, but Tommy still finds his vision blurring with tears. He’s too tired and he feels too awful to try to hide anymore.

“About a week,” he choked out.

“Dude, why didn’t you say anything?” He’s still speaking quietly, but Nikki’s voice is sad and dismayed, “You were burning up yesterday, we almost took you to the hospital!”

Swallowing thickly, Tommy pressed his face into Nikki’s thighs, trying to hide his face and the tears streaming down it even as his shoulders hitched traitorously.

“‘M sorry,” his voice cracked pathetically, “I didn’t want to stress you out. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Nikki feels a flare of anger and has to clench his teeth shut, forcing himself to wait for it to pass. Because having his boyfriend pass out on him after a show was a lot more fucking stressful than Tommy just admitting he was sick in the first place would have been. When the drummer had keeled over he swore his heart had stopped, he was so freaked out. Even after they realized he was sick and managed to get him home and force some medicine down his throat the second he was half conscious Nikki felt like he could barely breathe. He’d been up all night, terrified that his fever would spike or they’d need to drag him to the hospital after all.

But, he realizes as he exhales slowly, saying any of that would definitely not help. It would almost certainly make things worse. He allowed the silence to stretch, reaching out to hold one of Tommy’s clammy hands and petting his hair while he sniffled and hiccuped.

Finally, Nikki spoke, “We’re in this together, right?” his words were soft, but firm, “That’s what you said to me. We’re a team. That means that I have your back, too. I’m not gonna let you hog all the worry and caretaking in this relationship,” Tommy let out a breathy giggle, turning to look up at him with watery eyes. Nikki smiled teasingly, “You gotta share that shit. I’ll keep a fucking tally board if I have to. Bottom line is you have to let me take care of you too, and if you try to argue I will bleach your hair in your sleep, you perfect, beautiful dumbass.”

Tommy laughed more fully, which of course made him start coughing, Nikki helping him sit up again. When it finally passed though, he was still smiling, wiping his arm across his face.

“Okay,” he conceded, his voice scratchy and weak, “I guess that’s fair.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Nikki smirked. Carefully disentangling himself, he stood from the bed, leaning down to press his lips to the top of Tommy’s head. The drummer huffed out a laugh, thinking to himself about how gross his hair must be right now, yet Nikki still kissed it without hesitation. That’s true love right there.

~~~~~

Vince dropped by his room to see him later in the day, “Yo, Tommy!” he grinned as he walked over, “Where’s your nurse?” he asked teasingly.

Tommy chuckled, “Just grabbing a couple things.” His voice was still scratchy and quiet.

Laughing, Vince sat on the edge of his bed, “Seriously though, how are you feeling?”

Groaning, Tommy rolled onto his back, stating miserably, “I’m dying.”

“Not on my watch!!”

Both men jumped at Nikki’s determined shout, the bassist sliding into the doorway dramatically. His arms were full of water bottles, an entire jug of orange juice, various medicines, washcloths, and an unopened can of soup.

“God as my witness these fucking germs are gonna wish they’d never come near my boyfriend!” he declared with a righteous fury that had Vince bursting into giggles.

“Dude, how mad are you that you can’t physically punch Tommy’s fucking illness?”

“Fucking livid,” Nikki muttered petulantly, dropping the items he had brought onto the bed. Tommy snickered, taking one of the water bottles as Nikki sorted through which medicine he should take.

“What the fuck is with the soup?” Vince questioned.

Nikki shot him a look of disbelief, “It’s chicken noodle. That’s like, the thing you give sick people, right?”

“No, no, it is. It’s just, usually you actually take it out of the can first. Maybe heat it up if you’re feeling fancy,” Vince explained sarcastically.

“I know that!”

“Are you sure? Cause you didn’t look sure.”

“Alright, you know what asshole-”

Shifting a bit to get more comfortable, Tommy couldn’t help but smile as he watched his bandmates bicker. He still felt like shit. But that was okay.

Nikki would take care of him.

#my writing #Motley Crue #motley crue fanfiction #terror twins #terrorcest #Nikki Sixx #Tommy Lee #tommy lee x nikki sixx #nikki/tommy #sickfic

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the-elusive-libbin · 4 years

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I really liked reading your hunger scenarios for Dylas, Arthur, and Leon! ^_^ If it's alright, may I ask how Doug and Vishnal would deal with hunger, please?

