#writings of the feverish

[fferthe]

Valentine's Unknown Sender

A couple of people don't find the Valentine sender's speech in tandem with Gaster's, which I completely agree with! However, not everyone can see what we mean, so let me show you. But before we continue, I should clarify that I'm not a fluent Japanese speaker and am just going off of what little I know about the language.

Now, let me show you the two (out of three) Japanese writing systems: hirigana and katakana.

It helps me think of hirigana as 'squiggly' characters and katakana as 'stiff'. The last one, kanji, you'll recognize immediately, as they can be confused with Chinese characters due to their complexity (and, well, origin).

One of the points I've seen is that the style change is simply due to informality of the letter. Someone also said that it was written this way so we couldn't recognize who was speaking. To get the latter possibility out of the way: during the release of DELTARUNE, the name of the account was blurred out, making them appear as a seemingly unknown person (everyone knew it was our lovable silly goober). Though, they still had a recognizable.. style. They spoke in stilted kanji + katakana. No hirigana anywhere, which is a strange mix. Kanji + hirigana? Sure. But excluding katakana instead of hirigana is weird. Katakana is used for names, loan words (and can also be used to show a foreigner speaking Japanese), names for species, emphasis, and also to indicate unnatural speech, often used for robots (which is the case for Queen, by the way).

Now, the Valentine's person? No kanji. They only use hirigana and katakana. Excluding kanji is very weird, too. But JRPGs at the time (which Toby loved deeply, as there are countless references to them in the game) had hardware limitations, so this choice was somewhat of a tribute. This also applies to the Light World in DELTARUNE, which resembles Undertale heavily. However, in the Dark World, kanji is used. This stranger who people believe to be Mike would have to be a Lightner to speak without using kanji. Which makes me doubt that this is Mike at all. He has an affiliation with Spamton, with Tenna. They go a long way, before the fountain opened. And a Lightner can't enter a Dark World without one. More on that later. Back to the letter, the grammar mistake is not accidental. In the Japanese version the sender writes "サラ ば!" which should be either in full katakana (サラバ) or full hirigana (さらば), not a weird mix. Also, 'goodbye' in Japanese is one word and should not be separated like that. So, same thing with the letter. While we're not told who it is, their speech still has distinct features. 🎉 PRONOUN TIME 🎉🎉 Who uses what? (I've highlighted Gaster in bold where needed.)

I: watashi (わたし) by both You: kimi (キミ) vs anata* (アナタ -> あなた) [* -- kimitachi in Entry 17] We: watashitachi (わたしたち) vs ware-ware (ワレワレ -> 我々)

Watashi is a regular formal first-person pronoun. Kimi (+tachi for plural) is a more casual second-person pronoun, can either be used by a superior to refer to a subordinate or one's equal. Anata is a respectful second-person pronoun. Ware-ware is a first-person plural pronoun used by either ancient beings or just someone old and important. The download page for DELTARUNE in 2018, the SURVEY_PROGRAM itself, the SAVE menu, the GAME OVER screen -- all of them share these same speech quirks, mannerisms. Gaster isn't just "formal", he speaks very slowly, often separating a sentence in two parts by starting off a new line. He uses very peculiar wording and it's as if he's struggling to speak. Picture an alien trying to communicate in our language, or a human that knows this 🤏 much [insert language], trying to form a sentence.

Gaster's quirks are also present in Japanese, the localization reflects what I just talked about. He's unnaturally stiff. He also never uses commas, and it's not about formality -- it's a distinct feature of his.

(For the Love of God Can You Embed Like a Normal Video)

Also, there have been suggestions that it could be another piece of Gaster. We already got a glimpse of what he was like pre-accident, and it's ENTRY 17. It lines up with the Gaster that accompanies us throughout chapter 1. And that means we are dealing with the most cohesive 'piece' of him. Why would, then, there be such an opposing part of him? It doesn't line up.

Personally, if this was about Gaster, I wholeheartedly agree with carlyraejepsans's take. And the only case which I'd agree on is DR Gaster.

So, here's the "later". The person knowing about the DELTA RUNE could line up with them being a Lightner, since they do have it plastered everywhere in the town, don't they? Only the Angel is ever mentioned in the Light World, but I'm sure that just like in Undertale, it's called DELTA RUNE by the Lightners just as it is by Ralsei. It seems to me that only the contents of the prophecy are different, but the name stays the same throughout worlds.

Though, funny how the prophecy is inverted.. I didn't notice it until now. In Undertale the focus is on the triangles and their salvation, while in DELTARUNE the focus is on the winged orb and its condemnation.

"You free the banished" vs "You banish the freest" hehheeh Anyway, it's not about the game, but the prophecy, so the person doesn't have THAT much knowledge. And I doubt they know about Ralsei's version of the prophecy, because other Darkners besides the prince himself don't seem to be aware of any prophecy. All they know is the Knight, which makes sense, since Asriel's doppelgänger stayed at his castle in wait of the Lightners all alone, without spreading a word about it. Neither Darkners nor Lightners know of it. Though, the phrasing does feel odd. Waiting for what exactly? DELTA RUNE? Also, the Japanese version having the name merged kind of bothers me. So, is it DELTARUNE or DELTA RUNE? The translation team does distinguish the two. Why not here? Was it intentional or not? Well, I'll leave it up to someone else to figure out, right now I'm too tired for that.

tl;dr(?): It's not UT Gaster, nor Mike (it's not a Darkner at all). It's a Lightner and possibly DR Gaster.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 96

Part 1 Part 95

Mom makes him go home when he starts dosing on Steve’s hospital bed. But it’s okay because she kisses Steve’s cheek before she leaves, and Eddie and Wayne stay parked by his side. 

The connection’s easier now. It’s like all that time straining for Steve has snapped something into place. He can feel them all the time, a warm buzzing in his chest. He wonders if he runs hot now. If the warmth will diffuse through his whole being, make coats obsolete even in the dead of winter. 

Hopper is waiting for them in the waiting room, El burrowed into his side. She looks wan, and tired, drooping into her extravagant coat, eyeliner running down her cheeks like she’s been crying. Something inside him twists when he looks at her.

Before he can untangle that knot of emotion, Hopper stands up, both hands slapping against his knees first the same way Mike’s dad does before he gets up from his recliner. “You ready to go?” he asks, not looking away from Mom. 

When Will glances up, Mom’s smiling up at Hopper in a way he doesn’t want to think about. The adults talk quietly in front, leaving El to stumble tiredly along beside Will. She’s staring at the side of his face. Will can’t bring himself to look back. 

“Steve,” she says, sounding the word out and making it longer like it still tastes foreign on her tongue. “He is okay?”

When Will gets up the courage to look over, her eyes are big and worried. He smiles at her helplessly. It’s almost funny how innocent she looks; like she’s a bunny dressed up in punk clothes. “He’ll be okay.”

She smiles, small and close lipped, but it still beams out of her like the sun. Will tilts his head to the side and tries to see what Mike sees in her. He wants to hide her in Castle Byers, build a fortress around her, and keep her away from all the lab people for the rest of her life. 

Is that howMike felt, hiding her in his basement, giving her frozen eggos and keeping his mouth shut? 

But then her lips thin and she looks forward again. The feelings vanishes. It’s just El, hia friend, despite how much of Mike’s attention she’d snapped up just by being herself. 

“I’m glad,” she says, looking at Hopper’s broad back as she takes two steps for each one of his. 

It’s quiet after that, the way it always is after; all of them too brittle and bruised and bone-deep tired for conversation.

Hopper’s truck rat-a tat-tats itself to life in the hospital parking lot. The radio croons out something quiet and thrumming until Hopper reaches over to shut it off.

El’s heads smushed into the window, vibrating against the pot-holed roads of Hawkins.

Will’s so tired he’s wide awake. 

He watches the familiar buildings of Hawkins flicker by. It's been a long time since knowing his surroundings brought any comfort. 

Monsters could live behind every door, every tree, every smiling face.

He’s not sure any of them will ever feel safe again. 

Will closes his eyes, locking the scenery out so he can focus on the bundle of warmth in his chest. They’re still huddled together, two sparks merging in his chest. 

The past couple days have been a necessary violation of Eddie’s private feelings. He’d bared them all with love confessions and grasping hands, trying to pull Steve back from the edge of immolation. 

He’s not even sure Steve knows, hopes he does. Steve deserves to hold that love delicately between his palms and choose what to do with it. 

He won’t crush it, even if it’s unreturned. He’ll hold it gently like he always does.

Will doesn’t realize he fell asleep, or that they’d arrived home until he’s in free-fall. It feels like one of those falling dreams where you wake up solidly in the middle of your bed, but this time he really is tumbling, only Jonathan’s arms keeping him from hitting the gravel. 