Right let’s get straight into this shall we? ;)

Vishnal: This poor creature would not know how to handle the embarrassment of his hungry stomach going off in polite company. After all is it not the job of a butler to act with poise and dignity at all times? With that fact in mind I bet he would prepare himself meals whenever he remembers to in order to keep his emptiness at bay. ‘When he remembers…’ We as the Rune factory community know full well that Vishnal, although hardworking lacks a little in the common sense department which impacts heavily upon the Butler department. This is easily seen when comparing the skill of Vishnal to the skills of fellow butler Clorica or to their boss Volkanon. So it stands to reason that Vishnal would often actually forget to feed himself, thinking first to feed the “Prince/Princess” as they are without a doubt more important than he right? I imagine him working through breakfast and lunch, not hearing his stomach’s please until he begins hanging out the washing and suddenly feels light headed; his belly erupts in fits of hunger and he feels the shame and embarrassment all in one big go. It would definitely have him blushing, stuttering “O-oh my…” and placing one hand over his mouth, the other over his stomach as he stares at it in shock. He’d probably feel this humiliation even without anyone else there to hear it. If in public he’d likely flush deep red and stutter excuses or walk away in a hurry (Embarrassment only becoming stronger if it is the princess he’s in front of.) If preparing for the eating contest however I feel he would be more determined and flush a lot less as this time the hunger will have been completely intentional. In a quiet room he’ll tense his belly if he feels it about to complain but I would say that he is usually very nervous when hungry in that situation as he’s not the type to just shrug it off like perhaps Arthur may (Even he would be blushing on the inside but Princely duties call for formality after all!) I bet the butler’s little tummy gets really vocal when empty too, you could hear it from the other side of a room. (Loudest stomach award I’d like to award to Dylas though because I bet he would win that.) But I digress and I apologize as you asked for how he would cope and not how he would act when hungry.

Vishnal would definitely be the type to attempt to quieten his belly’s complaints with water after hearing about it from Arthur or Kiel, only to get the amount of water wrong and mess it up. He’ll either over fill his belly with water and suffer the consequences via a bloated stomach, ill-fitting uniform and persistent hiccups or he’ll drink too little and have it stir up the emptiness even more resulting in harsher, sloshing rumbles that still echo in his empty belly. This would of course, as usual embarrass him to no end. Gosh, imagine putting an ear to it to have a listen and making the poor thing faint. If he were in a situation where eating is not an option for example being stranded, he would be upset and find it hard to cope, his butler’s intensity and confidence only going so far to help in this desolate situation. He’d hear the constant groaning, feel the tugging ache and clutch at his stomach as it pains him. He’d think of Volkanon’s cooking and his mouth would water improperly and his belly would moan. At night He would curl up into a ball and will the emptiness to fade. Poor thing! Let’s make sure he’s always stuffed up on rice balls to keep that tummy full and plushy soft huh guys?

Doug: This red-head dwarf is a total complainer! The guy seems like the type to always be hungry and luckily for us I’m pretty sure we get a grumble from him in the game? I could be wrong there though. We do get a lot of food related voice lines from the lovely Yuri Lowenthall (If you play in English that is) which is pretty fun. Hearing him complain about how hungry he is in game is always music to my ears. So Doug I can see just forgetting to eat and having his belly complain. Unlike Vishnal and the other guys, Doug may have a quieter belly when it comes to hunger but I bet his digestion gurgles up a storm, opting to complain about how stuffed he is before realizing how loud the noises actually are and excusing himself to digest in peace in his room. He’ll eat a lot and often so when he complains about being hungry it is usually just greediness but no doubt he’d be there, behind that counter complaining as usual. “I’m so hungryyyyy~” But because he isn’t embarrassed often by his rumbling belly when it does growl in an embarrassing situation his eyes would go wide and his cheeks would flush a deep pink before he rights himself and just laughs it off with a hand behind his head and a wide, toothy grin. “Guess I’m a little hungry huh?”A situation that would send him red would be if his belly rumbled during a speech where all eyes are on him or if he’s having a quiet moment with his s/o and it just ruins that moment. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed by their greedy organs making obscene noises when you go in for the kiss or engage in a hug?So how would he act to cover up his belly and cope with hunger? He’d cope fine but as previously mentioned multiple times, he’s just act like a baby and complain, making sure everyone knows just how hungry his poor stomach is. He’d even do hand gestures, slouch and rub at it a lot. When by himself, Doug wont be as theatrical because there’s no one to entertain and joke around with. Alone he’d mumble to himself or just flat out ignore it. Just to throw this out there but Doug would 100% poke fun at Dylas’ empty stomach, even if his own is shouting to the heavens in contradiction. Using that desert island situation where Doug would be unable to eat anything I believe he would only half cope. He’d stop complaining about the noises his stomach makes, choosing instead to grit his teeth and bear it. I’d say he’d ignore it mostly whenever he could but getting to sleep on an empty stomach would be hard. He’d run out of stamina and more often than not find himself staring up the the sky and wondering how he got himself into this mess in the first place. Punching his gut? Maybe if it all gets to much he’d used a light to mid punch as an attempt to shut up the offending organ but nothing that would do damage of course. He’s a mix of childlike angst and maturity I think so with Doug you’d get a mixed barrel. On a side note, he’d most likely tease his S/o with his belly should he find out they like that sort of thing. But that for the moment is irrelevant and may be answered in a later ask :)I hope this covers them both to an extent you’re happy with ~

#Hunger #hunger scenarios #starvation #headcanons #empty stomach #stomach growl #asks #belly kink #rune factory #Doug #Vishnal

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sokkas-first-fangirl · 4 years

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Freddie's just started living with Roger and Brian and while he knows he's safe, part of him is still anxious when he goes into heat. For once it's not an especially bad one, but he feels self-conscious and tries to stay away while also acting like it's nothing. He really needs a cuddle though.

Freddie felt absolutely rotten. His head ached, though admittedly not too badly; he didn’t have any bad cramps or nausea, he didn’t feel sick or have a temperature.

But he felt lousy. He felt dangerously close to tears at random moments and completely bereft.

He was used to dealing with his heats alone. He’d always kept people at arm’s length, but especially when he was in heat...So his instincts couldn’t seem to understand why he was still doing so, when he no longer lived alone.

He didn’t think Roger and Brian would hurt him, God no. He didn’t think they’d laugh either, if he said he needed a hug and was feeling down; but he still felt awfully shy about it, about them really.

They understood when he mumbled about feeling too ill to go grocery shopping. Brian fretted like a mother, making a list of all the comfort foods and medicine he could find for Freddie, even as Roger was shoving him out the door. The blond Alpha called “We’ll see you in a bit, Fred!” over his shoulder, and then they were gone.

And suddenly, the small flat felt far too big, too quiet. Freddie was used to being alone, all too used to it, but a wave of pure sadness hit him and sudden tears stung his eyes. Sniffling, feeling quite pathetic, he curled up on the sofa, hugging a pillow and trying to find something to watch on their battered television.

Despite his constant mantra of “Don’t be so daft” and “Grow up, Bulsara,” Freddie was soon in tears. He told himself he was crying over nothing, which just made everything worse and he was soon sobbing outright.

Which, of course, was when Brian and Roger came back.

They took one look at him, tossed the groceries aside, onto the coffee table and armchair, and immediately pulled him into a group hug, each of them on either side of him. And, admittedly, he immediately felt a bit better, the Omega part of his brain, something instinctual, purring at the back of his mind, settling down. His headache instantly lessened.

That’s better, you’re not alone now.

“Freddie? Fred, hey, what’s wrong?” Roger asked.

“N-nothing,” Freddie sobbed. “That’s the stupid thing, nothing’s wrong.” He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to force himself to calm down. “I just feel rotten, ignore me.”

“As if we’re going to ignore you,” Brian said. Freddie sniffled, wiping his eyes and nose, feeling a flush of embarrassment, but at the same time he didn’t want them to let go.

“Cuddle pile?” Roger suggested with a smile.

For a moment, he hesitated. How pathetic was he, sobbing over nothing, a grown man needing cuddles to feel better?

But he was so so tired of handling this by himself. Brian and Roger weren’t going to lock him away, or dismiss him, or insist he needed “a good fucking” to feel better. They sincerely wanted to make sure he was alright.

So Freddie nodded in agreement with a quiet, “That would nice, darling,” and they ended up in Brian and Roger’s room, pushing their cramped beds together and piling on top, with Freddie still in the middle.

Freddie closed his eyes, his breathing evening out, the pain in his head and stomach softening until he could easily ignore it. The persistent sadness that had been with him all morning was slowly melting away, replaced with a gentle calm. He still felt uncomfortable, a bit on edge and sore...But so much better.

He felt safe.

He wasn’t used to feeling that way during heat.