“Are you okay?” he asks shakily as he pulls Will into his chest, holding him tight enough to hurt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom murmurs, wrapping them both up in her arms, chin landing solidly on Jonathan’s shoulder, sandwiching Will between their bodies. “Everyone’s fine, right Will?”

Will murmurs his affirmation, feeling groggy and confused in the light of day. 

“I was with Nancy,” Jonathan whispers. “I was just with Nancy, and you were–I almost–”

“Shh,” Mom cuts him off, reaching up to cradle his face and smile up at him. Will barely catches the edge of his watering eyes from his restricted vantage point between them. “Everyone’s fine.”

“I should have been he–”

“Jonathan,” Mom interrupts again, sharper this time. “Everyone is fine. You deserve a normal life.”

“But Will–”

“I’m fine!” Will cuts in this time. 

Jonathan pulls back, looking down at him with worried, droopy eyes. “And Steve? Mike said he was possessed.”

Will feels that bundle of warmth in his heart, lets it shine through his smile as he looks up at his brother. “He’ll be okay.” As Jonathan droops with relief, Will feels his smile turn cheeky. “Eddie will never let you forget that you were on a date while we were fighting monsters, though.”

Jonathan closes his eyes, pained while Mom laughs. 

It’s not until they’re walking toward the front door that Will notices the lack of demo-dog bodies. There’s still puddles of black oil-slick blood, but everything else looks normal. Who covered their tracks? The lab? Hopper?

He settles down for the debrief, pillowing his head on Jonathan’s shoulder as Hopper’s even tones flit through his brain. 

Maybe familiar places no longer hold any comfort, but Jonathan’s bony frame is enough to lull him into a peaceful sleep.

Part 97

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

[mllenugget]

I mean I’m just saying I’m surprised Baghera didn’t do a Baghera on this one

[oldshrewsburyian]

For better or for worse, my literary tastes were shaped by spending most of my adolescence reading swashbucklers (and Sherlock Holmes.) I am blaming this for the fact that my jaw actually dropped when Jaime Lannister, asked about his relationship to Brienne of Tarth -- Qyburn is clearly professionally and personally primed to appreciate relevant emotional history/Hot Goss -- chooses to define her as his protector. Sir. Literally anything else would have been more normal. Anything else. He's not wrong! But also. My god.

[bloodsweatandpotato]

Whump dialogue (Caretaker for delirious whumpee)

“Darling, you’re not making any sense…”

“Whumpee? Nonono- don’t mess with that! You’ll rip your stitches!”

“Shh… I know, I know. Just please lay still.”

“Open your eyes? Please, just for a moment?”

“Do you know where you are, Whumpee? Hey, nonono. Look at me. Do you know where you are?”

“I’ve told you already, dear… We’re at *insert location*.”

“Whumpee, like I said before, it’s not my blood. I’m alright. You need to calm down.”

“Whumpee! Whumpee! Whump-! God, please don’t make me sedate you…”

“Hey, can you tell me what month it is? No, Whumpee, I didn’t hit my head. Just answer the question, dear.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that I ‘smell like home’ because I’m not sure if this is the right time to emotionally unpack that statement.”

“Whumpee, don’t try to tell me you’re fine. Half the words out of your mouth are complete nonsense.”

“I know it hurts, Whumpee. It’s alright. I promise…”

[chibikyo]

War Prize

Baraka x Reader

(can be read as male or female; no gendered terms used)

TW for non-con, biting, mild belly bulge/cum inflation

Description; You are defeated and taken prisoner during Shao Kahn's invasion of earthrealm. As the one to defeat you, Baraka is given you as a prize by the great Kahn. What does the tarkatan leader have planned for you?

*First time posting something I wrote to Tumblr. First time posting smut. No idea where this came from or why. I just got this idea in my head and decided to roll with it. I hope someone enjoys it.

During The first days of Shao Kahn's invasion of outworld, you had been captured by a horde of tarkatans, lead by Baraka. As one of earthrealms champions, you had been presented to the Kahn as a prisoner of war.

"Their yours, Baraka, a reward for your impressive victory." The Kahn had chortled and you were dragged through the koliseum and out into the wastes of Outworld. The Tarkatan war camp was a nightmare to behold. There were corpses, some whole, some dismembered, most in various states of being skinned, hung up outside of nearly every tent. You closed your eyes aganist the horrific sight, but couldn't block that sweet, putrid stench of decay from invading your senses.

When the tarkatans pulled you up a short set of stairs and threw you down on to a tacky wooden floor, you chanced opening your eyes. The sun blurred your vision as one tarkatan yanked you to your feet. You wanted to resist, to try and make your escape but your arms were bound tightly to your sides and your wrists tied together behind your back with thick, coarse ropes.

It was Baraka who lifted you by the waist and looped your bindings over a hook suspended from what might be a gallows. The hook was sharp and left a shallow cut along your back as Baraka let gravity settle you onto the massive hook. You could just barely touch the wood below with your toes. Enough to take away some of the burden of your weight and lessen the pressure of the ropes digging into your guts. Your arms ached being so tightly bound against you and any struggle would just exhaust you more.

A crowd of Tarkatans were gathering around the stage, more pouring in from the outskirts of the camp. Baraka was speaking harshly to the horde in his native tongue and you had no idea what was being said, but shame burned on your cheeks as the crowd cheered. Fear curled hot and heavy in your guts, flooded your senses with the weight of your panic as it slowly crawled its way up your throat. Would Baraka make it quick, or did Tarkatans like to play with their food first? The thought of this monster flensing you alive, stripping the skin from your bones without giving you a swift death first? It took everything in you not to give in and sob.

Baraka turned toward you and you could swear there was triumph on that twisted face. He leaned in close and you could see his nostrils flare as he scented you. His breath was hot against your cheek as he drew closer. You shut your eyes and jerked back, though that only succeeded in rattling the chains suspending you. You felt harsh fingers dig into your soft flesh as Baraka grabbed your chin to hold you still. A tear finally broke free to trail softly down your cheek and just as softly you felt what must have been Baraka's tongue tracing the path of it. Like the rest of him, his tongue was coarse, rougher than a human's. It scraped under your eye, lapping up the gathering pool of tears threatening to spill before Baraka pulled away.

He shouted once more at the crowd, their cheers drowning out the foreign words and deafening you. You took a deep breath, waiting to feel the sharp sting of teeth or the edge of Baraka's arm blade. You were stunned when you felt two massive hands digging into the fabric of your pants followed by a loud tearing sound that reverberated in your ear drums. You froze, mind unable to fully process what was happening as Baraka moved up, ripping away your top to expose your chest to the ever growing crowd. Strips of ruined fabric were all that was left of your clothes, except what could not be reached beneath the ropes.

A sudden dread swept over you as you felt Baraka's hands trail back to your hips, the rough pads of his fingers scraping against the delicate skin, diggng into the soft flesh. His breath was hot on the back of your neck as he pressed his teeth against your shoulder, inhaling deep to scent the skin where your neck and shoulder met. This, more than anything, finally snapped you out of the fugue that had settled over your mind.

You struggled against the tight bonds, thrashing and twisting to get away from the monster holding you captive. Baraka merely chuffed, his hands digging harder into the delicate curve of you just below the edges of the rope. He yanked you backward against him harshly, your feet slipping away from the wood even as you scrambled to find some purchase. What little comfort that had been afforded to you before was gone as you felt the ropes bite into you deeper.

Baraka wrapped one arm around your waist as the other moved up to close around your throat. His fingers gripped firmly around your neck, the hollow of your throat pressed against the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed only once, coupled with a low growl, which you knew was the only warning you would get about acting up. You felt a chill travel down your spine as Baraka pressed himself against you. You could feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against your ass and the thought of what came next made you feel sick.

The crowd was jeering, shouting harsh words that you could not interpret and hissing encouragingly at their leader. Baraka settled you back in position before pulling his hands away to fumble behind you. You couldn't see what the Tarkatan was doing, but the soft 'schck' of fabric hitting the floor left little to the imagination. You closed your eyes as Baraka's hands found purchase on your thighs again. You didn't fight as your legs were spread enough for Baraka to press in behind you.

"Please don't fo this." You pleaded, desperate to put a stop to this even knowing you were helpless to stop him.

"Quiet," Baraka growled softly from behind you and you choked back a sob.

You braced yourself for pain, but once again was startled as Baraka soothed the skin beneath his hands.Trembling, you couldn't begin to fathom what the Tarkatan meant by the gesture before you felt that rough, almost sandpaper-esque tongue lick a stripe across your entrance. You gasped, the pain-pleasure combo making you dizzy as Baraka lapped at your hole again and again. Your thighs quivered as Baraka plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it, forcing pleasure to pool in your gut even as you weakly tried to protest. You could feel yourself reaching that crescendo as your aborted pleas slowly became little more than moans. As your "no" and "stop" became "yes" and "more" and "please".