“Better?” Roger asked. Brian was scenting at Freddie’s wrist, grinning against his skin when Freddie giggled tiredly, lightly batting at him.

“Better,” Freddie said, relaxed at last. “Much better.”

#ilmlby verse #answers #prompts #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o verse #omega freddie #alpha brian #alpha roger #protective pack is best pack

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fnaficsfordays · 4 years

Text

When Dawn Breaks...

Chapter 5

Previous chapter, Next chapter

AO3 Link

Word Count: 1668

A narrow choice that didn’t get any better as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon.

Vincent didn’t feel any better either- the weekend was nothing if not two days straight of torture. He could feel the aches getting worse, the small bowl of flowers on his nightstand gradually getting larger and larger. Hell, right before he’d gotten out of the car, he’d forced himself to hack up a blossom, just to get it over with before heading into the pizzeria.

And now… monday night, and another fight to survive was underway. Except for him, it was two fights instead. How was he going to subtly pose the question to each of them?

“Isn’t that a change of pace.” Michael glanced up from the monitor, already sitting down in the chair. “You’re very close to being late.”

“Do tell, motherfucker.” He chuckled, ignoring the pricks of hurt that came with it. “But I’m still not.”

“You almost were.”

“Like you almost got torn apart by Chica a couple of weeks ago?”

“Shut it.” Michael snorted. “And you were just being a bitch that night.”

“I’m a bitch every night. You can’t escape the bitchiness, Mike.”

“No, unfortunately I can’t.” He rolled his eyes. “And also, where the hell did all your knives go?”

“Oh, from the drawer?” Vincent waved his hand. “Took them out since you were complaining so much.”

“Seriously?” He set down the monitor. “You, out of all these nights, actually listened for once in your life?”

“Well, now, I could always just haul them all back-”

“No.” Vincent laughed, inwardly wincing at the stabs of pain in his chest. Michael shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Vincent’s here?” The walkie-talkie suddenly buzzed.

“Yeah, I hauled my purple self down here, so you’d better be grateful.” He scooped it up, smirking.

“Believe whatever you will.” A small cough echoed through the speaker, one that suddenly reminded him of the flowers in his chest. “I still find it hard to believe that you never got yourself landed in some sort of lab because of your pigmentation.”

“Oh no, I did.” Vincent shrugged. “Why do you think I’m so fucked up in the head? Probably would have been worse if I didn’t escape.”

“Wait, seriously?” Michael glanced up.

“Not that surprising, honestly.”

“Yeah, no. Not something I really think too much about, anyways.” He rolled his eyes. “I was probably the only speck of color in those white walls… purple’s probably always going to be my favorite color.”

“I suppose that makes… some level of sense.”

“How else do you get a favorite color?” Vincent leaned against the desk, forcing his body to relax despite his quickening heartbeat. “I mean, what’s your favorite color?”

“You see it on my head every day. It’s just red.” Scott snorted. “Not that there’s any real backstory to it. I just always grew up around large plastic rotary phones.”

“But there you go!” He chuckled. “Right there. What about good ol’ Jeremy?”

“Yellow and green. But there’s nothing to it.” There was a moment of silence, and the sound of a door shutting. “Alright, time to get back on track for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Vincent pressed the button, tossing the walkie-talkie back onto the desk. “It’s barely even 12:30.”

“You know Scott. You know this place.” Michael said.

“Yeah, yeah…” He sat on the desk, swinging his legs. “But still.”

Red, yellow, green. It didn’t match, any of it. All the flowers he’d been coughing up were the opposite side of the spectrum- bluish, sometimes with hints of violet. Maybe it wasn’t the pizzeria? Someone different? But if it was, he was probably even more doomed than he’d first assumed…

“Do you remember anything from that lab?” The sudden question jolted him away from his aching lungs. “I mean, I don’t know when you escaped, but…”

“Oh, I remember, alright.” Vincent said dryly. “Literally my first memories, as far as I know… don’t even remember being taken there, or my parents. I know I was at least able to walk, but still. Pretty sure I was only six.”

“You’re not… bothered?”

“Probably would be if I had even an inch of sanity left after those years.” He stared off at the wall, forgetting about the pain in his chest for a moment. “They were never able to really figure out what was up with my coloring, despite all the syringes they stuck in my limbs everyday. Nothing but constant physical check-ups, faceless people in and out my so-called room every five minutes. The only thing I really know about my parents was through sneaking in on a call that one of the doctors were having with them… wasn’t pleasant at all.”