Baraka's hands dug harder into your thighs, spreading your legs further so he could fuck his tongue even deeper into you. He lapped up the taste of you with abandon, savoring that salty, musky taste as he pushed deeper still, until you could feel the press of his teeth against your entrance. The thrill of those ivory daggers nestled against your most intimate place drove you over the edge and you screamed as you came, thrashing as the most intense orgasm of your life was wrung out of you, Baraka happily lapping up the mess you left as you quivered from overstimulation.

As you slowly came down from your high, the pain from the ropes digging into you was sharper and you felt your face burning in shame as the crowd cheered louder. You almost thought that was it, until Baraka pressed in behind you, his cock impossibly large and pressing into the crack of your ass. You whimpered as Baraka pressed two fingers into your quivering entrance, lubricating the way with the remnants of your orgasm. He pulled them away with a satisfied growl before manipulating you until your entrance was hovering just above his cock. You had never felt so empty before, never been so achingly hollow, and your body clenched with the need to be full. Knowing it would only hurt to fight what came next, you forced yourself to relax as Baraka began to push into you. He went slower than you expected, but unrelenting as his cock speared you open. You had never imagined something so huge could even fit, but your body opened up around him as he just kept pressing deeper and deeper. Not just big, but impossibly hard with deep ridges on the underside that pressed deliciously against your plush insides.

He seemed determined to make you take all of him, growling as he was met with tighter and tighter resistance. You could swear you felt him in your throat, choking as your breath was punched out of you. You felt Baraka wrap his arms tight around you, pressing so tightly against you that the protrusions of bone on his chest and atms dug into your skin. You could feel the growl make its way through him, your only warning as he thrust up into you. You screamed as his monstrous length bottomed out within you, followed by his teeth digging into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain was so all-encompassing as you sobbed and thrashed against him.

Baraka stayed nestled inside you, content to wait until your screams subsided into shuddered sobs. He brushed his hand soothinlgly against your collar bones, tracing the hollow of your throat softly and felt your breath hitch and you lurch with pleasure as his arm brushed against a sensitive nipple. His teeth slowly pulled out of your shoulder as he felt you settle again and he lapped at the blood spilling from the needle like punctures. The roughness of his tongue sent spikes of white hot pain through the torn muscle, mixed with the zing of pleasure as Baraka explored your chest, pinching and plucking at your nipples to feel you squirm against his cock nestled so deep inside you. You were panting, your breath hitching on little moans as you adjusted to the intrusion. Baraka pulled away from the wound on your back, twisting the hook and you with it so he could turn you to face him.

The drag of his cock inside you as he manipulated your body with ease had you choking. Once you were facing him, Baraka leaned down, his tongue laving at one of sensitive nubs eagerly. You could see his face twist with ecstasy as he toyed with each nipple in turn. That rough appendage dragging acrosd the delicate skin and over stimulated nerves beneath, coupled with the constant pressure of his thick length inside was too much. He gave a single. shallow thrust, more to readjust your weight against him than anything, and you moaned, gasping, as a second orgasm tore through you. Baraka pulled back, his hands at your waist as he slowly lifted you. The sensation of the hook dragging against your back was dwarfed by the drag of his cock as he lift you almost completely off of it. Your hole fluttered and clenched at the ache of being empty, though that only lasted a few seconds before Baraka was lowering you back down. You choked as that massive length filled you yet again. You barely registered the ropes falling away before Baraka wrapped his hands around your thighs, jerking your legs up and you had to fling your arms around his neck to stay balanced, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

His cock rubbed your sensitive walls, drawing out soft moans as you lay your head bonelessly against his shoulder. He barked out what may have been an order to the crowd and you were reminded that this whole ordeal had been in front of an audience. You were too tired to care at that point, burying your head into the crook of his neck as your arms tightened around the Tarkatan leader's neck. The press of his sharp protrusions barely noticeable compared to the shallow thrusts of his cock within you as he carried you down the stairs and away from the ever dissipating crowd.

You finally snapped back to reality as Baraka pressed you down into a nest of furs and blankets. You hissed as the soft fabric brushed against the bite on your shoulder, the skin raw and aching. The sun no longer burned your eyes and you blinked, taking in the walls of Baraka's tent. Compared to the macabre sight outside the tent, inside was quite clean and almost cozy. Baraka noticed your hiss of pain and encouraged you to roll over, only pulling out of you long enough for you to untangle your legs from his before thrusting back into you with a satisfied growl. This time the slide into you was nothing but pleasure and you shuddered with anticipation. A part of you, buried deep since this ordeal began, knew that you didn't want this, that this was an assault by the enemy. Despite this, your body had already begun to crave the heavy weight of Baraka pressed inside you; the tight, almost suffocating feeling of his cock buried in your deepest, most intimate parts.

Baraka caged your body between his arms as he leaned down to delicately lap up the few rivulets of blood that had seeped from his bite mark. He inhaled the scent of blood, coupled with the sharp tang of your phermones, and his tongue poked out to taste it. You whined, rocking your body back against his, desperate for him to move as you felt the deep aching need pooling in your guts again. His growl, as he pulled out until only the tip of his meaty cock rested within you, made you gasp, before his hips snapped forward, driving his cock inside you and punching the air out of your lungs. He began to thrust, hard, fast, dragging harshly against your inner walls as you struggled to catch your breath. You could feel the slide in your guts and when you looked down you could see the top of his cock pushing out from the lowest edge of your belly. You moaned, your hand trailing down to press against that bump, feeling that hard length as it rearranged your guts to carve out space for itself.

Baraka hissed and let out a loud groan as he felt your palm press against his cock from the outside. His thrusts became feral as he rutted inside you, making you choke and slide forward from the force. Your orgasm that had been slowly building crashed over you wave after wave as Baraka continued to batter your insides. You were still shaking, riding out the aftershocks as you felt Baraka's arms around your waist, yanking you back and against his chest as he buried himself as deep as he could and painted your insides with his thick seed. You felt pulse after pulse of hot cum shooting from his cock, filling you to the brim. Your hand went to your stomach, brushing against the head of his cock as he shook through his orgasm. It took a full minute for him to finally stop cumming and you could feel that thick seed leaking out from where the two of you were joined. Could feel his cock twitching inside you. Baraka's cock was still impossibly hard and he seemed content to stay buried within you. He lapped at the blood that had seeped out of your wound as you slowly caught your breath.

"Beautiful." Baraka hissed. "I am so glad the emperor let me keep you. I would have been more gentle, but a public claim is required to ensure the clan knows you are off limits."

"You were…claiming me?" Your voice was rough from screaming and disuse. Your throat ached as you spoke.

"Yes. I've been dying to mate with you since our first fight." Baraka growled. His hands worked there way down your body as he spoke, removing the last remnants of your clothes until you were fully naked against him. "At the tournament." He clarified, nuzzling against your neck so he could drink in the sweet smell of arousal within your phermones. "You smelled so sweet, so delicious, I could barely resist claiming you right then." He gave a shallow thrust making you moan. "You are even sweeter than I could have hoped for."

Your breath hitched at the confession as Baraka slowly arranged the two of you on the nest. He kept his thrusts going, shallow and soft, content to feel you squeezing around him and you could feel exhaustion threatening to swallow you. Although you had not consented, you had to admit that Baraka had been much more careful with you than you'd expected. It didn't help that his arms were huge and warm and you felt safe even with those imposing teeth nestled against the hollow of your throat. You should be finding a way to escape. Instead you moaned his name as he snapped for hips forward, his one hand finding its way between your legs to coax one last orgasm out of you. You clenched around him, your body trembling as you felt him coat your insides with another flood of cum before he finally slid out of you.

You whimpered at ache of being empty as you could feel his spend starting to leak out of you. Baraka's hand brushed against your hole, feeling the mess slowly oozing out of you and twisted away for a moment. You could feel him fumbling behind himself for something, then gasped as his hand found your entrance again. Two of his meaty fingers swirled through the mess collecting outside your hole before he slowly eased those digits, cum and all, back into you. He spent a few minutes pumping those digits into you, working his cum as deep as possible. You choked, cumming again even though you hardly thought it possible. He kept softly pumping his fingers, enjoying the way his cum sloshed around inside you as you whined at the overstimulation. Baraka's other hand gently stroked your soft belly, feeling the way the skin was stretched taught over the small pooch that had formed from how well he'd filled you up.

Finally, as tears threatened to spill from your eyes, he removed his fingers and replaced them with something cold and hard. It slipped inside you easily,the bulbous shape and its flared base plugging your hole and preventing any cum from sliding out. You shuddered as it pressed against your sensitive walls. It wasn't as big as Baraka's cock, nothing was, but it helped ease the ache of the emptiness you felt. You clenched around it as Baraka pressed firmly against your back. He kept a tight hold of you, his tongue leaving little trails over your skin. You were too sore to push him off. There was a bone deep exhaustion settling over you from the fighting followed by the most mind blowing, toe curling sex you'd ever experienced. You drifted off to the sound of Baraka growling softly to you in a mix of yours and his native tongue. You only caught a few of the words as the world faded to black.

"My mate."

[coraorvat]

Obligatory Pathologic/latest obsession crossover~

I've already seen some pathologic/disco elysium fusions, so here's my offer: consider

Harry doing the Pathologic hd Changeling route~

You woke up in a shallow grave with no memories, no weapon but a strong conviction you're a prophet with magical powers, and now you need to find how to stop the sand plague~ Harry doesn’t get Clara's healing mojo, but his can-opening powers already work similar to her hooks, soooo he won't be completely helpless... all the voices are still present, though Esprit de Corps is now tuned to the town healers (and isn't it fun with Burakh and Dankovsky actively trying to off each other in Clara's route) and Shivers is now speaks for Gorkhon (which won't be as pleasant as Revachol at all)~ All the other townspeople are baffled at best, but you still have a chance to stay with Saburovs if you play your cards right with not Katerina but Alexander, as a fellow man of the law (otherwise Harry is stuck with Grace, that poor girl)~

Meanwhile Kim is reliving his worst nightmare where he has to finish the case with teenager who proclaims herself next Innocence

[ineveryspaceandtime]

__________________________

Jorge Luis Borges, "Two English Poems" // Tyler Knott Gregson, "You giggle. . ." // Victor Hugo, "Marie Tudor" // Patty Dickson Pieczka, "Autumn" // Mary Oliver, "I have just said. . ." // Susan Glickman, "Poem about your laugh" // Rabindranath Tagore, "Lover's Gifts XVIII: Your Days" // Harold Hart Crane, "Exile"

[whumpshots]

Whump Snippet Saturday #35

"N-no, go away," whumpee mutters, eyes only half-open as they try to push caretaker away. Their fever has gone up since the last time they checked on them, but caretaker is still surprised to see them like this.

Eyes glassy and unfocused, huddled in the corner of the room, trying to make themselves smaller than they already are.

"I don't know where they are," they continue and shrink away even further, ignoring the pain these movements must cause. Their hands are shaking from fear, the rest of the body probably from exhaustion.

Caretaker crouches down next to them, giving them as much space as possible. "It's me, kid," they say softly and wait for a reaction, but whumpee is too out of it to notice.

Caretaker sees the tears on the other's cheeks and puts their fingers gingerly on the their hand. "It's me. I won't hurt you, kid."

[writing-whump]

Sol, from the sickfic prompts, can I have Isaiah + "Can you please come home? I feel really bad…" where he's the one saying this? I wonder how bad things would have to be for him to admit needing others?

Feverish and stubborn

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Matthew asked for the umpteenth time that morning.

Isaiah smiled at his insistence, internally cringing. He wanted Matthew safely gone so he could collapse in peace.

He had been feeling off since morning. Some kind of exhaustion, making him feel heavy to the bones and tired. Truly, he just needed sleep. He slept only a few hours every day, too busy and fascinated by some kind of assignment or homework or getting calls about lost pups, angry pack representative doing this or that. If he didn't get a job, that part of his life would swallow him whole.

Matthew eyed him suspiciously. "The pack is super friendly and they specialize in that human fighting thing without shadows, that you approve so much. They wouldn't mind me bringing you over."

Seline was at her parents during the weekend and Matthew had a guilty look on for leaving Isaiah alone as well, for a boxing meet between wolves. Isaiah was happy for him. Matt was finding his niche, friends through his interests. His confidence would grow from it, Isaiah was sure.

"I'm sure. I have homework to catch up to and I do not mind being alone. I have been living that way for the last 6 years, in fact."

Matthew bit his lip, scanning him one last time. "I'll text you the address in case you change your mind."

Isaiah rolled his eyes. "Shoo. Go already."

Matthew grinned sheepishly, threw his bag over his shoulder and left.

Finally.

Isaiah dropped the happy mask at once, sitting down on the couch. He just felt so tired. Huddling into the blanket where he sat, not pressed to go hide in his room or pretend to function at 8 am, he lied down right there, quickly asleep.

***

Isaiah woke up 3 hours later to violent shivers through his body. He was freaking freezing. His hands and legs were frozen solid, he was trembling under the blanket. Even his nose was stinging from the cold. Did he leave the windows open or something?

He wiggled his head towards the clock and the windows and the balcony but everything was shut. Maybe he should get under the covers, they were thicker, but the idea of leaving the little warmth he had under the blanket made him curl up into it.

He would need to make a run for it, but he needed to gather his strength first.

It was only after that ridiculous thought that it struck him he must be feverish. The only logical explanation.

He shivered some more, mentally playing the short walk to his bed for five times, before finally standing up. Blanket still around his shoulders, he wanted to dash to the bedroom, except his bones felt like someone filled them with broken glass. He felt fragile, unsteady, like he was about to bend over and collapse on his feet. Ow.

Finding his slippers, he made his way to the bathroom instead, taking the big bathrobe against the cold. He leaned against the sink, daring a peek at himself.

Yeah. He was pasty white, giant circles under his eyes like he didn't sleep for weeks instead of the last few hours, and he sweated through his shirt, although he was still shivering.

He was also feeling vaguely nauseous. Not sure if it was from not eating or from the fever or because this flu came with a stomach bonus.

How annoying.

Isaiah felt a little better in the bathrobe, so he devised a plan of not having to get up again for the next two days.

He gathered a jar filled with water, a glass, biscuits, thermometer, some pills and a basin for good measure. He didn't eat much for dinner and nothing for breakfast, he was empty, but his stomach felt tense and sore. Better not risk it.

With his supplies steady on his nightstand, he hunted down thick woolen socks and new PJs. Closing the curtains on the window to not be bothered by the sun, he changed and climbed into his bed with the bathrobe on. No harm done, he would sleep this off.

He took his temperature. 38.4. Yeah, maybe the ibuprofen wouldn't be a bad idea. He took half a biscuit, grimacing at the taste before he took the ibuprofen against the fever and dived under the blankets in relief.

He was shaking until he warmed up the air underneath the covers, but he felt proud of himself for being responsible and sweating this out like an adult.

***

Three more hours later, Isaiah was ready to be better already.

The thermometer showed 39.5 as if the ibuprofen didn't help at all and he was constantly shivering like he was exposed to the Antarctic air.

Not to mention he was starting to feel really nauseous from the fever. His stomach didn't hurt or protest another medication, so he could tell the fever was doing it. The nausea was a slimy presence at the back of his throat, around his teeth and jaw. He took deep breaths against it, shutting his eyes, trying to relax and will himself to sleep.

When he closed them though, all he could see were images of his work as the Executioner or his Father's voice admonishing other pups that wolves didn't get sick. Yeah, getting sick was a luxury. Taking a day off, being able to stay in bed, being able to be so open about it. Isaiah had all the luxury now, so he should be fine. Nothing to complain about.

Other times, his feverish brain made a list of people he would have liked to be here if he dared to call them. Sonny saw him sick from time to time and always knew what to do. Very matter of fact mature presence.

Arnie would probably come if Isaiah asked. Would bring him medicine and worry for him, talk his ear off into sleep so Isaiah wouldn't have to hear his own buzzing thoughts.

Matthew and Seline would come. Matt wouldn't know what to do, but he would be adorable in his efforts. He would probably sit beside him in bed, turn on some Netflix show on their TV in the room and wake him up with exclamations when something funny or angering happened in them.

He dreamed about Seline saying he was okay, keeping track of his temperature and calling him something nice, like darling or sweetheart. The idea made Isaiah sniffle, curling into himself under the covers. How pathetic was he, to imagine something like that?

The fever must be making him delusional. To imagine it would demand his roomates to be here, when he was a completely normal functioning adult who could handle a little fever.

It was a very rude one at that, not wanting to climb under 39.3, even after the second dose of medication.

Isaiah made himself drink some of the water, which made him reach for the basin and gag over it for a cruelly long time, but nothing came up. He curled up around it, breathing harshly as he drifted back to sleep.

***

Next time he woke up to the feeling of liquid in his throat.

Isaiah shot to towards the basin immediately, gagging over it, before a few drop of blood fell on the surface instead.

His nose was bleeding, that's what he could taste at the back of his throat.

Ah damn, he had no paper towels on the night stands. What a stupid thing to forget.

His heart was also beating really fast. Isaiah turned to lie on his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The nausea was drowning him, his heart thumped painfully against his ribs, the only force left in his body and he was going to make a mess on his sheets with the nosebleed.