“What happened?”

“Refused to take me back in.” Vincent chuckled. “In fact, I later found out they’d already had another child at that time, just one year after I was taken to that lab. I spent a total of seven years there before finally escaping. Nothing but the kid with purple skin. Completely nameless, really. I actually never knew my birth name at all… doubt that I really had one. Sure wasn’t called one.”

“Wait, then what-”

“After I ran away, I decided to make one for myself. Though legally, I still only have my parents’ last name… which I don’t want to keep at all.”

“No kidding.” He muttered. “That’s… well, no wonder you’re not the most mentally stable person out there. Did the lab or your parents ever… try to find you?”

“The lab tried. Didn’t, uh… didn’t get too far, though.” Vincent flexed his fingers slightly. “Running away left me a tad violent.”

“And… oh.” The tone of his voice dropped slightly. “Isn’t that… when…”

“I killed? Yeah.” He leaned back, eyes trailing towards the ceiling. “Two guards. Just a sharp piece of glass, but…” His grip on the desk edge tightened. “I’d take going to court and spending three months in juvenile over another week in that so-called hospital any day.”

“Oh god.” Michael muttered. “Did you have anything? Or… anyone?”

“Nope. Still no idea where my parents are, or my apparent non-purple sibling… not really interested in finding them anyways.” His grin faded before saying his next words, pangs of hurt suddenly springing up. “Honestly… this place is probably all I’ve got.”

It was a moment of silence between them, Vincent still staring off at the wall. His mind felt empty, devoid of any emotion.

Why had he done that? Suddenly just revealed his whole past to someone in a place like this? He didn’t need pity, he didn’t want it- yet something had urged him to keep on going. His past didn’t even bother him, he had been honest about that- but his last sentence… What had been urging him to say that?

The feeling. Somehow it was the feeling that was fueling it, he could tell. But how? He still wasn’t quite willing to call it love, it wasn’t like it was actually aimed at…

Wait.

“That’s… a lot sadder than you might realize.” Michael murmured.

“Feeling sympathy for a murderer?” He joked.

He glanced up at him. “It’s really not fair to use that label on yourself so casually after what you’ve just said.”

Vincent gave a nervous chuckle, feeling the pricks of pain start to dig in again. “Still doesn’t bother me, you know. It’s been a long while since.”

He shook his head, staring back at the monitor. “If it never happened, then you might realize.”

Vincent felt a pang of guilt at his words, as well as a sudden increase in the ache around his heart. Biting his lip, he turned back to the switches next to the doorway, shining the light. Why did his chest feel even heavier than before? That sad expression Michael had given him… it made the pain spike as he silently took in deep breaths, trying to ease it.

Goddamn this disease… he just wanted the shifts to go back to normal, to be pulling the usual pranks every night. And yet, the feeling itself… he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate it.

And speaking of it…

“You know… I never found out what your favorite color is.” He forced himself to have an even tone, sauntering back over to the desk calmly.

“Mine?” Michael sounded surprised. “Well… I’m tempted to say blue, since that’s been my favorite for a long time, but…”

“Light blue or dark blue?” His heartbeat quickened, along with the pain.

“Darker blue. But…” He bit his lip. “I think the color I’m thinking of is a bit different.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s… not quite blue… what was the name? It’s a bit further- oh.” He nodded. “Indigo. That’s my favorite color.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it used to be just blue, but I think it’s actually indigo. You know, blue with a bit of violet mixed in. Not completely sure why, but it is.”

“Interesting.” Vincent was forcing his voice not to break, lungs suddenly constricting with pain. He said nothing else as he sat back down on the desk, each breath and beat of his heart aching as he felt the flowers flutter in his lungs.

No option would be enough, the realization sinking into his head as the world spun slightly around him. He had to force away the flowers trying to rise up his throat, silently choking on the feeling threatening to make him collapse.

How could it actually be him? The person that could barely stand him? The person that he pulled pranks on all the time? The person that knew he was an insane murderer?

But the same person that pushed you out of harm's way, the person that persists through every night with you, the person that lets you do all your antics, the person that doesn’t care that you were an insane murderer…

Fuck.

It really was love.

Vincent had fallen in love with Michael.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fanfiction #au #fnaf vincent #fnaf michael schmidt #fnaf scott phone guy #fnaf jeremy fitzgerald #michael x vincent #hanahaki disease

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