For some reason the last part made him want to cry.

He was so glad he was sick with something else but his heart episodes for a change and now the fever might initiate one for him. Or was the nosebleed from the fever?

The more he lied there, the stronger the blood was running, flowing freely down his face and throat. He felt like he was choking on it.

He heaved over the bucket at the taste again, strained over it with no relief for several minutes, face all wet and slimy from the red liquid.

Isaiah slid down from the bed, the basin and covers in his lap. The shivers doubled immediately. He hugged himself, rocking back and forth. He couldn't remember when was the last time he felt so rotten. And if he didn't calm down, he would cause himself a heart episode no less.

Feeling utterly pathetic and ashamed, he reached for his phone, dialing the number he had been craving for the whole day.

Seline picked up on the second ring. "Isaiah, hey!"

Isaiah cringed, the joy in her voice when she said his name squeezing his chest in longing. "H-hey...."

"I was just telling my mom about the theater show we were going to? If we like it, I could get them tickets and next time we could- Isaiah? Is something wrong?"

He could hear voices in the backround, a female and a male and Seline answering something back in Slovak.

"I just..." Isaiah sniffled against the blood clogging his nose, cupping his hand over it to catch some of the mess. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Wait, hold up a sec." The noise of a chair being pushed back as Seline got up and left the kitchen. "Isaiah, talk to me. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"I'm sorry. C-can you please come home? I feel really bad..." He hated what he was asking. She was an hour away by train, enjoying her weekend with her parents and he was calling for her like a child.

"Oh sweetheart," Seline voice dropped to lowest, sweetest, softest coo. "I'm on my way, okay? Dad will take me to the station, it's 4.30 right now...that means the train at 5.15 should be doable by car...I'll be there at 6.15...Anything I can bring you? What's wrong exactly?"

Isaiah sniffed pitifully. "I don't...I- it's just the fever won't go down and I feel sick and now there is blood everywhere-"

"Blood? What do you mean blood?" She said in alarm.

"'s nothing, just my nose is bleeding for some reason."

"Okay, okay, okay. Everything is going to be fine, you hear? I'll be there as fast as I can."

***

Isaiah woke up on the floor, throat and nose clogged up with dried blood, covers and bathrobe covered in it, shivering and sweaty.

None of that mattered, because he was greeted by the nicest sight he could wish for.

Seline was crouching next to him, jacket half open, frowning in concern.

Isaiah looked at the watch. 5.30 pm. "You made it early," he croaked.

"Dad drove me all the way here. Better than the trains." Seline cupped his cheek with her hand, lifting his face towards her to study him.

"Is he still here? I should-"

"You should nothing," she interrupted sternly. "The nosebleed stopped? Can you get up on the bed?"

"No...I'll make a mess like this." He pointed at his face.

"Is that why you are on the floor? Honey, the sheets can be washed, that's not a reason for you to sleep on the carpet."

Isaiah focused in her voice. She still changed the pet names frequently, like she couldn't settle on her favourite one. He loved it.

Seline's hands on his face felt divine, even though they were way too cold. He shivered under her touch, breath hitching.

"Okay, arm up. We will take your temperature, while I get something to clean you up with, alright?" She put the thermometer under his arm, kissing him on the forehead before leaving.

Isaiah closed his eyes, shivering under the sudden heaviness of her absence.

"Okay, come on, sweetie. Back in the bed." She was really insistent on that, huh?

Seline grabbed his arm and pulled and he followed, standing up and then falling back on the bed with a moan.

"What is it?" Seline sat down next to him with a wet towel and a bunch of those soft paper towels for colds.

"Ugghh. My skin hurts."

"Your skin?"

"Yeah. It's like broken glass all over," he whined.

Seline shook her head. "Your fever is super high, I can tell all the way from here. It's okay. It will pass." She took the towel and started to clean the dried blood on his face.

Isaiah winced at the coldness, but she was so gentle, he couldn't protest.

"I got you all the good stuff. Best rehydration drink ever," she said with a small smile, taking his thermometer, scowling at it without comment, and putting it away.

"I feel nauseous. Not sure I can drink," he said tiredly, closing his eyes. It wasn't his concern anymore. She could decide what he could and couldn't do.

"Just a few spoons, okay? It will really help with the fever. There. Face all clean. It really bled a lot, huh?" Isaiah didn't dare to glance at the ruined towel, but the wet skin left in its wake was stinging with cold. The feeling of cleanness comforted him.

Seline put another, bigger towel soaked in cold water around his forehead and neck. He hissed at the touch, but she took his hand in hers. "I know, I know. But this will help, darling. Please, trust me."

He squeezed her hand back, propped up on the pillows and closed his eyes.

"Open your mouth, sweetie."

Isaiah squinted at her. She really sat there with a mug of transparent liquid in her lap and was offering him a spoon of that salty smelling water.

He sighed but obeyed, letting her spoon feed him four times, before he pressed his lips together as he waited for his stomach's reaction. It sloshed angrily inside him, a cramp making him double over.

Seline's hand was cupping him his face immediately, her lips on his forehead murmuring something into his ear.

He breathed harshly, melting against the contact, then curled up at his side. "No more."

"Okay. That's enough for now. Such a good job. You will be up and about in no time."

Seline put the mug away, patting his face, readjusting the cold towel on his forehead, before standing up.

"Sel?" He whined, afraid she would leave. "Stay? Please?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

She cluttered with some of the things on his bedside table, before switching off the lamp and climbing into the bed beside him.

He shifted closer on his side, and she pressed herself against his back, arm around his chest. He took the hand in his, curling it against his heart like a talisman.

"It's beating really fast," she said softly.

"Hmmm. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?" She said in disbelief, voice going higher with emotion.

Isaiah's throat closed up. "I'm sorry I called, I-"

She lifted herself up to loom over him. "You can always call me. I'm glad you called me." Her voice suddenly grew more heated. "No, in fact, you have to call me, when you feel bad like this. How long has this been going on? Why were you alone and not telling me sooner?"

Isaiah blinked in the dark, taken aback.

"When you get better, I'm gonna kill you, you hear? You feel off or like you are coming down with something, you are supposed to tell me before you black out from a fever with a nosebleed. You tell me immediately. I don't care if I'm on the other side of Europe, I'll come."

Isaiah swallowed, eyes burning, heart somewhere in his throat. "I didn't want to be a both-"

"I forbid you from having such thoughts," she said indignantly. "You are never a bother. You matter to me, Isaiah, do you understand that? When you are hurting in secret, alone, away from me, you are hurting me. You want to let me bleed out by not telling me of the wound?"

Isaiah didn't know what to say to that, eyes wide in the dark.

"You don't have to toughen it out," she said more gently, palm on his cheek, caressing it with one finger. "Let me take care of you. It's the least you can do, when part of me is hurting there with you."

Isaiah took in a shaky breath, chest hurting from her words. It hurt, it hurt to face such proclamations, such absolute belief they were true. "You are so bossy," he said, voice wavering on a sob.

Seline pressed herself closer to him still, spooning him, tangling their legs together. "Shhhhh. Yeah. You better get used to it."

[whumpy-bi]

Whumpee can’t quite remember what happened. They remember blood, pain, and the constant aches and shivers, but not much else. The details had become a haze in the endless void.

Someone was talking to them. They tried to sit up, to move towards the voice, but it hurt too much.

The voice quietly urged them, accompanied by a warm touch to their arm.

“You’re okay, Whumpee. Just try not to move, okay? You’re gonna be alright, you can relax.”

They wanted to cry, and Whumpee couldn’t tell why. They wanted to reach out to the voice, to feel its comfort and warmth all over.

“You’re safe now, okay? I’m gonna make sure you feel better.”

[witchy-shortcake]

Are you alright back there, kiddo?

The child didn't say say a word. They were curled up at the back of the car, looking through the window.

Every time A drove through a bump in the road they would hear a small pained sound coming from the kid's mouth. They had never been the type of person to panic when one of their studients got sick, after all B wasn't their child but something about the sight of B resting their head on the car Window, pale as a ghost and switching between slurred feverish mumbling and barely audible cries made A's heart shatter.

We're almost there, okay? You Will be resting in bed in no time.

The kid nods their head, exhausted and shivering.

The rest of the trip was spent in total silence, apart from the noises the car made. Every few minutes A would look at the back of the car, hoping that the poor child had already fallen asleep. Insead, A's glances would meet B's tired eyes, still looking around at the complete darkness that surrounded the road.

Only a few minutes more...

(Did i write this based off a single piece of fanart i found on Pinterest? The answer is yes)

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee’s drifting in and out of consciousness, every time in a different mood than the last. Sometimes they're too exhausted to move; other times they cry and panic; occasionally they just quietly look around trying to remember what happened, where they are, and how they got there.

-And then they remember.

[birrdies]

the art of ship burning

2.6k, smalletho / boat boys ficlet set in my pirate au (reading the original fic is not required to understand this)

If you asked Joel, ship-burning was more an artform than a science. The matters weren’t as simple as a few dry pieces of timber and a spark to light them. To Etho, those matters probably extended into levels of moisture and the direction of the wind. However the objectively correct and all-around better matters— Joel’s matters— lay entirely with one thing: presentation.

Swords clashed on the deck. Streaks of silver cut through the midnight black sky, rivaling that of the moonlight hidden behind a thick weave of clouds. The ocean roared beneath the hull, waves thrashing the side of the ship this way and that— a storm was coming. The electricity danced in the air, teasing and coy. Gods, what a lovely night for a ship to burn.

Joel threw himself at the starboard side of the military ship, climbing up onto the rusted deadeyes to reach the shrouds. His heart hammered in his chest as the song of gnashing blades and pained yells accompanied his great climb. His sweaty palms gripped tight onto the rope, but with one violent lurch of the ship to the right, Joel lost his grip. Terror swept through him, a coldness sinking in his gut like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Perhaps it was his heart.

His legs, tangled in the rungs of the shroud, caught his fall. He dangled upside down from the ropes, all the blood rushing to his head. The frantic beat of his heart pulsed in his temples. Below him the deck’s action continued to brew. In the center of it all: Etho. He fought wildly through a crowd of butter-spined men who, by uniform alone, could be considered naval officers. They came for him at all angles, but whereas the King’s men relied on brute force, Etho relied on something far stronger: strategy.

He weaved between jabbing elbows and sweeping swords, slipping through gaps in the onslaught of soldiers. One officer lunged with his blade aimed at Etho’s chest. He side-stepped it and grabbed the officer by the sword-wielding arm, pulling the both of them backwards until the officer’s blade pierced one of his own men in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he disappeared from the space between them. They might’ve out-numbered him about a dozen to one, but to keep Etho locked down was like trying to bottle lightning up in a jar. You simply couldn’t, and you looked ridiculously stupid if you tried.

Joel’s vision grew spotty. He’d been dangling too long, his head overfilled with blood and his legs tingling and numb. He heaved himself upright, gripping the shroud and hauling himself the rest of the way upright. Heat rushed down his spine, through his limbs, as the blood returned to its rightful place. He waited for the spots in his vision to clear before continuing his climb up the shrouds.

Usually, Joel liked to let things simmer for a bit before bringing them to a boil. It was nice to savor their targets’ panic, to watch them scurry across the decks like headless chickens as the water filled up to their ankles and they hauled away every valuable thing they had to their name. But there were more of these peacocks than either of them had anticipated; Etho was good, but he was only so good. If Joel didn’t speed things up he wasn’t sure he’d still have a partner to split his earnings with at the end of the day. Good for his wallet, but bad for the ship. Upkeep and raids were much easier when you had someone to split it up with.

So, Joel reached the top of the shrouds, swaying back and forth with the rock of the sea and wind alike. He dug around in his pockets for his flint-and-steel. It was powerful enough to take down the thickest of sails. Tongue stuck between his teeth, Joel leaned out as far as his arms could stretch, sparking the flint-and-steel inches beneath the fabric of one of two large, layered sails. It caught instantly, orange and gold flecks turning into small yet promising flames. A flash of heat kissed Joel’s face; he grinned madly.

If they thought those ridiculously oversized crimson sails stood out, stark and proud, then they weren’t ready for the show in store.

The flames consumed the sail stitch by stitch, fiber by fiber. Joel climbed down the shrouds to keep himself out of the fire’s reach but kept close enough to feel the heat of it. He should’ve quickly moved on to the other sail, to the ratline, to the sacs of flour and fruit on deck— anything to get the flames to catch quicker and get him and Etho both out of there. But don’t blame him for wanting to admire his own handiwork. They didn’t get to do this often, especially not against a military ship. This was a special treat. Etho would be fine for an extra second. Or ten.

The skin of his hands buzzed. The ropes under him shook, a rattle carried down the entire length of the shrouds up towards the nest. At the base, a broad-chested soldier climbed the dead-eyes and climbed after Joel. He was only a few feet away, a sword in his hand.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Joel groaned.

The flames quickly ate a hole in the center of the front-most sail. The further they traveled, the closer they got to the central mast. They’d start eating away at it any second now. Once the mast gave out, there would be nowhere else to go. Joel needed to get off of the shrouds, preferably before that happened and he got crushed in a mess of wood and embers.

If he got lucky, the Gods would quit toying with him and let the storm break. If lightning struck, it’d either knock this guy off and give Joel some breathing room, or it would strike the ship and fan the flames that much faster. The latter ensured almost certain death, but Joel couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. He’d rather die at the hands of some spiteful god than a military peacock who wore wigs at dinner parties for fun.

But said peacock had him cornered. There was nowhere for Joel to climb except for up, closer to the flames where the fire would burn him and the smoke would suffocate him. He had not one weapon on him aside from the fire-starter, and Joel wasn’t so stupid as to burn his literal life-line while he was still on it, suspended forty feet in the air above solid wood and thrashing blades. That was probably second on his list of least preferred ways to die.

The soldier growled and reached for Joel’s ankles. He kicked like mad, hoping he could at least crunch a bone or two under the force of his steel-heeled boots. But the soldier was tougher than he looked. He took each kick without so much as a wince, and in a second he grabbed Joel’s ankle with one hand. He balanced precariously on the shroud, one hand dragging Joel down and the other raising his sword.

“Shit!” Joel threw an arm up to shield his face from the worst bite of the blade.

But it never came. Instead, a much sweeter sound: the soldier’s cry of pain as a bolt whizzed through the air and buried in his neck. Blood sputtered from around the arrowhead; he immediately lost his grip on Joel and the shroud alike, rolling over. With him, the shroud twisted, but this time Joel was ready.

He hung on tight as it flipped over like a tangled hammock, dumping the soldier’s body unceremoniously onto the now still deck beneath. Several bodies were either dead or unconscious, stacked unceremoniously in piles where they’d fallen. The rest were either tied at the wrists and ankles or cowering with their foreheads pressed into the wood like they really thought any sort of god was helping them.

Beneath him, Etho held a crossbow still aimed at the sky. His cheek bled sluggishly.

“You sure took your sweet time up there, Joel!” he jeered, breathing heavy. “Should I grab you a pillow? Rub your feet?”

“Shut up, Etho!” Joel yelled from where he dangled overhead. “The bloody thing’s already lit, we just need to— woah, woah, watch out!”

It was close. Etho spun right as a cutlass swept through the air over his head. But not close enough. Not fast enough— a blade caught Etho in the shoulder. His pained sound was quiet, but to Joel it might as well have sounded like cannonfire. Etho staggered as the general who had snuck up on him reached for the back of Etho’s collar, hauling him back.

The cannonball he’d swallowed turned into hot, active steel. Shot directly out of a cannon, Joel slid down and leapt from the shrouds when he was confident he was low enough not to break both his ankles.

“Nope, no you don't!” His pulse pounded furiously in his ears as he snatched a sword from one of the bodies at his feet. All it took was a single lunge. A dangerous, incredibly stupid and risky lunge. But a successful one nonetheless. Even with Etho held up between them like a human shield, Joel slipped the tip of the sword in the gap under Etho’s armpit, burying the sword in the general’s gut.

He fell into a heap of limbs on the deck, blood bubbling up between his fingers where he clutched at the wound in the center of his stomach. Joel sneered and kicked him as far away from Etho as he could manage. Which wasn’t very far, he was a lot bigger than Joel, but it was about the principle of the thing.

Furious, sweaty, and buzzing with fear, Joel whirled on Etho. “You bloody idiot, what were you thinking, turning your back?! Let me see—”

Etho swatted his hand away. With the other hand he clutched at the wound. “Next time I’ll let someone poke you full of holes, then,” he said, voice strained.

It bled from the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Blood slicked his hands and dripped down the front of his white shirt, but he wasn’t bleeding as much as the guy he’d shot did. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t oh my gods I’m going to die bleeding. Which was a comfort to Joel, no matter how little. He’d be hurt and whiny, but he wasn’t going to die. He could deal with that.

Joel tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. The red sails blazed a brilliant gold and orange. Embers and ash rained from the sky, a storm of their own making. They didn’t need any gods. The ship went up like a torch, more beautiful than any damn lighthouse or painted sail on the seven seas. It was a mark to be made permanently in the way of ash. It won’t be faded by time or bleached by the sun. Joel’s grin grew wickedly sharp.

He put a hand on Etho’s back. “Let’s get the goods and get the bloody hell out of here.”

***

“Ow! Joel, careful!”

“How can I be careful if you aren’t holding blummin’ still?” Joel snapped, grabbing the back of Etho’s neck forcefully. He sat on a stool behind Etho, armed with a rag doused in drinking alcohol. He examined the wound that bit the worst into the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t as deep as Joel initially feared. The wound’s edges were puffy and oozy (everything Joel detested), but the worst of the bleeding finally stopped. Not that that spared Joel’s sleeves any; he looked forward to burning his shirt as soon as Etho was bandaged and put to bed.

He kept one hand on the back of Etho’s neck while the other dabbed at the edges of the wound. Etho shivered with each touch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end every time so much as Joel shifted his hold. Cold air wafted through the ship's calm hull, the steady rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby. A gift for their hard work today (as if the gold and diamonds hadn’t been enough).

“It stings,” Etho complained.

Joel sighed. “You’re the one who told me to do this part.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, but it still hurts.”

He was a great partner to fare the seas with, but by the gods, Etho could be bloody annoying when he wanted to be. How could a man who was capable of cutting down an entire naval crew be capable of complaining so much? Little about him made sense, and while Joel gave up long ago trying to piece him together, it didn’t stop the puzzle from grating on his nerves often.

With a groan, Joel draped the rag over his thigh, feet tapping a restless, agitated beat on the floorboards. “Alright, it’s clean or whatever,” he said, then hesitated. “… You don’t need stitches, do you? I am not poking a bloody needle through your skin.”

“If I don’t want it to scar, probably,” Etho said, and Joel understood what he meant.

Etho was no stranger to scars. It wasn’t the first time Joel had seen him without a shirt, but it was the first time seeing things this close— close enough to touch. His back was littered with them. Thin cross-hatching lines covered the expanse of his back, some silvery and pale with their age, from a time before Joel, others still red and fresh. As fresh as scars come, at least. A gash on the right flank, a spearhead Etho caught with his body during a rowdy raid on a clan of fishermen. A long, straight cut down the length of his spine. A burn scar to his left shoulder. That one was Joel’s fault — don’t ask.

What was one more to the collection? Besides, Joel wasn’t going to complain about not having to sew Etho’s skin shut. Instead he, without complaint, reached for a roll of bandages he had set out on the table. He called it a roll of bandages, but really it was one of the finer shirts they’d stolen among one of the officer’s luggage cut up into long, thin strips. He was proud of himself for the innovation, even if Etho had pursed his lips at the side of it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Etho would have to just get over it.

As he wound the makeshift bandages around Etho’s shoulder and under his armpit, Joel held his breath. Etho didn’t say anything, only lightly wincing when Joel lifted his arm too quickly, which happened every time he needed to reach under the wrap the bandages around. But he endured it without much more complaint. Suddenly, Joel wished he would. Just so he didn’t have to be the one to start talking.

“That was bloody stupid what you did,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you die pulling something like that again.”

“No promises,” Etho said, and by gods Joel could hear the mischievous smirk in his voice. “Someone’s gotta watch your back, Joel.”

Joel scoffed and tucked the edge of the bandage into itself, patting them down. This time Etho groaned and recoiled from his touch, protecting his shoulder with his hands as best he could. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’ll stop being mean when you stop being useless and annoying,” Joel said, quickly climbing to his feet and rummaging around in the armoire (another fixture they’d stolen on a previous raid, a rare and expensive mahogany piece that both Joel and Etho found incredibly ugly but both refusing to be the first to admit it). He pulled out a shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it against Etho’s bare chest.

“Cover up before I throw up,” he said. “More ships to burn, more stuff to steal. Up and at ‘em.”

[soft-for-yoongi]

Fever dream Taehyungie. I read some fics with this and I'm hooked.

Choose whoever you like as the caregiver and whatever other sickness you want to add. I have no problem with emeto 💜

Fever Dreams, Hyung's Don't Leave (sick TH)

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Sick: Taehyung

Caretakers: ot7, Yoongi, Jungkook, Seokjin

Tw: emeto, vom**, mentions of nausea, stomach pain, dizziness, fevers, nightmares, puking

Word count: 1744

Thanks for the request, anon!! I really enjoyed this, and I hope it's what you had in mind 🫶

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

Cold. Taehyung was so so cold. And... where are his hyungs? One second they were right there, and now it's all dark? They were with him before he got sucked into dreamland? But now he feels freezing and so... alone. "Hyungs?" Taehyung wants to reach out but his arms feel like lead and won't cooperate.

Shadows were growing around him and his brothers were becoming distant, his cheeks are wet with tears and he wants to yell for them to come back but the sounds don't make it past his throat. Did they really leave him?

"Taehyungie!"

He woke up with a sharp gasp, almost instantly dissolving into tears that wrack his frame. Yoongi is quick to pull him into an embrace, cradling his head into his chest. Despite the younger being taller than he is, Taehyung looks so small in the rapper's arms. "You're burning up, Taetae." Yoongi says, feeling warmth radiating off of the younger's skin.

"I'm c-cold... w-wh-where are the others?" Taehyung's head perks up, eyes wide and scared. The dream felt so vivid. "Hyungie, are they gone?" Taehyung suddenly tries to stand up, pulling away from Yoongi's grasp.

"Woah, careful." Yoongi rushes to help Taehyung and sits him back down with little effort needed. "They're okay, Taehyungie." He comforts, rubbing his back in circles. "I-I need to see them, h-hyung—" Taehyung cries, gripping onto Yoongi like a lifeline.

"Shh, okay. Let me get Jinnie and the others." Yoongi takes out his phone, frantically spamming Seokjin's number. All of Taehyung's weight is up against Yoongi and the flow of tears has him biting his lip in worry. "Yoongi-ah?" Seokjin sheepishly walks into the room, rubbing his eyes and taking a split second to register Taehyung.

"Oh, Taehyungie, baby." Seokjin rushes over, petting and soothing over his hair as Taehyung instinctively reaches for the eldest. "H-hyung... I thought you left me." Taehyung mumbles, breaking out in tremors and moving to wrap an arm around his stomach.

"Of course not, baby. Gosh, you're so warm. Yoongi, what happened?" Seokjin turns to the rapper. "He was dreaming, kept calling out for us and now he's got a fever." Yoongi explains. They both look at Taehyung with pity, thinking on what to do. "We have to give him some medicine, he's way too hot." Seokjin concludes.

"No—I need to see Jiminie a-and Namjoon-hyung—" Taehyung sniffles, hiccuping between words. Yoongi sadly rubs his back, turning to Seokjin. "Aw Taehyungie... how about we go to the living room and I'll get the others?" Seokjin offers, using his thumb to wipe away the tears. Taehyung nods approvingly, somewhat calming down.

They go on either side of the younger, helping him to the lounge. Yoongi flicks on a couple lights, putting them on the dimmest setting. Taehyung reaches for Yoongi and he gladly holds him on the couch. Seokjin starts off at the closest bedroom. Jimin and Hoseok's.

"Hoseokie? Jiminie?" He calls into the dark room, walking in to find the two curled in each other's embrace, both their beds pushed together. They start to stir after a few taps. "Sorry guys, Taehyungie is sick and a bit emotional. Can you both comfort him in the living room?" Seokjin explains in a hushed voice. It wakes them up and Jimin's eyes are already glistening with worry. "Of course, hyung." Hoseok replies. Onto the next bedroom.

"Namjoon-ah?" Seokjin hears the snoring cut off. "Hmmg..? Hyung?" The leader groans. "Can you go to the living room, please? Taehyungie has a fever." He says, gaining a hum as Namjoon swings his legs out of bed. And now, the maknae.

"Kookie?" Seokjin moves straight to the bed, gently rubbing over Jungkook's thigh. "Jungkook-ah." He tries again, making the lump roll over. "Taehyung needs you, Bunny." And that finally wakes him up. "Huh..? Is he okay?" Jungkook rubs his eyes, making a move to get up. "Fever, bad dream." Seokjin summarises, letting the youngest follow him back to the living room.

Taehyung is still next to Yoongi but Jimin is giving him a kiss on the cheek, Hoseok tying back his hair and Namjoon is standing nearby, not wanting to crowd the boy. "Taehyungie-hyung?" Jungkook says when he catches sight of the second youngest. He looks up from the couch and is visibly relieved. "You g-guys didn't leave?" Taehyung's lip quivers. The six of them butt in to reassure Taehyung, telling him they love each other way too much to even fathom the idea.

"Taetae, do you feel well enough to take some medicine?" Yoongi asks, all too aware of the sticky heat coming from the singer. He's still so out of it. "Mm.. I don't know." Taehyung pouts, "does anything hurt? Your ears, throat, head, stomach?" Jimin asks, kneeling down in front of Taehyung. "Tummy.. and my head feels dizzy." Taehyung concludes, just now picking up on the nausea washing over him in waves.

He shivers and curls up to Yoongi. "Hyung... I think I'm gonna throw up." Taehyung whines, face squashed into Yoongi's shoulder. "Aish–right now?" Yoongi looks to Hoseok for help, "I'll get a bag—" Hoseok dashes off, right as Taehyung moans in discomfort, chills going up and down his spine. Seokjin leaves to grab some towels and medicine. Namjoon and Jungkook take a seat on the other couch, talking to each other worriedly.

Hoseok comes back with a puke bag, quickly handing it to Taehyung who grips it shakily. "You're okay, Taehyung-ah." Yoongi starts rubbing up and down his back, sympathising when he feels his muscles clench and a dry gag escapes. Taehyung feels like he's on a merry-go-round, he's not enjoying it. Before he was cold and lonely, now he's covered in sweat, about to heave up his dinner. What a night.

He looks up from the bag, noticing Seokjin returning and all his brother's concerned faces. It makes him think back to his fever dream and a tear slips before a nasty heave takes over. It leads to a string of drool and acidic taste in his throat. Jimin uses his small hand to wipe away the tears, moving to sit next to Taehyung. "Let it up, Tae." Yoongi slips into daegu satoori, hoping to comfort the younger some.

Taehyung sucks in a deep, shaky breath before bringing up a mouthful of sick. It gets the momentum going and before he can relax, another bout exits him. "We're right beside you, Taetae. You're doing great." Hoseok comforts, looking away from the puke bag but also trying to support his dongsaeng.

Taehyung retches, spine curling over as he vomits. He feels so hot and sticky, tshirt plastered to his back. Seokjin uses a damp cloth to wipe Taehyung's forehead, holding it on as he coughs into the bag. "Namjoon-ah, can you get the thermometer please?" Seokjin asks, tone filled with concern.

"Sure, hyung." Namjoon responds quickly. "Ughh—my tummy doesn't feel good.." Taehyung whimpers, fingers still clutching the bag. Jungkook watches with sympathy. "Poor baby, Taehyungie. You'll feel better soon." Jimin rubs the 95's knee, Yoongi tracing along his back.

Taehyung doesn't feel like he'll ever get better. He would make another statement that he's dying, but a painfully dry heave cuts him off. It highlights just how empty Taehyung now is. But his stomach sets him off anyways, into endless (about 3) empty gags. "Tae-yah it sounds like you're finished. Wanna try relax a little?" Yoongi points out, slowly easing the younger's grip on the bag.

"Yoongi's right, Taehyungie. I'm sure Jungkook's happy to give you some company on the couch?" Seokjin smiles, and Taehyung swallows down a retch before weakly nodding. Yoongi manages to take the bag, making note to keep it away from Hoseok's general direction before disposing of it.

Seokjin and Jimin wipe down Taehyung's face, just as Namjoon comes back with the thermometer, holding it out. "Ah, thanks Joonie." Seokjin says, grabbing the device and hovering it over the second youngest's forehead. It beeps and reads, "39.1° (102.4°)" Seokjin says out loud, "shit. Taehyungie, you're really warm, how about we take your shirt off?" The eldest adds.

Taehyung nods, face blank and zoned out. "Arms up," Jimin helps take off the top, leaving Taehyung exposed on the couch. "Can I lay down with Jungkookie?" Taehyung looks up at Jin, then glances at the youngest. "Of course, Kookie? Is that okay?" Seokjin turns to Jungkook, who responds with a reassuring nod. Jungkook motions for Taehyung to come closer. With Hoseok's and Jimin's aid, Taehyung gets nestled on Jungkook's chest, both of them long ways on the couch. Jungkook has an arm tucked around Taehyung securely, while he listens to the soothing rhythm of Jungkook's heartbeat.

"Promise not to be sick on me?" Jungkook jokes, retracting the statement when Taehyung frowns sadly. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well, hyungie. You can throw up on me, that's fine." Jungkook kisses Taehyung's temple, ruffling his hair at the same time. At least that gets Taehyung to whimper-laugh, his body still isn't happy with him.

Before Taehyung lets himself drift off, he opens his eyes and scans the room. He sees five pairs of eyes staring back lovingly, the elder members smiling at the fondness between the two youngests. "Don't worry, Taehyung-ah. We'll be right here when you wake up." Yoongi hums, beginning to settle on one of their armchairs, letting out a huff when Jimin sits on his lap, but not making him move either. Fully reclining the other couch, Hoseok is comfortably squished between the leader and Seokjin.

"Okay, I love you, hyungs." Taehyung murmurs softly. He surrendered to the warmth of Jungkook's embrace, the presence of his brothers soothing him to not worry about any more dreams.

Hours passed and they slept semi-comfortably. Seven people in one living room was a lot. Slowly, Taehyung stirred awake, greeted by the gentle caress of Jungkook's hand on his head. Blinking away the sleep, he found himself still tucked up to Jungkook. "Hey there, sleeping beauty." Jungkook whispered.

Taehyung grinned weakly, "did I throw up on you?" He asked, voice raspy but amused. "Not this time, hyung." Jungkook chuckled. The lounge room was bathed in a morning glow, Taehyung noticed his other hyungs, still there and their expressions more relaxed. The worry he felt during his fever-induced dream was replaced by comfort, yes he was still uneasy but he now had some support.

"I told you we wouldn't leave, Taehyungie." Jimin chims in, perched on Yoongi's lap. "Thank you, Jiminie-hyung."

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

1/5/7?

Hi Anon! I’m guessing you’re asking for the hurt/comfort ask game. If so, here you go! Thanks for your patience while I got around to this! In fact, there's another snippet that uses these exact numbers, you can find it here!

From this ask game

“The entrances to Whumper’s base are here and here,” Leader said, pointing to two points on the map, “they have guards stationed at each, along with other security measures, and- Whumpee?”

Whumpee jumped up in their seat. Aside from being the only one sitting down, they were also the only one not paying attention. Their glazed eyes stared at Leader, then the map.

“Are you okay?” Leader asked.

“Mhm,” Whumpee nodded.

Whumpee pointed to the tree line on the map, then to the center of the building.

“Whumper has entrances here and here,” Whumpee slurred.

Caretaker strode over to Whumpee, staring at them. Whumpee seemed to be looking right through them. Caretaker snapped in their flushed face, and it took far too long for Whumpee to blink. Within seconds, Caretaker’s hand was pressed to their forehead.

“Hm,” Caretaker said, brows furrowed, “Leader, I think Whumpee needs to sit this one out.”

Leader came over and felt Whumpee’s forehead. They winced.

“I think you’re right,” Leader said, “Whumpee, how long have you been feverish?”

“Hm?” Whumpee asked, “’m not f’v’rish, jus’ tired.”

Caretaker lifted Whumpee out of their seat.

“Come on, to bed with you.”

The sudden upward movement made Whumpee’s head spin. They looked over at Caretaker, whose mouth was moving with no sounds coming out. In fact, Whumpee couldn’t hear anything but a faint ringing. Whatever happened next went by too fast for them to register. All they knew was one minute they were standing, and the next they were looking up at two blurry faces.

“…umpee… Whumpee!” Caretaker shouted.

“What?” Whumpee mumbled.

“You just fainted,” Leader said, almost in disbelief.

“Did not,” Whumpee argued, trying to prop themselves up.

Caretaker and Leader both pushed Whumpee back down to the floor.

“Did too, stay down,” Caretaker ordered.

Caretaker and Leader exchanged words in hushed whispers. Whumpee tried to make out what they were saying, but before they could, Caretaker had slipped an arm under their legs and another behind their back and lifted them into a bridal carry.

“Stoooop,” Whumpee mumbled, “I can walk!”

Caretaker ignored them, instead carrying them out of the basement and to their bed, Leader right behind them. Leader pulled back the covers while Caretaker laid them down. Leader gently tucked Whumpee in.

“Wha’ about Whumper?”

“Whumper isn’t going anywhere,” Leader said, “we can infiltrate their base another day.”

Caretaker left the room and came back shortly with a bottle of medicine and a damp cloth. Leader sat Whumpee up and Caretaker fed them the medicine.

“Tastes bad.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Caretaker laid them back down and set the damp cloth on their forehead. Whumpee sighed at the soothing sensation. They blinked slowly. Now that they were in bed, the only thing they wanted to do was drift off, away from the fever. Their eyes fluttered shut and their breathing deepened as they slipped into sleep.

Caretaker and Leader sat on either side of Whumpee as they fell asleep. They exchanged worried looks with each other.

“How did this happen without us noticing?” Caretaker asked.

“More importantly, how long are they going to be like this?” Leader added, “if they get any worse, we’ll have to take them to the hospital.”

Whumpee slept on, blissfully ignorant of the situation Whumper’s poison had put them in.

ko-fi

tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm