Tumgik
#feat. retches
mrzombielover · 1 year
Text
— stay?
Tumblr media
feat. simon “ghost” riley x g/n!reader
rating: sfw fluff; alcohol and puke mentions
summary; you return home after a night out drinking with 141
a/n; this is my first work on this acc and i cant believe it’s sfw :,,)
wc; 837
Tumblr media
“No, No- Soap! We’re almost back- No, Soap! Fuck!”
You’re dragged towards the wall with him as he leans on it for support, pushing yourself free as he bends down, retching. his vomit nearly hits your shoes as you stumble backwards.
“Ugh, gross, Johnny,” Ghost’s disappointed voice and Gaz’s laugh come from behind you as Soap chokes out the last of it.
“No, no, no, don’t pass out, cmon,” Your attempts to help him up are weak, he’s a heavy, sturdy man, and you’re pretty drunk too. “Come onn, we’re almost back,”
You’re basically carrying him with how much of his weight he’s put on you, feet dragging against the pavement. The alcohol in your system isn’t the only reason you can’t understand his unintelligible mumbling in your ear.
“I know, big guy,” you tell him soothingly, struggling to walk in a straight line.
“Will one of you- Help me for fucks sake!” You turn to the two unhelpful men behind you, who’ve just been watching and snickering. Ghost, who is likely the most sober, wordlessly walks over and effortlessly scoops Soap from your arms, throwing him over his shoulder before continuing to walk silently. You and Gaz make eye contact, then giggle as you stumble after them, almost having to jog to keep up with Ghost’s pace.
You help Ghost lob Soap onto the couch, throwing a blanket over him and leaving a trash can next to the couch. the adrenaline and energy from the night out has worn off now, leaving your brain feeling cloudy and a shooting headache making you wobble. the guest bedroom is all set up, but ghost takes it upon himself to walk you to your room anyway. you’re sober enough to walk on your own, but you lean on his arm anyway, relishing in the rare contact he wouldn’t normally allow.
you flip into bed and roll over, sighing in relief as the pressure is taken away from your limbs. Ghost is uncharacteristically careful, starting to tuck you in, making sure the blanket covers you.
“aww, you’re so caring, tucking me in?” you tease, rolling onto your stomach and looking up at him flirtatiously. he doesn’t answer you, your words making him step back and halt his movements.
“i was just teasing!” you sit up, grabbing at his arm quickly to prevent his leaving. neither of you say anything for a moment, but he lets you idly run your thumb over the tattoos covering his arm.
“will you… stay? with me?” you ask softly.
“you’re drunk,” he says flatly. what a gentleman.
“no! i don’t mean- like that, just…” you trail off, not sure what you’re asking for exactly. you just don’t want him to leave.
“…and i’m not that drunk,” you mumble.
when he reaches over and clicks off the lights, shrouding you in darkness, you expect to hear his footsteps receding. instead, his arm never leaves your hand, and he silently sits next to you on the bed. still in the clothes he wore out, he lays down next to you. not touching you, but he lets you keep hold of his arm, holding it against your body as you settle in.
your room’s bitter cold contrasts the heat simon is radiating, and if he’s overheating he doesn’t say anything when you cling to him for warmth. in the darkness, you cant see anything, but your eyes are wide open. this is… unusual. he’s laying unnaturally stiffly next to you, and you feel a prickle of guilt in the back of your mind for making him stay. you let your grip loosen on him as you settle in and get comfortable, only now processing the boundaries you’ve crossed.
his warmth is missing when you let go of his arm, leaving you to curl up on your side. suddenly, simon is on his side, too, pulling you against his body again in one swift movement. while both wide awake, neither of you say anything. your cheeks are burning hot, but you cuddle closer to simon anyway, desperate to feel his body heat. moments pass, and the drumming of his heart near your ear and steady breathing have lulled you almost entirely to sleep.
unbeknownst to you, your steadying breathing has done nearly the same for him. Simon hasn’t felt this relaxed in months, despite his uncertainty from moments earlier. he’s glad you asked him to stay, your body molded against his and your rhythmic heartbeat against his skin calming him in ways he didn’t know possible, years of high anxiety situations and stress beginning to melt away. he thought about how pretty you looked tonight, he’d only seen you in uniform previously, and while you do make it work, seeing your hair and makeup done for going out took his breathe away.
once he thinks you’re asleep, he leans his head towards yours, and hesitantly presses a kiss to the top of your head. he could get used to this, he thinks. the action makes you smile to yourself.
2K notes · View notes
argisthebulwark · 8 months
Text
Hold Onto Me, Dear. You're Too Far Away.
Tumblr media
summary: Drabbles of how various Skyrim men would react to their partner passing away. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Brynjolf, Miraak, Erandur, Vilkas, Teldryn, Mercer, Arnbjorn warnings: Non graphic depiction of death/loss. Grief.
Brynjolf would be lost. His mind has no capacity for work, hardly managing to keep himself upright. The depression, grief, denial, the all-consuming anguish he cannot escape is more than he can take. Eyes full of pity and empty words of reassurance do nothing, he can do nothing other than miss you. He closes himself off. He is unwilling to become close to anyone else in fear of losing yet another person he loves. There has been too much loss already, surely loneliness is easier than this. "'Hope Nocturnal's treatin' you right, love. If there's somethin' after death you better be waitin' for me."
Miraak would tear the world to shreds. Without you, he sees no point in allowing the world continuing to exist. No corner of Nirn is spared from his rage. Refusing to appear weak he forges his sadness into a burning, bottomless anger. He allows no daedra to take your body nor honor you as their champion, fighting even Hermaeus Mora away from any attempt to claim you. All other titles fell second to the one you held most dear, the one he whispered against your skin every night before sleep. His beloved. "You gave me your word! You swore that should we go, we would go together. You lied."
Erandur would mourn you deeply and eternally. He ensures that you live on in every action he takes, your memory carried on in him. Each marriage he presides over and every couple he blesses is done in your name as much as Lady Mara’s. His first and last thoughts of the day reserved only for you. Your name features frequently in his prayers, never letting you go. "My dear, I know you are looking down on me. I hope you are proud that I continued our work mending this nation, but words cannot express how badly I wish we could do this hand in hand."
Vilkas throws himself into his work. Your work. Becoming the Harbinger in your stead is only natural as you were so close, sharing the workload for years. He works himself to exhaustion because it is easier than confronting the chasm of grief that’s opened deep in his chest. It is only in the wee hours of early morning when he finally thinks of you. When night is beginning to pass and the Sun plucks at the horizon, vision blurred with oncoming sleep. He's wrapped in blankets that still smell faintly of your favorite soap and wishes desperately that you would somehow come back to him. "Please, just one more night. I can't do it all on my own. I just need one more night with you."
Teldryn loses his laughter. Gone is the friendship, all clients becoming nothing more than that. His helmet remains firmly in place as a clear barrier that he will maintain. There are too many lost friends and stories he alone remembers. He keeps the same table at the Retching Netch and can almost imagine you next to him. He stares over the rim of his drink daring you to plop down into your usual spot, laughing at the idea of being apart. Other patrons learn quickly that despite it being an empty chair it is not to be touched. "Been thinking about heading to Skyrim, I've seen enough of Solstheim to last a lifetime. Sure wish you were comin' with me."
Mercer’s rage would tear through Riften like a storm. All sense of duty is forgotten in his thirst for revenge. Bloodlust is his saving grace, the thread that keeps him from barreling headfirst into grief. Brynjolf recruited you, Delvin and Vex trained you, Maven hired you - they are all at fault in his eyes. He will not rest until your death is paid back tenfold. He bottles up any thoughts of you until he lays face up in the Cistern, bloodied and beaten by people he'd once considered family. The rage fueling his rampage finally deflates, the dam broken and that horrible ache filling every inch of his body. He lost you and had no one else to blame but himself. "Never thought I'd see the day, never thought I'd be the one left here missing you."
Arnbjorn would depart from the Dark Brotherhood. Two loves, two Sanctuaries, two tragic losses. He can't remain stuck there, frozen in time surrounded by all those memories. He's skilled enough to forge his own way in the world, departing from Dawnstar without looking back. Metal working allows him the solitude he craves, somewhere far away from persistent questions and eyes filled with pity. He wants only to escape the onslaught of memories of those he’s lost, steeling his heart against ever loving again.  "This is all your fault. You're the one that made me care. Your fault for makin' me fall for you."
159 notes · View notes
askwilliamwisp · 2 months
Text
(tw: vomiting/emetophobia, self deprecation, self esteem issues, mortality ponderings)
The room is dark and cold when William jolts awake.
His body instinctively lurches up, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the piles of blankets on him, but he can't move from there, barely able to heave.
His joints feel painfully stiff, his hands stuck in the tensed position they were in, his entire body tingling awfully.
His heart is still in his chest for a long, horrifying moment, before slowly pitter-pattering into movement that begins hammering against his ribcage.
He's shaking helplessly in his bed, eyes wide and unseeing straight ahead.
Where is he?
He feels dazed, lost, his blood too slow in his veins, his vision too cloudy, his eyes too dry.
Where is he?
He can't even look around, only barely aware of the too many blankets and pillows covering him, and the longer he sits there the more aware he is of the heat surrounding him on all sides. He can't tell if it's pleasant or overwhelming, and suddenly his stomach is turning.
He retches, nothing coming up but an acrid taste in his mouth, but he's now unbearably nauseous, and something tells him what little food that was in his stomach had just been sitting there, stewing in stomach acid and decomposing, and his body needed it Out.
NOW.
He stumbled out of bed, falling to the floor with a muted thud, and claws his way back to his feet, racing as fast as he could on his still pin pricked limbs and stiff limbs until he made it to the bathroom, only barely getting to the toilet in time to vomit his stomachs contents into the bowl.
He hacks and dry heaves for a too long amount of time, tears wetting his checks and remoistening his eyes.
The only thing he could feel was pain and coldness, and he sobbed pitifully as he braced his forearms on either side of the seat, hair sticking to his forehead and face from his sweat and tears.
He spit a few times into the toilet to try and rid the taste of near rotten bile from his tongue, and almost vomited again just from the concept.
He gasped and spluttered, catching his breath, before grabbing a piece of toilet paper and mopping off his sweat and snot first before cleaning the slowly drying vomit from his chin, dropping the square into the toilet before flushing it.
He sat on the floor for another long few moments, panting desperately to try and get his lungs working in a steady pattern.
When he wakes up, usually it's just some numbness and a headache, maybe heart palpitations throughout the day and a lack of appetite, but this? This was the worst episode he had had so far.
His hands couldn't stop shaking, and most of his fingers were numb and barely responsive, only twitching slightly when he tried to move them.
He's fairly certain he's at the base, in his room's bathroom, but for a split second he thinks he's back in Deadwood, in the stilted first few weeks after he-... After his accident.
He remembers barely being able to sleep, and on the instances he did manage that feat being awoken in the night with full body shivers and skull splitting migraines, his heart pounding so quickly he couldn't tell if it was beating at all from a gripping terror that refused to let him go.
Being scared in Deadwood wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but this was different- this was a new kind of supernatural, an infinitely unknown threat that now lived where his heart allegedly was.
He thought he had felt like a ghost before his accident, but now?
His hands phasing out of sight before his eyes, his parents gaze sweeping over him, sorrow leaking from them as they mourned the son that was still right there, accidentally walking through walls and moving through the people you cared for?
He felt like he was haunting the place that William Wisp used to occupy, now only a shitty approximation of the person he knew for a fact he no longer was.
Inexplicably, William feels that sensation hit him like a tidal wave, sitting on the floor of a bathroom he can barely recognize through tears, painfully alone and skin ice cold even with the blood that's now barely moving through his veins.
He's so pathetic.
He laughs, brittle and quiet, scorning his own pitiful excuse of a life, if that's even what this could be called.
Could this be called living? He's not even sure he's fully alive!
He rocks back on his knees, his uncooperative legs causing him to thud onto the ground behind him, back pressed against the wall and head tilted back, looking at the ceiling he could make out just slightly too well, even in the pitch dark of the room, since he didn't have the wherewithal to turn on the lights when he entered.
He's so pathetic. So, so pathetic.
Can't even live right. Can't even have a proper pulse. Can't even have a regular heartbeat. Can't even breathe correctly. Can't even be normal.
He's never been fucking normal, has he? Not for one iota of his cursed life.
Can't even be a decent ghost and go unseen, not bothering anyone else, only floating through.
Instead he's more like a poltergeist, throwing things around and inconveniencing everyone around him with the unlucky totem that he apparently is.
He just has to make everything worse.
At least Tide and the others don't have to know about this.
He doesn't want to burden them with his stupid ghost stuff.
They have enough on their plates as is, they deserve to have some chance at happiness, even if William can't seem to catch a fucking break-
He's barely aware of the tears falling down his face steadily, his lungs puffing up with restrained sobs.
He's so tired, but his heartbeat reminds him why he shouldn't go back to sleep.
His dreams are already slightly hazy, which is one thing he has in common with them.
...He should lay back down, at least.
It was warm there, and he's so, so cold.
His brain still reeling, but starting to calm down, halts on that information.
His room is never warm, and his body isn't warm enough half the time for blankets to do much except cover him, but his bed was warm.
Much warmer than it's meant to be.
Now that he's thinking about it, his bed had far too many blankets and pillows, too, that he knows for a fact he didn't put there himself.
A creeping dread fills his chest, as he looks with wide, wide eyes back into his room.
From where he's sitting against the wall, he can't see all too much, so he slowly, carefully, creaks his joints into a crouching position before straightening up, body still in a defensive stance that he picked up from Dakota at some point the past few months.
His footsteps don't make any noise on the carpeted floor of his room, eerily silent beneath him, and he blends in and out of the darkness with ease, passing through the doorframe of the bathroom until he's along the wall looking into his room, surveying the area slowly.
There are chairs beside his bed that weren't there before, and two people curled into each other, chests slowly rising and falling in near coordinated breaths.
Asleep.
There's two people sleeping beside his bed.
Waiting? An ambush?
Unlikely, but with his luck he wouldn't be too surprised.
He pads noiselessly over, peering over the foot of his bed for a better view of the two figures.
Even with his advanced vision in the dark, it still takes him a second to properly figure out who he's looking at, but once he does his heart sinks in his chest.
Tide and Mark.
..Did he do something? Why the hell would they be in his room, beside his bed?
Did something happen to him?
He feels- Well, he doesn't feel fine, per se, but it's not like he's dead or anything.
He tiptoes around them, slipping back into his bed and unintentionally melting into the warmth waiting there.
He might as well just wait it out.
His phone wasn't in his pocket, so he couldn't guess what time it was, but he guessed it was probably past midnight, nearing 3am about.
Yeah, he thinks, sinking further into his warm blankets, he'll wait it out.
28 notes · View notes
katyawriteswhump · 8 days
Text
the power of love, part 13 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)
Alternate ending S4: Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14
(also on AO3 here and as part of my steve whump fic series)
Steve POV
When Steve’s finished slumping forward and retching, he’s so through with everything.
“You did good with the lightning, kid.” Hopper scrapes Steve’s hair from his face. He’s still got an arm about him, pretty much all that’s stopping Steve collapsing onto the dirt. “Let’s hope we don’t need it again, huh?”
Steve sniffs, takes the kleenex Hopper offers and dabs his lips. As his super-fast breaths finally slow, his brain kicks off: 
I got superpowers! Henderson’s gonna flip! Shame about the glitches, what with the blacking out and puking my guts out. The sound of a rushing river distracts him. He’s been hearing it, on and off, for hours. 
He kneels a little more upright. Hopper gives him some space, passes him some water. “How far exactly have you travelled from Hawkins since the accident at Lover’s Lake?”
The accident? Oh yeah. I died. Twice. 
Steve hasn’t told anyone about his second joyride into the afterlife in the Soviet base. Somehow, being an idiot as a kid is way easier to share. A damp breeze rattles through the trees, slapping him back to the present.
“Steve?” prompts Hopper. 
“I… uh, I played basketball all over the state.” Even after drinking, his voice is a croaky mess. “Swim meets, too. Been a few times to Indianapolis. I was okay.”
Hopper scratches his stubbly jaw, looking almost as bushed as Steve feels. “How okay?”
“To be honest, I was kicked off the starting squad after a couple of the more distant games. Crappy performances, and I got humiliatingly sick on the bus.” It all makes sense now. “I survived.”
“Fine. You’re a tough guy. You’re gonna have to tough your way through this journey. I can’t leave you behind.”
“Eleven survived in the woods for—”
“At that stage, she didn’t have half the US army on her back.” He pats Steve, powerful enough to rock him. “She’d gotten experience with her powers, too.”
Steve can’t fathom if he’s feeling slightly patronised or dead relieved. All he really wants is to lie somewhere quiet and sleep for a year. Instead, he must drag himself to his feet—or, in the event, he lets Hopper do the dragging. He can’t help asking, though: 
“Chief, can you hear running water? Like, loud.”
And getting louder. Niagara loud, in fact.
“No. Why? Can you?”
“Oh… um, maybe not.”
Okay. It’s totally in my head. Why aren’t I panicking harder?
When they reach the Humvee, Robin and Eddie are no longer at each other’s throats. On the contrary, they’re huddled in some deep and meaningful chat. As one, they slam Steve with stricken bunny-rabbit stares, which make him want to laugh so goddamn loud.
During the torturous drive, he sleeps, and his mind drifts back to the Soviet base. He’s caught in that furious red tide, which roars through his aching head. It���s echoed by a caressing whisper: You’ll know when it’s time to go home.
“Yeah, I got it. Shut the fuck up.”
“Rude! Wasn’t saying anything.”
“Huh?” He lifts his cheek from Robin’s shoulder. Her worried, tear-stained eyes overshadow the amusement ruffling her lips. Jesus, I’m breaking my friends! “Dreaming. Sorry.”
He gingerly rolls his shoulders. The side in the sling twinges miserably, and yet… Now he knows he’s gotta ditch the whole bunch of them, the fug of sickness is clearing. He feels better. Much better, in fact.
He keeps the news tight. 
If he plays poorly, they won’t expect him to sneak away, right? Though, the plan pitches him another problem—when he does escape, how can he stop Robin and Eddie coming after him? Eddie, particularly, would be in beyond deep shit if he got taken.
Inevitably, the Humvee gets stuck again. When Hopper asks Steve to take the wheel, Steve grabs up a green army notebook he’d spotted in the footwell, a stubby pencil also. He scribbles fast, between revving the engine.
“Eddie, I love you. Please don’t follow me. Steve x”
I love you. 
Wtf? 
When he’d blundered down that path with Nance, he’d been licking the scars two-and-a-half years’ later. With Robin, of course, things turned out different.
Then Eddie Munson happened. 
To be fair, knowing Eddie as he did now, he doesn’t actually believe Eddie would vomit on the note. Maybe only cackle a while. Either way, Steve would no way in hell obey a love letter, telling him not to follow, from anybody he cared about.
Given recent form, he doesn’t think Eddie would either.
He scrunches the note into his pocket then scribbles furiously at ‘take two’: 
“Eddie, DON’T FOLLOW ME. You make me sick. Steve.”
Jesus, that’s hopeless. You make me sick? He doesn’t mean that, apart from… It’s sorta true. Steve detests it, however, longs to try again. He’s out of time.
He stuffs the second note into Eddie’s pack, as Hopper opens the door. “We’re gonna have to walk from here. Think you can make it?”
“Dunno,” says Steve. For purely tactical reasons. Likewise, he doesn’t volunteer to carry many supplies.
As they trudge their way through the trees, his chances to run aren’t happening. Everybody’s way quieter than usual—edgy, like during that drive in the RV before they faced down Vecna. When he tries subtly falling behind, they all jump to help him. Even worse, they reach the liaison spot way sooner than he expects. Thankfully, for Steve, the car isn’t there.
“Where the hell are they?” Hopper gets out a compass to check they’re in the right spot.
“Because compasses are so accurate near Hawkins,” gripes Steve, his pulse thudding madly. It really is now or never, and why the hell hasn’t he got a better plan?
“We’re far enough out that the gates shouldn’t make a difference, right?” Eddie says.
How do we know? How do we know that Vecna hasn’t swallowed Hawkins whole, while we’re running away pissing ourselves yellow?
Steve bites this back. It’s not like he wants them coming with him. He sits down on the verge, presses his face to his bent knees. Soon as he dares, he gets up again.
“Where you going?” asks Robin, clambering up also.
“I need to pee,” says Steve. Eddie’s on his feet too. Steve can’t look him in the eye, and the words nearly choke him. “I don’t need a babysitter. Shoo!”
He walks back into the forest, upping his pace as soon as the trees obscure him. It’s gonna be a long trek, he’s hardly got any supplies, and he’s got a weird sense that, no, he isn’t gonna get through this time. He follows the sound of the water, because it seems obvious that he should.  
And he feels more torn apart than ever. 
The tug back to Hawkins is overwhelming, but the tug back toward Robin and Eddie? It’s like somebody has wound a thread around his heart, attached it to the pair of them. As he strides farther away, the thread snares tight, like that rope around his wrist did.
He’s annoyed—if not exactly surprised—to hear somebody thrashing through the forest behind him. Robin yells, “Steve! Steeeeeve!” 
He finally locates a small stream, which seems to be the source of the supernaturally loud torrent. He skids down the bank, landing in about three inches of water, and crouches low. 
Go by, Robin. Dammit, turn back.
She tumbles into the stream a yard off, landing on her ass with a loud splash and a louder squeak.
“Uuuuugh!” She takes the hand he offers, and they scramble to their feet together. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
She flicks pond scum from her legs and grimaces spectacularly. “Stopping you being an IDIOT! And since when were you not sick? God, I was so worried! Were you faking?”
“You know I wasn’t. I got… fixed.”
“Fixed? Like, HOW?”
He urgently presses a finger to his lips. “Sssssh! Keep your voice down! Look, I don’t know exactly, and I can’t go back. Hopper will make me get in that car.”
“He can’t force you.” Her glare is louder than her voice was.
“Whatever. He and El need to go. You and Eddie need to go.”
“You heard what Hopper said. They’ll torture you for information—they could kill you.”
“Been there, done that, Robin.”
“This isn't funny.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Steve sighs hard, belatedly noticing the stream has breached his sneakers. “All I do know is that I feel more myself already, turning around.” Following the water. “Also, Hop’s right—El can’t defeat Vecna with the military gunning for her. I don’t know exactly what I can do yet, but I have to try, whatever it is. So, please, Robin. Go back. Tell the others you couldn’t find me.”
“Eddie won’t leave without—”
“Which is why I gotta move! Take care, all right?”
He wants to hug her so bad. Instead, he sloshes away.
“Ugh, slow down!”
“Seriously?” He turns about suddenly. She nearly smashes into him and takes the opportunity to get right in his face.
“I am so mad with you! You made me run after you, my butt is drenched, and now you’re making me walk along a horrible ditch, all the way back to Hawkins?”
“It’s the quickest route.” He doesn’t know how he knows, only that he does. He turns around, wades onwards. The damp never bothered me anyway…
“Then why don’t we follow the bank, Steve?”
She has a point. “Oh. Okay.” They clamber up the sides, start following the stream from above. It’s as slippery as the riverbed and overgrown with treacherously tangly weeds.
“Eeeeeew! When this is over,” says Robin, “I am never, ever venturing into the totally-not-great outdoors again.” 
“You don’t have to do any of this, Robin.”
Her latest scowl is more jokey—and fond—than he figures he deserves. “Shut up, Dingus. You know I do.”
Part 14
tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology @finntheehumaneater (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)
(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14
20 notes · View notes
fictoculus · 8 months
Text
౨ৎ a peek into their camera roll...
Tumblr media
send a request!┊masterlist┊taglist applications
FEAT... itto
A/N... i'm planning to do this with more characters in the future, so lmk who's camera roll you'd like to see next!
Tumblr media
✧ first and foremost, it wouldn't be itto's camera roll if it didn't have beetles! (he loves you more than beetles though, not to worry) there are beetles fighting, beetles on rocks, beetles on trees, beetles sleeping, beetles eating, even a beetle on his head, oh and a beetle on ushi. speaking of ushi, there are quite a few photos of him too, most of which when he's asleep or cheering itto on in his... courageous beetle battles.
✧ now that's over and done with, it's time to get to the more interesting photos, don't let him hear you say that though, you'll never hear the end of it.
✧ he has countless photos of you, probably hundreds, maybe even thousands, it's impossible to tell. initially, he had a folder named "my numero two-no", which he soon gave up on after returning home from your second date with 87 photos of you (and some of him too, his is numeru uno after all). let me share with you some of his favourites...
✧ a photo of him giving you a piggy back ride; his most prized possession. he misses you? he'll look at that photo. you're sad? well you're smiling now, because he's just sent you that photo. it's his home screen, his lock screen, his profile picture on almost every social media account he owns - the list goes on and on. shinobu is genuinely sick to death of that photo, and (mentally) retches every time she sees it.
✧ a photo he asked some passers-by to take of the two of you infront of the naganohara fireworks show, his right arm wrapped around your waist and pulling you close, his left hand holding up the peace sign. his smile is almost as bright as the fireworks themselves, lighting up your heart every time you look back on it. you're to the left of itto, also holding up the peace sign, but reaching up your other hand to hold his chin, squeezing his cheeks ever so slightly. he always says he looks silly, but you think he looks absolutely adorable and (of course) very, very handsome.
✧ last but not least, a series of photos showcasing the pair of you chasing each other around in an empty field. said photos were taken by genta (one of the arataki gang members), and not a single one of them is clear. scroll fast enough and it becomes a very blurry stop motion video of a beautiful couple chasing eachother lovingly through a romantic field of greenery... or atleast that's how genta put it. it was undeniably a complete mess, but the pair of you loved them nonetheless, and have laughed at them a hundred times over, itto's face mere moments before he loses his footing never failing to amuse you.
✧ anyone could tell from this man's camera roll alone that he absolutely adores you; the way his eyes shine whenever he scrolls onto a picture of you giving it away, whether you're beaming at the camera or pouting at itto, who was smirking back at you with a smug expression.
✧ there's a video that you don't even know about, but the oni finds himself watching over and over. it was taken, unsurprisingly, by the gang members from the perspective of a bush... can you see where this is going? once the camera is finally wiped clean and starts to focus, you come into frame, seemingly returning from a visit to the bathroom. it's crystal clear when and where this was recorded: yours and itto's first date. only after the 6 minute mark do things start to get interesting, the harsh muttering and whispered bickering silencing as itto leans over the table, inches away from your face but hesitating to get any closer... until you pull him in by the chin, pouring your entire heart out into this singular kiss. every time he watches it back, his heart skips a beat, remembering how you had been so gentle with him, yet showed him just how much you wanted him. it truly was a magical night.
Tumblr media
thanks for reading ♡ want to read more? my requests are OPEN, so please feel free to let me know what you'd like me to write next!
Tumblr media
© FICTOCULUS 2023; please do not steal, translate, or repost my works as your own
73 notes · View notes
Hi Im new here and I must say I love the work youve done here but the one I liked the most was the platonic friendship asks (I especially liked how you called it the the only ship you need is a friendship) but I wanted to know if you could do some friendship asks for Alastor, Charlie, Octavia Verosika and..............actually thats about it I cant really thank of anyone else I would be curious to see have a platonic with so thank you for your time and work
The only Ship that never sinks
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Alastor
Friendship with alastor was a rare thing.
Sure, he called plenty of people his "friends", but that was just a nice way of him saying, 'I could kill you in a heartbeat, so do what I want.'
But you found a kindred spirit with Alastor.
Youd met at a bar, a rather classy joint, a club really, you having bought the last bottle of his favourite brand.
When you discovered as much, you'd offer him to share, and while a little suspicious, as he always was, he'd agree, the two of you pulling up a chair and started chatting over the bottle.
Youd swap stories, tell jokes and have a good laugh.
Alastor would actually find himself liking your company.
By the end of the bottle youd part, both rather buzzed by your drinks. And you wouldn't encounter each other again.
Until a few weeks later when he showed up to the same bar, the man ending up buying the last bottle of the same wine, only to bump into you again, and after a hearty chuckle, you ended up sharing that bottle too.
It was strange for the man, being genuinely friendly with someone, but when you told him you didn't really care who he was, or simply it didn't matter as you'd treat him the same regardless, he became enamoured with you.
You quickly became a good friend.
And actual friend, not someone who he controls and was too scared to talk back, you were friendly because well, you were friends.
And he liked that. You could keep his attention, a rare feat for any soul in this retched plane.
And you had plenty in common.
Now granted, you weren't as cultured, or a Cannibal like him, although when hed Cook you would eat, never questioning where he got his meats from.
But you both enjoyed Southern cuisine, so that was something.
And yeah, you didn't know much about music or dancing, or Jazz... but you were always in the mood to bust a move with the dapper demon.
And Alastor could appreciate that.
He loved how you were always willing to go along with his schemes, it was nice to have a companion on his adventures that he didn't need to lead on by hand.
And it was very different experiencing the world with a real companion.
Alastor able to tell a witty jokes when he thought of them. Any time he tried before hand the denizens of hell would either run, or just stand there, often soiling themselves. And those that didn't, the joke would go clear over their head.
But with you, he had a companion with whom he could share these witty remarks with.
And he'd broken into laughter more then once by your response. The demon always happy to have you around.
And yes, there was an incident where you were kidnapped by Vox in order to get to him, the demon fearful he could lose you.
But he'd manage to get you out... relatively unharmed.
And while anxious about it, thinking for sure you'd want nothing to do with him after being kidnapped and brutalised because of him, not that he'd blame you if you did.
He was amazed to find you didn't.
Youd tell him you understood being friends with the radio demon would be a major risk, but he was your best friend and you didn't just give that title to anyone.
Youd have a very entertaining friendship, playful, the both of you happily teasing and playing with each other.
You were friends.
Honestly friends.
And yes, having you around did kind of impact his image, as he wasn't this all terrifying being when walking around anymore, telling jokes with some random sinner.
But Alastor cared not for the opinion of others, he loved your friendship and wouldn't give it up for all the chaos in Hell.
Charlie
Friendship with Charlie was... something else.
Charlie could be both the most amazing friend in the world, most amazing person you could ever meet, and the single most overwhelming and irritating individual you knew.
Much of of girls irritation coming from her constant positivity, it could be a lot, especially when your in a bad mood.
But, that was also the best part of Charlie.
She was just... so happy.
She was always so warm, so lively, so loving. And so, so, sooo loyal.
She was always so warm and welcoming, the girl would do anything for her friends, always happy to go above and beyond.
And she was always there. Whether you were just hanging out, in need of help, even just a hug, or a shoulder to cry on.
Charlie did a great job at moving forwards, looking on the bright side, doing her best to stay positive.
But she was also very fragile.
She was an absolutely amazing friend, she was also very high maintenance.
She could take a mountain of rejection and failure, and keep marching on, head held high.
But all it'd take is one bad day, they were rare, but absolutely real.
Maybe shed trip on a mat. Bump into a wall or corner. Maybe get her clothes caught on a door Handle, and there she was, the big sad.
She was never obvious about it, she just pulled in on herself. She got real quet real fast and just kept to herself.
It was heartbreaking.
And you knew how to care for her.
You didn't try and cheer her up, instead you'd let her be sad for a while, letting her know how much loved the girl. You'd hold her close, watching her favourite movie or reading her a book, comforting her as she just felt bad once and a while.
Or you'd just lay there, hugging her close, letting her know you were there for her.
No matter what.
And Charlie just adored you for those times, the two of you having such a tender and loving friendship.
And yes it could be difficult to support her idealistic beliefs, but you did your best. Trying your best to be a true friend and support her.
You and Vaggie were... friendly.
Vaggie was strangely guarded around you. Seemingly hostile to yours and her girlfriends relationship.
But despite this, you both knew the other cared for Charlie, so, you never treated each other too harshly.
And you both supported Charlie, you just got a little hostility from the moth demoness from time to time.
The both of you would help with the Hotel, although you were better at getting Charlie to listen, saying things in a way that better got her attention.
Again, Vaggie didn't like that.
But it worked, Charlie having a more leveled belief system, if still idealistic.
And yes, everything would still go the same.
Octavia
Noble children were usually either one of two things.
Either they were egotistical, spoiled, sadistic or weird brats... or they were kinda like her.
They were Kids brought up with fairly non-despicable parents that allowed them to be themselves.
And luckily for her, you were in the second group.
Youd meet as children, Octavia not wanting to leave her father, not knowing any of the other, scary, angry looking noble kids.
Then, you'd anxiously approach, timidly asking if she'd like to play. And while hesitant, looking to her father, he'd just smile, pushing her towards you.
She was timid, but agreed, you pulling her off to play. You'd play as little kids always did, talking about your parents, chasing each other around.
And well, that'd be the beginning of your friendship.
Octavia was an interesting child.
She was both a wild child that love wrestling and play fighting and being a commander in a great army. But she also loved having tea parties and dress up and playing 'fancy party' like your parents.
At the beginning of your friendship, Octavia was fairly shy. She wasn't particularly talkative, and often let you lead.
But, after a while, the little girl would proudly lead, directing your play sessions and adventures, making up grand plots for you to play out in the palace grounds.
And yes, it took a while for your families to come Vet each other before you could really be friends, but once they knew each others stock, the two of you quickly becoming the closest of friends.
Octavia was a very fun loving and interesting young girl when you get her out of her shell, something only you and her father ever really managed to do.
Youd really be her only friend growing up, the girl not really liking other noble children more and more each year.
You were her only lifeline at royal gatherings, the two of you fending off the more arrogant of noble youths.
You had each other's backs, always there for the other, always there with a helping hand.
You were practically a part of the family, quite the feat for any noble child, you and Octavia two peas in a pod. You were vven tutored together many a times, both Stolas and Stella seeing you as a worthy friend for their daughter.
And everything seemed to be going excellently. Your friendship only growing stronger as you got taller an older.
And then, Stolas had his affair.
Now, you knew his marriage wasn't exactly hospitable, and you didn't particularly blame him when he called for a divorce. But the affair itself, well, you couldn't just look past that, especially with how it effected Octavia so much.
You were of course there for the Owlet, holding her close for hours as she cried or just needed attention. You'd sneak in many nights, telling her jokes or reminding her of better times, often binging her favourite shows and listening to your favourite music.
You were on call 24/7, if she called you were there.
You also brought her favourite treats, sweets and pastries. You probably putting on pounds from all the sweets you were chowing down on.
You were what she needed, her only real source of comfort at the time, her parents to busy fighting to pay much attention.
Youd do your best to support, trying to mediate between her and her parents. And well, it wasn't as easy as it looked.
And it took time, and lots of work, but when Octavia and her father finally got back together, you'd heaved a heavy sigh, finally feeling things were fixing themselves.
And it'd be one night when she called you, you coming over expecting to have to hold her for another night of her parents fighting.
But instead, all you found was her, the girl bringing you into a heavy hug, thanking you for always being there for her.
Youd just hug her back, telling her you'd always be there for her.
What are friends for?
Octavia just smiled hugging you back, the two of you holding each other for another night, this time just to be close for a night, as friends.
Verosika
Friendship with Verosika was usually a good time.
Verosika didn't really differentiate between 'fuck buddy' and 'legitimate friend'.
Granted, she'd lost quite a few friends in her day because of it, But she was a Succubus, what do you expect?
Youd meet at the bar, as many young couples did. The two of you drinking your fill before youd sneak off for a rough, hard romp, the two of you likely putting her limos suspension to good use.
And afterwards... you'd go back to the bar, the two of you drinking the night away.
Youd wake up in your bed, having again fucked the night before.
You were both groggy, hungover, but satisfied, Verosika telling you you were a good lay, and coming from a Succubus that was quite the complement.
Youd get out of bed first, telling her youd make her your "famous hangover cure", and despite the bitter taste, it worked right up, the girl perking right up, eagerly asking for the recipe.
Youd give it to her, the girl almost excited to try it for her next hangover.
But when she finally did get hungover, trying to make the cure, it just... didn't work.
She was pissed, making it a few more times.
And it never worked.
So, getting a bottle of the good stuff she'd track you down, getting to your apartment, the two of you sharing the bottle.
Aaaannnd you ended up in bed together, with a hangover the next morning.
She'd have you make the hangover cure, and much to her frustration, it was great.
Working 100%.
And with that, that's all she needed. She'd offer you a job on the spot, giving you some basic job, acting like a secretary or something. But really, she just wanted that cure.
Youd quickly become a part of the entourage, becoming 'Very' familiar with the pack of horny demons.
And you'd actually be a unique addition to the posse, not being a sex demon yourself and given your job as essentially a secretary, you could hold a conversation with the woman without your mind instantly turning to sex.
Which was a nice change for the girl, able to rely on you for more then a few minutes without your mind drifting off to more carnal acts.
Not that you didn't fuck around. You absolutely did. You just also had a good relationship outside of the bedroom.
The two of you would spend a lot of time together. A large portion of that was for work, scheduling gigs and reservations, finding studios and gigs for her.
But youd often drink together, sat at the bar, swapping stories and jokes.
Youd actually get along great. Supporting her after her hangovers, helping her with her day to day, and just being useful to the pop star.
Youd also hang out before and after shows, getting her tea or coffee. Getting a change of more comfortable clothes for after a performance.
And yes, you'd occasionally fuck around, especially if you'd been drinking. But you were just as likely to hang out and talk outside the bedroom. You'd go out to lunch or dinner together, having a good time outside the bedroom.
And eventually, she'd begin to open up more, telling you about the difficulties of working with Succubus and Incubus, you being the only one that didn't constantly ask for sex and how much she appreciated that.
Youd stick with the girl, from beach city to Ozzie's. Granted, she may have had to pull some strings if you were a sinner.
But you were there for her, her best friend, assistant and frequent fuck buddy. Happy to drink with her, fuck around in her bed and making her your "famous hangover cure".
714 notes · View notes
cockslutpadalecki · 2 years
Text
Under The Cover Of Darkness
Tumblr media
Summary: Managing to escape Lloyd is a feat in itself, but staying hidden? Impossible.
Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x F!Reader.
Words: 1.2K.
Warnings: non-con/dub-con, explicit sexual content, detailed violence/murder, knife play, mentions of somnophilia, mentions of past drugging, dacryphilia, female masturbation, multiple (forced-ish) orgasms, 18+. MINORS DNI.
A/N: I haven’t described Lloyd as “dark” because that’s legit canon, but consider him just as unhinged as he is in TGM. Yeah, I’m fully on board this sociopath train, but can ya blame me? Major thank you to @sparkledfirecracker​ for the shameless enablement and to my beta Stacey who always manages to work wonders with my utter garbage first/second/twelfth drafts. Beta: @princessmisery666​ but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing our work.
Tumblr media
“Michael?” you sleepily mutter, stretching out and feeling cold sheets beside you. Running your palms over them, you panic for a moment, leaning up on your elbow as your eyes blearily scan the room for any sign of your boyfriend. Your breath quickens in fear, but as your gaze lands on a strip of light coming from your en-suite, you slump back against the pillows in quiet relief. 
It’s okay, he’s just in the bathroom. It’s okay, he’s just in the bathroom. 
The mantra repeats until you feel your body relax, sleep slowly creeping back to claim you. It circles around in your head once more, moments from drifting off when a dull thud pulls you right back into the room. 
Your eyes spring open, darting straight towards the slither of light before you call out, “Mike?” again, only this time a little louder. 
No answer. 
The thud happens again, from the other side of the bathroom door and you sit up, clutching the covers to your chest.
“Mike, honey, are you alright?” 
Still no answer and you start to worry. Has he suddenly become ill and collapsed? You wait a beat, ears straining to hear any residual noise— a cough, a retch, a sneeze— but nothing comes. It’s too quiet now. Eerily silent.
Slowly, you push away the covers and climb out of bed, carefully tiptoeing towards the closed door. You’re only two or three steps away when the doorknob rattles and you retreat a little, waiting to see Michael’s face bathed in golden light.
The door opens and golden light does flood into the bedroom, just like you wished, but it’s not Michael’s face you see… It's Lloyd’s. 
Light bathes the devil in an ironic angelic glow. A complete oxymoron if ever you’ve seen one. 
“Pumpkin! You’re awake,” he smiles wide and you instantly recoil in horror. “Just in time for the main event.”
Stumbling backwards hurriedly, you trip over the sheets and fall to the floor with a loud thud as Lloyd strides towards you. You glance up at his towering form, eyes temporarily drawn to the dark stains spotted across his garish white jeans. 
You always hated his awful fashion sense. 
“Whe-where’s Mike?” you stutter around the lump in your throat, afraid of the answer.
“Oh, that was his name,” Lloyd laughs menacingly with a slap to his thigh. “You mean this guy?” He steps aside, his stare focused on you as you look beyond him and release a bloodcurdling scream. 
The bathroom is in total disarray. Toiletries lay all over the floor and Mike sits slumped against the toilet, mouth hanging agape. His eyes are swollen shut, lips cracked and split, his nose is visibly broken and the angry red welt around his neck oozes with sticky vermilion as the ends of the garrote hang loosely down his chest like a macabre necklace. The disturbing scene in front of you is hard enough to look at. Yet somehow the sight of his shredded fingertips, reduced to bloody strips where he furiously clawed at the piano wire ligature until his dying breath, sickens you to your stomach. Bile burns the back of your throat as you swallow a retching cry, the acrid stench of copper filling your nostrils. He would have fought back, he would have tried, for you.
“Wh-why?” is all you can think to ask, even though you know why.
You’ve been expecting this moment for a year, every day looking over your shoulder in case he found you, despite all the lengths you’ve gone to, to make sure that didn’t happen. But you failed. Failed Mike and now he’s dead. 
Lloyd comes to crouch at your feet and you flinch when his hand grips your knee, his thumb rubbing your skin far too gently for his violent nature.
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his beloved switchblade and flicks it open with one perfected snap of his wrist. You hate the way your body instantly tenses at the sight of it. Like muscle memory. Itching to feel it scrape over your skin. You try not to let your fear show, subtly shifting your knee out of his reach. But his grip is bruising, holding you firmly in place and you can see the malevolence in his eyes, he knows what effect it’s subconsciously having on you.
Tears finally spill over your lashes and quiet sobs escape, morbidly wishing yourself into Mike’s place. At least that way you’d be free from the hell you know Lloyd is dying to administer, the delight of his amusement making his cold azure eyes shine brighter in the dimly lit room.
“Hey, c’mon now,” he whispers, but the tenderness in which he says it sounds wrong and he leans forward, his ridiculous moustache grazing your cheek, “at least save your tears ’til I’m fucking you.”
You lift your knee sharply and it connects with the underside of Lloyd’s jaw. A muffled grunt escapes him as he falls backwards onto his ass and you try to crawl away as fast as your body will allow. Your phone is on the nightstand, and you attempt to reach up for it but Lloyd’s behind you in seconds, grabbing your ankle and roughly tugs you away. 
You scream, yell and kick out as he climbs on top of you, but all too quickly he overpowers you. He wastes no time in slicing through your sleep shorts with the knife, the cool steel tickling your flesh before he settles between your thighs as you lay there, resigned to your fate. He grinds down against you and the feel of his hard cock rubbing over your bare pussy causes a wave of repulsion tinged with heat to swim through you. 
“Didn’t want you to see him like that just yet, but I wasn’t expecting you to wake up so soon. You always were such a heavy sleeper,” he mutters above you, teasing your collarbone with the tip of his blade. “Or maybe that’s from all the drugs I used to ply you with,” he adds with a chuckle. “Such a perfect little fuck toy.”
The revelation stuns you, but you manage to train your features to remain impassive. Now all those mornings you woke up groggy as hell and sore between your legs suddenly make sense.
Lloyd’s lips curl into a snarl when you don’t react. “C’mon pumpkin, give me something,” he grits, increasing the pressure of the blade against your skin. The sting makes you blanch a little, but it isn’t enough. 
His hand moves south and sudden intense weight mounts against your sex as he strokes your folds apart, and you hate that you can feel your wetness rubbing off on his skin. Lloyd’s thumb brushes your clit in that magical way only he knows how and you let go of a little breathy gasp, your walls instantly welcoming the intrusion when he pushes his fingers inside you, crooked perfectly against the spongy spot that makes your toes curl either side of his thighs and stars to dot your vision.
It’s only a matter of seconds before you’re coming, drenching his hand, the obscene squelch of your juices drowned out only by your meagre whimpering.
“Fuck, I’ve missed that sound,” he huffs out. 
And it seems your body has missed him more than you’re willing to admit when he finally bottoms out inside you. Thankfully your dead boyfriend’s eyes are forever shut so he can’t bear witness to the number of times Lloyd effortlessly manages to make you come.
***
F(ic) S(pecific): @lfaewrites @red-sky39596 @deanwithscissors @londoncapsule @maladaptivexxdaydreaming 
ALL CE: @buckymydarlingangel​ @broadwaybabe18​ @captain-asguard​ @chamberofsloths​ @cevansgurl​ @dreamlessinparis​ @deanwinchesterswitch​ @fandom-princess-forevermore​ @hurricanerin​ @jvstjewels @la-cey @ladybug05​ @livstilinski​ @ladydmalfoy @mugi-chwan95​ @navybrat817​ @otomefromtheheart​ @oneoftheprettynerds​ @patzammit​ @rebel-stardust​ @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @sammykb1994​ @syrenavenger​ @straywords​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @sunwardsss​ @selfsun​ @threeminutesoflife​ @vicmc624​ @whiskeytangofoxtrot555​ @xoxonotme​
4EVS: @amirra88​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @b3autyfuldisast3r​ @cheesyclaire​ @dangertoozmanykids101​ @daughterofthenight117​ @dandywinchesterbras @deangirl93​ @doozywoozy​ @foxyjwls007​ @geekofmanyforms​ @heyyouwiththeassbutt​ @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @ilovefanfic86​ @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay​ @letsby​ @letsdisneythings​ @labella420​ @mogaruke​ @maliburenee​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @nik2writes​ @obsessivelycapricious​ @patrick-hockslutter​ @princessmisery666​ @phildunphyisadilf​ @roxyfan14-blog​ @sage-writing​ @sea040561​ @sweeterthanthis​ @slutformarvelmen​ @simpformarvelmenandwoman​ @smokeandnailz​ @stoneyggirl​ @stoneyggirl2​ @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91​ @thegirlnextdoorssister​ @unfortunate-brat​ @warriorqueen1991​ @xoxabs88xox​
477 notes · View notes
wrencatte · 6 months
Text
"I'm probably not going to do any of this year's whumptober," she says after she finishes a second fill.
I wrote this on my phone during a conference call so apologies for formatting and any weird misspellings.
Whumptober no 1. "How many fingers am I holding up?" feat! Robin!Jason and Disowing!Dick (that's not obvious though)
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
Jason groans, doesn't open his eyes to silently reply with one particular finger. Dick grins and huffs out a laugh. At least his personality is intact. The amusement fades quickly, though as Jason stays prone on the ground, his breaths slow and deliberate to keep nausea down. Blood soaks his hair and streaks across his forehead. He lost consciousness for half a minute, which is half a minute too long.
"C'mon," he grunts as he slides a hand under the base of Jason's skull, keeping it steady as he hauls the kid up. Jason makes an awful noise and keeps going, folding over to the side to retch. He lets out a soft sob, clumsily reaching for his head. Dick knocks his hand away. "Nope. Don't touch it."
"Glurk," Jason half groans, half gags.
"Very eloquent." Dick rubs circles between his shoulder blades as he retches again. Jason shivers, eyes squeezing shut tighter, arms tucked around himself. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, muscles untensing as the nausea lessens. "You back with me?"
"No," Jason says in the tiniest voice he's ever heard. He squints up at Dick. Even in the dim light, his pupils are very obviously not the same size. "Wha 'appened?"
"Bomb."
"...oh. Cool."
"Yep, super cool," Dick says, his own voice airy and light, not giving away the panic that is threatening to overtake take him.
Jason slumps against him, and he uses the opportunity to finally dig out a gauze pad from his depleted supply. He presses it to the wound on the back of his head. Doesn't ease him into it, just presses it down hard enough he can feel blood squelch. Jason cries out and shoves himself harder against Dick in an attempt to get away from the pain. Dick wraps an arm around his back to keep him place.
Head wounds bleed a lot, he reminds himself as the sick warmth seeps through his suit gloves. It's too dark to see how bad it is. The fact that Jason's awake and semi-coherent is a miracle and a half and makes him feel a little better about the severity of it.
"Stop," Jason slurs out, hiding his face against Dick's shoulder. "Hurts."
"I know, buddy. But I've got to stop the bleeding," Dick says as soothingly as possible. Jason whines.
He's only fourteen. Gods, it's like a punch in the gut. It's stupid to be so horrified by it, Dick was doing a lot more at fourteen than visiting his almost-but-not-quite-brother in his city, but it's all about perspective isn't it? Guess he now has a reason behind all of Bruce's outbursts from when he was Robin.
...
Oh shit. Is that why?
"I'm going to pick you up," he warns before his thoughts start going in the wrong direction. Focus on the here and now, Jason needs him to. "Try not to puke on me."
"...no promises," Jason mumbles.
Concussions, the gift that keeps on giving.
That's okay. Well, it's not because it's gross, but it's not the first time someone's puked on him. He carefully stands, holding Jason like he's a toddler instead of a teenager so he can keep pressure on his head -- he's so painfully light even after two years of eating Alfred's food. Jason swallows thickly but manages to hold everything down.
It's not until they're halfway to one of Dick's safe houses (not apartment, they're a little too bloody to risk his apartment, but a safe house? That's fine.) that Jason makes a small noise.
"'m sorry."
Dick doesn't reply right away, trying to puzzle out how they're going to get to the other side of the street without being noticed. He finally makes it over and tucks Jason's cape a little tighter around him.
"'Bout what?"
"Should've moved faster."
He closes his eyes briefly. The scene flashes behind his lids -- him shouting bomb! and Robin turning too slowly. Him grabbing his arm and trying to shove the kid in front of him as they try to run for it, and Dick moving too slow this time because the bomb goes off with Jason taking the shockwave too close and he goes flying.
Dick unknowingly echoes Jason's small sound, something that's close guilt and regret and pain. "Yeah," he agrees. "But I should've moved faster too. Not going to lie, Robin. This wasn't our best showing."
Jason snorts then groans. He goes quiet, and Dick can practically hear the cogs whirring.
"We're not on comms," Jason whispers a block from the safe house. Dick makes a questioning noise. "You called me Robin, and we're not on comms. You never do that."
Why did he have to pick now to go from semi-coherent to fully? Dick climbs the fire escape, his steps heavier than normal with the extra weight.
He's not wrong. Which is the worst part. Dick had been doing it purposefully, and then it became a habit. Only on comms would he call him Robin. Face to face, even in the suit, he was kid or Jason, ignoring every sharp "names" reprimand that came from Bruce.
"I messed up," Jason continues, "but you still called me Robin."
Dick slides his window open and contorts his way in, his back groaning about it. He puts Jason on the couch. The kid clings to him initially before letting go, slumping back even with Dick's hand cradling his head still. He blinks dazedly up at Dick, frowing and grimacing.
"You didn't mess up," Dick murmurs as he kneels to his level. It makes his shoulder ache from the angle of keeping the soaked gauze in place, but Jason sort of follows the incline so that helps. "You didn't mess up tonight. You didn't mess up about this. I did. I shouldn't have taken my anger at Bruce out on you. That wasn't fair."
"I took Robin from you."
Dick exhales slowly. "You didn't know. Bruce didn't have the right to tell you or let you be Robin, but that's on him. Not you."
Jason blinks slowly, in the dim streetlamp. Dick sees a glimmer of tears. Whether that's from pain or something else, he doesn't know, and chooses not to know to give Jason some privacy.
"Let's get you patched up."
"Are you gonna send me home?"
He should. He absolutely one-hundred percent should send him home, solely because of the injury. But, they still have two days of his three day weekend to get through. If the head injury isn't as bad as he's expecting, there's still a ton of civilian brotherly stuff they can do.
Dick leans Jason forward so he's not resting his head on the back of the couch and takes his hand away. The gauze sticks to his palm, drenched with blood, but the very edges are still white. Good sign.
"Nah. There's still a crap ton of things in Blud I want to show you. Can't do that if you're all the way in Gotham."
The smile Jason gives him is brilliant and bright, chasing away the paleness of pain. Dick can't help but smile back, charmed without meaning to be.
Now that's a grade-A Robin smile right there.
24 notes · View notes
eijaksa · 6 months
Text
Have a emotional h/c ficlet feat Izzy and Fang because the s2 clips have given me an excuse to write this shit
cw: brief description of anxiety vomiting included
It’s not unusual these days for Fang to walk around the ship in the rare quiet moments of the early night. The quiet moments themselves have been unusual in the more recent times and Fang likes to savour them, the moments of peace and the illusion they create, even if deep down he knows they are just calm before a new storm.
It’s also not unusual for Fang to find himself meandering near Izzy’s quarters, which the man has become all the more protective of since… well, since. And quite often, in those quiet moments of the early night when Fang finds himself around Izzy’s quarters, walking slowly and gently so as not to make any noise, Fang hears what sounds remarkably much like the barely audible sounds of someone crying silently inside Izzy’s room. A muffled half scream here and sobbing breaths there. Often Fang considers knocking on that door and going inside to offer Izzy his comfort, but he always walks past. It’s better to mind his own business most of the time these days.
There’s something different about things this evening as Fang walks towards Izzy’s quarters one careful, quiet step at a time. For one Izzy isn’t as quiet as he usually is, and the air somehow feels heavy around him. With little hesitation and a lot of worry driving him, Fang reaches for the door and opens it.
Izzy's sitting on the edge of his bed, breathing fast and shaking, with tears running down his cheeks. His hands are pressed hard against his legs, fists tight, but he quickly moves to press the heels of his palms against his temples equally hard. He takes some deeper breaths, apparently trying to calm himself down, and when it doesn't work he slams them on his forehead with a silent half-scream. It's a concerning sight, but also one Fang has seen before. If not in a long time. Izzy has a tendency to experience feelings strong and overwhelming, sometimes becoming too much, and there's certainly been a lot happening to have overwhelming feelings about.
"Izzy, I'm coming in", Fang says. He's learned it's best to announce what he does, to give Izzy time to react, when Izzy's like this. Fang closes the door behind him and walks to Izzy's bed.
"Can I sit down next to you?"
Izzy lets out a sound that's more a whimper than a proper answer, but Fang figures it's the affirmative.
"Can I touch you, boss?" Fang asks once he's seated, raising one arm up to give a physical indication of his intentions. Izzy quickly glances at him and, without a verbal response, leans into Fang's side ever so slightly. Fang wraps his arm around Izzy's shoulders.
Izzy's still shaking, his breathing coming in with the same fast pace as when Fang entered, but the touch, the reassuring comfort of being held changes something. The tears run more freely and Izzy's properly crying, which usually indicates he's relaxed just a tiny bit.
"It's okay, boss. It's okay", Fang says. He rocks gently back and forth just a little, an automatic act more than something he decides to do. Izzy cries all the harder.
They stay like that for some time before Izzy says something, except the words get stuck on their way out and he only manages to let out a whine.
"I'm sorry, Izzy, I didn't catch that", Fang says. Izzy takes a moment, humming as he tries to find his vocal cords. In the end he manages to stammer out the words "throw up" but the rest of the sentence still refuses to leave him. It's all Fang needs, though, and he's ready to dash away to grab a bucket from wherever the closest one might be only to notice Izzy has placed one by his bed. All Fang needs to do is lean over Izzy to take it, and hand it to Izzy.
Izzy clutches the bucket like a lifeline, holding it so tight his knuckles must turn white, until he retches. Fang winces in sympathy - he's eager to comfort the crew but he's never been good with vomit - and steadies Izzy with the arm still wrapped around him. It must be all the tension and trembling, the emotion that's overtaken Izzy trying to find an exit. Izzy heaves and coughs over the bucket, trembling all the harder with the effort. Thankfully it's quickly over. Fang places the bucket back on the floor, and to his surprise Izzy catches his arm before he can move it away. Carefully, in a way Fang might describe as shy if this was anyone else but Izzy, he pulls it towards himself. Fang is more than happy to go for a proper embrace.
It takes time for Izzy to calm down any, but eventually the worst of it gives way for exhaustion. Izzy's still tight with tension and shaking but his breathing has eased and he's not crying. There are still tears in his eyes, though.
"You should lie down, boss", Fang says, nudging Izzy to move. Izzy hums, the pitch still weird but it's definitely more a hum than a whimper now, and actually complies. Fang doesn't stop to consider his actions before he lies down on Izzy's bed as well, making himself as small as he can so Izzy will fit more comfortably on the bed, and drapes his arm over Izzy. Izzy doesn't protest, in fact he only scoots closer to Fang.
It takes time, but eventually Izzy's breathing evens out and he grows less tense.
"Should I leave?" Fang asks, keeping his voice quiet and soft in case Izzy's fallen asleep. Izzy tenses and shakes his head. He relaxes again when Fang tightens his hold on him.
"You won't say fucking shit to anyone", Izzy finally says, his voice rough and quiet.
"I won't say nothing, boss."
38 notes · View notes
twigg96 · 5 months
Text
The Day We Lost You
Daryl X Reader (feat. Aaron and Phoenix)
Whumptober Prompt: 25 We’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave
Warnings: Angst, Blood, Gore, Death, Character Death, Clowns, Walker Bites, Dreams,
POV: Daryl
Pronoun: You, [Y/N], Wife, Partner, their, they
Summary: Escaping a massive hoard of walkers would be bad enough if they weren't trapped in a never ending twisting hallway with no escape and a crazed clown with a chainsaw at the other end. Daryl does all he can to try and help his family escape alive... but if he can't he prays with everything he's got that its all a dream.
Tumblr media
Daryl’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran. The groans of the dead creeping ever closer. Their hands gripped at his vest through chain link fences that were far too tight for comfort. Why had Aaron taken them this way? Looking back at Phoenix then at You tailing not too far behind he tried to keep you all together. Keeping a tight grip on your teenage daughter's slender wrist he refused to let her be swallowed up by the horde should they break through the fencing. As the group stumbled into the vast openness of the factory basement Daryl tried to catch his breath. Tried to figure out the best course of action. “There’s two halls!” Aaron yelled out his voice echoing though the vastness as he pointed to the hallways at either end of the room. One hallway had lights that flickered and hummed ominously. The off-putting smell of medical supplies and cleaning products wafting through the air made Daryl feel sick in an all too familiar way. The second hall was pitch black and smelled of rot and decay. Groans and moans of the dead emanated from the hall as he stepped closer. “This one’s got walkers!” He yelled, pointing to the dark one. “Then we go in this one!” Aaron screamed, grasping ahold of Your hand as the four of you darted inside trying to keep as far ahead as possible.
The hall way in front of him seemed to stretch on for hours and hours. No matter how hard or how fast he ran he couldn't get away fast enough. The footsteps of the dead echoed down the hall behind him. Doors jutting from the sides all led to dead ends. Medical supply rooms and empty hospital rooms with empty gurneys covered in blood lined the walls. Dark red sticky drying blood leaked from under the doors as they passed screams echoing through his mind as he ushered his family through Hell. The windows were too high to jump through safely with no hope to shimmy down the walls. Keeping a strong grip on Phoenix's wrist he pulled her along, regretting ever bringing her along on this run in the first place. Her hand quaked in his own reminding him of just how fragile she truly was. "Daddy." She whimpered with every twist and turn the hall made, leading effectively no where. He wanted to answer... He wanted to be strong. But his voice failed him. Hitting the wall at the opposite end of the hall Daryl's heart dropped. Dead End. Desperately searching the doors on either side, one of them had to lead to stairs... even if they lead higher in this cursed building he'd take it at this point. They simply had to. But when he opened a supply closet and a room with a beautiful familiar blonde body, covered in a white sheet and blood laying on a gurney the archer felt himself shutter and retch.
"Daryl..." Your terrified whisper gave him no time to think. No time to register what he was staring at. Turning back to Aaron, [Y/N], and Phoenix, Daryl stared in awe in the direction where the wall once was which was now replaced with a dark stretch of hallway. No lights illuminated the ceiling here. No windows lit the dark. Just the overwhelming smell of gasoline was wafting through the air before Daryl could see the danger. The man with the pitch white skin practically peeling from his body stepped into the light from the shadows of the hall in front of them. The gas powered chainsaw dripped with fresh blood onto the linoleum and down the man's worn polka dotted clothing staining it in odd designs and patterns. His hair was matted and hung in long dreads that framed the smeared dried blood that was painted on his face like the mask of a clown.
Ice ran through Daryl's veins as the man laughed a crazed manic scream, yanking the saw in his arms to life, spraying the walls with a fine mist of blood.
There was no need for a command or an order. It was instinctual. Turning on their heels, Daryl pulled his daughter along, praying that his wife and Aaron could keep up and hold their own against the hoard they were about to face.
The cut off scream. The horrific, grotesque sounds told Daryl all he needed to know... Aaron couldn't.
Tears rolled down Daryl's face as he pulled Phoenix along. "Oh God!" He heard her gasp. She was looking back, tripping over her own feet as Daryl pulled her. Slowing them both down. "Daddy, we nee-" She begged. Her innocent belief that Daddy could save them all was going to be shattered... And how Daryl wanted to keep it all wrapped up in a box. Just let her hold onto that shimmer of hope. He wished with all he was that he could be that man right now. Keep her safe and warm like he promised when she was born... But now he knew the only way to do any of that... was to break her heart. "Phoenix!" He screamed, yanking her up beside her and cutting her off. "Ya can't look back! Just run!" He screamed at her, moving his grasp to nearly bruising her upper arm.
Fear. It was a look Daryl was used to seeing in other's eyes when they looked at him. A trait he picked up from the Dixon side was a stone cold expression and a proclivity to push people away. But when his own flesh and blood looked at him like that… terrified, hurt, scared. He knew that he was in deep shit.
But he couldn't just fix this one... and Phoenix wasn't just scared of what was around them. Not just the clown. Not the screams of her mother begging them to run faster. Not even the hoard charging right for them. No... she was scared of him... and it killed him.
But he couldn't let himself be swayed or overwhelmed. That was an issue for later. Pulling his knife from the holster on his side he jerked Phoenix. "Knife! Now!" He screamed. There was no stopping. He couldn't take the clown. He couldn't risk slowing his family. But maybe... he could slow him down for them.
Slowing down to let [Y/N] catch up he pushed Phoenix forward. "Keep moving! I'll be right behind you!" He ordered, placing his hand on [Y/N]'s back they shared a loving but worried look. He cherished it. That one heartbeat of a moment where his skin met their’s. When their eyes met for the last time before they and their daughter were swallowed by the heard.
Turning to face the clown he tried not to react to the towering man thundering towards him. Aaron's lifeless corpse, sliced and mutilated dragging behind him like some sick trophy. Daryl cursed mentally backing away, bringing his knife up to his chest. But the clown's manic laugh resonated there anyway. Step by step he was being slowly surrounded. The walkers clawed at his back. The clown revved his chainsaw and Daryl refused to let that crazed gleam in his eyes be the last thing he'd ever see.
"What'cha afraid of?" Merle's voice resonated through his mind, like a fog. Aa sly smile plastered on his young face as he jingled the plush clown in front of his face through the dead of night. His older brother didn't look older than twelve... "Just a toy, little brother..." He whispered over the the sniffles. His large calloused thumb felt rough against Daryl's sensitive tear stained face. "Tell you what... if ya want ta beat this mother fu... this creep," Merle corrected, chuckling softly tapping Daryl’s head, "Ya gotta be smart. Use that head o' yers." Merle whispered. "We both know you'll be smarter than ol' Merle one day. So make sure ya use yer head like ya should and you'll be jest fine..."
Glaring up at the clown as he dropped Aaron to the ground, and grab the chainsaw with both hands. Daryl felt his body tense preparing to go into action. Slowly, the clown lifted the saw ever higher, the hands of the dead grasped Daryl's vest and jeans as if holding him in place, reminding him he was doomed, he was going to die.
"I'm a coward..." Something he'd said so long ago that it felt like another life entirely. "You're not a coward..." You had whispered from your place in the field beside him the summer of their senior year. "Just not using that brain of yers." You teased him for dropping out. "Get out... Live a life, Daryl. It's ok, I understand. I'll be waiting for you when you come back."
His body moved on it's own. If he could choose he would have stood still. Been a martyr for his family. But as his knees gave out and the clown swung the spinning blades above his head, he didn't know if it was an act of cowardice or a refusal. A refusal to die. To be a lamb for slaughter. Looking to the mangled meat behind the clown, Daryl felt everything begin to bubble up.
"I know you feel like an outsider... It's not your fault ya know..."
Aaron's soft voice chimed through the darkness. He was his first friend. The first real one in Alexandria at least... The first man he could really truly trust.
Anger. Pure fiery rageful boiled inside of Daryl's chest as he pushed himself off of the floor, rolling to the side letting the clown miss once more. "Fuck you..." He growled, pushing to one knee. "Fuck you. FUCK YOU!"
Fast it was faster than he'd even perceived it. Bolting into the heard, Daryl sunk his knife into the heads of the walkers that posed too much problem. Shoving away the walkers that got to close he ran on pure adrenaline. The sounds of the chainsaw revved behind him but were quickly stopped as the machine was overwhelmed and gummed up with the flesh of the undead. While Daryl would have loved to have plunged the knife deep into the head of the clown, the sounds of screaming as the hoard moved toward a common goal was enough for him to push forward with out fear.
"[Y/N]! Phoenix!" Daryl cried out when the heard started to thin into the stragglers. "Babe!" His scream echoed down the halls eerily. "Daryl..." [Y/N]'s shaky tearful voice called out. But with the damn echo it could have been from anywhere in the damned hallway. Opening the doors on the wings of the hall, Daryl paused when one was locked. "[Y/N]..." Daryl murmured worry filling his chest. With a click the door unlocked and swung open. "Daryl..." [Y/N] whimpered. Fresh blood covered their hands and was dripping down their arms. She was pale and shaking soaked in walker blood. "I-I-I..." They stuttered. That ice that filled his chest was back but more painful and gripping than before.
Looking her over for any obvious wounds, Daryl moved past her into the hospital room. Like a spotlight, the operating lights were the only ones shining on his little girl. Pale and sleeping like a princess on the opperating table, blood pooled and bloomed all around her like rose petals. Daryl shook his head. "No..." The whispered word fell from his mouth like a prayer as he rushed to her side, his wife right beside him. "I-I-I think she got bit..." You whimpered, your hands moving to press the only wound on Phoenix's body. A bite to the thigh just deep enough to nick something vital. From the amount of blood it was too late. Logically, Daryl knew that... "Not my baby... Not my little girl." He whimpered. But Phoenix... his little Phoenix. His body moved on it's own. Like watching a movie his hands were folded over her chest pumping just like he was taught so so many years ago.
"If you ever find yer brother or daddy passed out like that again ya need to do this." The paramedic instructed him after his father bitched about the medical bill. "Hand over hand, put as much pressure as you can on the center of their chest as fast as ya can muster. We want one-hundred beats a minute but just go as fast ya can ya hear?"
"Daryl..." You whispered, your hands falling from your daughter's thigh after several minutes. No... NO... Daryl shook his head, sweat mixed with tears dripping from his face onto the floor. His hair clung to his forehead, back of his neck, and cheeks. "Daryl." You called once more. But Daryl refused, a rush of adrenalin pushing him to move faster and harder despite the sickening cracking of ribs, despite the lack of blood that came from her open wound. "G-Get somethin' ta wrap that up for when she wakes up!" Daryl screamed, gesturing to the wound with his chin. "Daryl!" You finally screamed, pulling him away with a broken sob. "Stop! Stop! She's going to turn! You need to stop!" You screamed, clinging to his chest heaving heavy heartbroken sobs. Daryl's arms wrapped shakily around his wife as he watched his little porcelain doll lay sleeping on the operating table. "We... we need to... before she..." Daryl sobbed at the mere suggestion but he knew it was true... he'd hate himself if his little girl became... one of them. "We-we're not delivering a perfect body to the grave!" Daryl hissed defensively, looking away. But his partner’s strong hold on his middle grounded him... enough.
Pulling his knife from his holster he stared at his partner who held their’s. "Let me..." You whispered. He wanted to object. To let them leave and not have to worry about this... but he also knew if he watched this... he wouldn't be able to live his life again. Closing his eyes he nodded. Kissing his daughter's forehead one last time he couldn't help but notice how cold her skin was as he walked away but the sound that sound that was burnt into his mind by how often he heard it resonated in his mind as he sat outside the door. Hearing not only one gunshot... but two.
"No!" Daryl screamed, sitting straight up in bed, gasping for breath and covered in sticky cold sweat. You jerked awake beside him, staring at him with a wide fearful gaze that told him you were no where near awake yet. The room around him was dark too dark to be comfortable but the bed. It was recognizable enough to begin to sooth the pounding of Daryl's heart in his chest. "What's wrong baby?" You whispered softly, moving to sit beside him. Reaching out to you, Daryl pulled you close taking slow deep breaths. "You're ok... You're ok..." He whispered over and over, rocking you both rhythmically. "It was a dream Dare. It's over." You whispered, combing your fingers through Daryl's graying hair. "I know..." He whispered as you swiped the tears away. "B-but I need ta- I need-" Daryl sobbed, moving to get out of bed. "Ok... Ok..." You whispered, moving to follow him. Daryl sniffled trying desperately trying to keep quiet as he grabbed the battery powered lantern off the table in the hall and flicking it on. Popping his head in on his youngest he sighed. Lillian was curled around her favorite purple teddy, her sheet covering her but her comforter long since kicked away. Her long hair was a tangled mess he knew her mother would have to tame the same way she did every morning: bribery and food. Closing her door he moved to Beau's room. The tween was twisted like a pretzel in bed, is feet at the head of the bed on the pillow and his head down at the bottom of the bed laying on a ball of crumpled bedding that he was supposed to use to make his bed with three days ago. Daryl shook his head at his son and closed the door moving over to his eldest's, his heart pounding in his chest as his shaking hand touched the knob. Opening the door he searched the room for her. Her room was amazingly clean compared to her siblings. A few maps were spread across the desk and a marker laid haphazardly with it's cap off next to her hand as she slept slumped over at her desk, curled around her latest strategical masterpiece. Stepping into her room, Daryl touched her shoulder lightly, watching as she blinked into consciousness. "C'mon. Ya should sleep in yer bed there, girl." He whispered, kneeling next to her. He may have been way too old to lift her. She may have been too old to be carried to bed. But she was safe... she was alive. Daryl wasn't going to let this or any more opportunities slip from his fingers.
"Are you sure? It's so late..." You whispered, meeting your husband at the door. "Yeah... gotta check." He answered, pulling on his jacket then his vest. He knew normally you'd press harder. That you would have begged him to come back to bed. Done anything to calm him down. But this was something he needed to do. And you would be damned to keep him from doing what felt right. "Alright... wish him my best." You whispered, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. "I will." Daryl whispered back. Into the cold winter night Daryl trudged down the street. He was grateful that he and Aaron didn't live too far apart in the grand scheme of things but in times like this he really missed communal living. Aaron and Eric's house was always nicely decorated. The decorations now looked like lumps in the snow... it was surreal. Stepping up to the door he knocked loudly but swiftly. It wasn't long before he could hear swift footsteps from behind the door. "Daryl?" Aaron asked a little surprised as the door swung open. "W-What's wrong?" He whispered, glancing behind him for any others. Daryl felt himself unravel. He didn't want to. He wanted to just tell Aaron about the dream and be done with it. But that feeling came back. That one where his body was moving on it's own without thinking. He stepped forward and pulled Aaron into a tight hug, burying his face in Aaron's neck. "I- Sorry." He sniffed feeling the hot tears stinging his eyes once more. "Nightmare." Was all that came out through his broken sobbing voice accepting Aaron's arms around his body. "Oh... Oh Daryl." His sweet voice cooed, as his friend rubbed his back. "C'mon. Lets get you warmed up. I was just about to make some coffee." He was a shit liar... but Daryl's best friend.
27 notes · View notes
salembutnotthecat · 3 months
Text
part 1/2
emeto, fever, flashbacks of abuse.
more of novak’s past, since that seemed to intrigue some people.
the italic scenes are flashbacks!
buckle up its a long one!
It’s 1:30am.
The clock taunts Novak from across the dimly lit hotel room. Its red numerals cast a haunting glow that seems to intensify the oppressive darkness of the early morning hours.
Lying on the bed, Novak's gaze fixates on the ceiling. His eyes attempt to anchor themselves on a single point in the room, fighting against the relentless spinning in his head. The patterns on the wallpaper blur, making him feel more disoriented than he was before.
He can feel the way his body is shaking. It’s definitely a fever, as if he didn’t have enough going on. His throat aches, the memory of violent retching sessions lingering, the acrid taste of bile still haunting the back of his throat. Despite the logical understanding that it's unlikely, the fear of another bout of nausea tightens his stomach into uneasy knots.
The majority of the afternoon had been a relentless cycle of agony—vomiting, sweating, and the constant gnawing pain in his head that seemed to pulsate in rhythm with his racing heartbeat.
Novak traveled alone. The flight from Portland to Seattle was only an hour. And he was glad to travel alone. Novak liked being alone before big games.
The dim light filtering through the curtains cast long shadows. Against the floor, against the wall. Novak watched them every so often.
Novak's breaths are labored. He is so exhausted and this is quite frankly the worst time this could happen. All he could do for now is force himself to sleep. Or, try to.
-
He’s seven again.
The first family was the Patel family.
The case worker said Aisha couldn’t produce a child, but Amir was desperate for a strong man to carry on the Patel legacy.
They were the type of family that was just going to foster one at a time, only boys, until they felt the one they had was right.
Novak stared at the back of the passenger seat. He knew there was no chance of going back to his birth parents, and he wasn’t exactly mad about it. Not then. But he was scared.
The Patel home was small. But Novak still found himself looking around, or trying to.
Amir grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him back.
“You go only where we tell you,” Amir said, “You will have rules to follow, you will excel in academics and you will be a proper, polite young man down the line.”
Novak went to respond, but he’s stunned out of speaking by Amir striking him across his face.
“Children are seen, not heard,” Amir said, “Don’t you dare try to speak to me, or Aisha, ever again. Understood?”
-
Novak awakens in the dimly lit hotel room, unfamiliar in its details for a moment, as he comes to his senses that he’s not seven anymore, he’s not with the Patels. He is twenty-five, he plays professional football. He’s here for a conference game.
The low hum of air conditioning provides a subtle undertone as he finds himself entangled in sweaty disarray. Strands of hair cling persistently to his face and his shirt sticks uncomfortably to his clammy torso.
The digital glow of the clock displays the unforgiving hour, just past 2:45 am, casting an eerie light across the room.
With a resigned sigh, Novak extricates himself from the disheveled bed. But for now, he decides taking a shower might help his fever, and bring his head to the right place. Or at least, a better one.
He grabbed a change of clothes, grabbed his phone, just in case, and went to the bathroom, starting a lukewarm shower.
As the water drizzles over him, a momentary respite washes over Novak. Whether psychological or real, the cool water makes him feel better. Even just a little.
Mindful of the ticking clock and the need for rest, Novak forces himself to keep the shower brief, mindful of both safety and the possibility of reclaiming some sleep. The process of changing clothes feels like an arduous feat, every muscle protesting the effort.
He doesn’t go back to the bed. Instead, he goes to the couch in the room, by the window. He could still feel a fever, one he really didn’t feel like checking if his stomach was threatening him the way that it was. So, he just curled up on the couch, tucking an arm under his head, taking deep breaths to settle everything down.
-
The second family wasn’t a family. In fact, Isabelle has been disowned by her family. And no man, or woman, would stay around her long.
Isabelle fostered for the money. Which explained how Novak ended up as the youngest of seven.
Novak was tasked with… well, everything.
The cooking, the cleaning, the managing of the house. The only thing he couldn’t touch was Isabelle’s money.
All of his siblings did extracurriculars. Baseball, soccer, dance, cheer, basketball, even hockey.
Novak wished that could’ve been him. On track or on the football team. At least, for a short time.
When Isabelle held him by his hair, forcing him to look at her, eyes cold and tone threatening, that’s when those thoughts died.
“How dare you, you selfish child,” Isabelle had yelled, tightening her hands around his hair, “I give you shelter, food, clothes, and you think you don’t have to do anything around here.”
“No that’s not-“ Novak tried to mirror the way his foster siblings defended themselves.
Much like with Amir, Novak’s words were cut off by a slap.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me you selfish child,” Isabelle said, “Finish our dinner, and then go to the room. You’ve lost your rights for the night.”
-
Through the phone, Marina's voice was full of concern, “Yeah, it sounds like a fever słoneczko.”
Novak, on the other end of the line, sighed audibly, his weariness evident even through the distant connection.
“I’m fine,” Novak murmured, his hand rubbing his weary face as he pulled on his warm up clothes, “Can… can we please, please, leave it at that?”
Novak hoped the tremor in his own voice was a mere figment of his imagination. But something in the way she sighed and hesitated told him that more than likely, his voice was shaking.
“Are you still going to play?” Marina inquired, her voice holding a delicate balance of concern and understanding, “I know after this one you guys are on a two-week… break?”
“Bye weeks, yeah,” Novak nodded, a faint smile coloring his tired features, “We’re waiting on the last few teams in our division to qualify for playoffs before we play, since we basically took the division. Pretty sure today’s game is just… for the hell of it?”
“That’s good, yes?” Marina's voice conveyed a mix of relief and pride, “That you guys are so ahead?”
Novak chuckled softly, “Yes, mom, it’s good.”
“Okay, great,” Marina affirmed with a virtual thumbs up, “Take some fever reducer before you go, be careful with yourself, and call me if you need anything, seriously… Elya and I will be there for the game, promise.”
-
By time he was eleven, he’s been through five homes. Five abusive homes in four years.
By time he was passed on to the Martinez family, he was pretty well versed in abuse tactics. He knew what steps outside his room in the middle of the night led to, what secret snacks and missing chores meant. He knew everything has a price. It was just a matter of which price he was willing to pay.
But then there was the Martinez family.
“You poor thing,” Saorise shook her head when she saw Novak as the social worker dropped him off, “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Let’s fix that.”
“Oh, I’m alright,” Novak said.
“I like to cook,” Saorise said, “And my husband will be home soon too, I like having a meal ready for us.”
“I can eat what’s left,” Novak insisted, “In fact, why don’t I cook for you and then I can clean up so you two can enjoy your meal.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Saorise smiled, “But really, I want to have dinner with you and my husband.”
That was how they first met. And for a while, Novak could’ve convinced himself that this could be a long term home.
Santiago Martinez was a stern man, but he was kinder to Novak. Kinder than most families he had been through. But he did have rules.
“You should play a sport, like I did,” Santiago said, “It teaches discipline.”
Novak looked at Saorise nervously, but she offered a kind smile, “That’s an invitation to talk Novak.”
Novak looked to Santiago, “If this is out of line, I am so sorry… but, is there time for that? For me to do a sport or activity? I mean, surely you would much rather have me cook or clean or-“
“Nonsense, those are women’s work,” Santiago said, “That’s their domain. We are men, sports is our domain.”
“What would you have me do then?” Novak asked, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Well, football season is starting soon, same with basketball. As long as you don’t play soccer or turn into some fruity cheerleader, I think you’ll do just fine.” Santiago said.
That was how Novak got into football the first time. It was the one that started the soonest, and he wanted to fill Santiago’s wishes as soon as he could.
He did well. They put him on the offensive line. He was good, or, as good as an eleven year old could really be.
And then, regionals happened.
Saorise felt his forehead as he sat in the back seat. Santiago wanted to drive them to their opponent’s field. He felt safer, and apparently had the money to make it happen. Or something.
“Santi,” Saorise said, “He’s burning up.”
They were halfway there. He got sick, in the back seat. Well, the bucket Santiago begrudgingly put back there when Saorise voiced her first concern that Novak wasn’t feeling good.
“Got a nervous stomach or something, champ?” Santiago asked. But there was something in his voice. Something Novak didn’t recognize. It wasn’t care it was…
“And so what if he does?” Saorise asked, defensive, “It happens. Half of national team had one, male and female.”
“You were a glorified ice skater,” Santiago said, “We are men, we don’t get nervous stomachs.”
“He’s burning up anyway,” Saorise said.
That’s when Santiago and Saorise started arguing. And Novak felt at fault.
“I’m okay,” Novak said, “I can play and… and I think he just did too much trying to outdo Mark with his protein thing. That’s all.”
It was a lame excuse. But it seemed to settle Santiago and Saorise’s argument and that was fine.
That was how he learned to do better. That missing was never an option.
-
The locker room buzzed with the usual pre-game excitement, but today there was an unusual tension in the air. Jayden and Henry exchanged concerned glances as Novak, usually the embodiment of vigor and enthusiasm, appeared strangely subdued.
Novak sat on the bench, absentmindedly lacing up his cleats. His gaze was distant, and he seemed to be fumbling with the straps more than necessary. Jayden approached him cautiously.
"Hey, Novak, you good, man?" Jayden asked, eyeing him with concern.
Novak blinked, as if awakening from a daydream. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just zoning out, you know?"
Henry, leaning against the nearby locker, narrowed his eyes at Novak. "You sure? You look a bit off."
Novak dismissed their worries with a dismissive wave. "Seriously, guys, I'm good. Let's focus on the game."
The concern lingered in Jayden's eyes, but he relented. They headed out onto the field, with Novak trailing slightly behind. His usual fiery determination seemed dampened, and his movements lacked the usual crispness.
As the game commenced, Jayden and Henry couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Novak seemed slower, less responsive to the calls and signals. He missed a crucial pass, and Jayden shot Henry a worried look.
During a play, Novak found himself on the receiving end of a tackle that would usually be a breeze for him to dodge. This time, however, he seemed almost sluggish, and the opposing player took advantage of the opening. The impact was brutal, enough that everything stopped. Not even confined to Novak himself, but everything just stopped.
The stadium hushed momentarily as Novak crumpled to the ground.
There was concern escalating to panic, on both sides. Novak lay there, disoriented and unsteady, as the medical team hurried to assess the situation.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder as Novak attempted to rise, his movements uncoordinated. Jayden and Henry exchanged a glance, realizing that something was seriously wrong.
But Novak, determined to push through, insisted, "I'm fine, just a bit shaken. I can still play."
Against their better judgment, Jayden and Henry helped Novak to his feet, trying to shake off the gravity of the situation.
On his feet, Novak crumpled to the ground once again.
This time, though, there was no getting up.
12 notes · View notes
Text
things I would LOVE to happen in the solangelo book
i want nico to absolutely crack and lose it. I want him go mental. hes going insane, and you can see it in is eyes. his powers are amplified since hes in his homeground btw- hes like a murder machine. but just before hes able to finish the last of the enemie/s, he begins to tire (i mean the shit he pulled was crazy). when he realises how out of control he became and turns to see where will is, (hes standing in awe. proud boyfriendTM) nico starts breaking down in tears. and not just like crying. i mean fully sobbing his heart out, trembling and retching. hes past his limit of whatever limits he had not yet reached (lets be honest hes been at his limit for the past 4ish years), his mind is overloaded, hes so exhausted from what he just did that he’s becoming transparent, and he collapses to the ground
this leads me onto: William Solace stepping the fuck up. he becomes so protective of nico because theres no way hes gonna let anyone touch him. he takes nico’s sword and finishes up what nico started (even tho nico didnt leave much left for will, we know will is not the best swordsman so its still a good feat) then he drops everything and just holds nico, whos losing consciousness. wills doing his best to heal nico, but he can see in his eyes that his mind is so fractured and they’ve both gone through so much and are so exhausted theres not much he can do to help. all they can do is just sit there, in the middle of tartarus- nico finally relieving all his stress through his tears in the comfort of will’s arms
to see apollo!
SOLANGELO KISS
i do not want nico do call will “solace”. its just so out of character for nico.
some platonic solangelo moments too hello they can still have non-romantic aspects in a relationship
but also one more kiss lol
EDIT AND I CANT BELIEVE I FORGOT THESE?
nico has ptsd from his previous experience in tartarus, so hes super on edge, wont be able to rest, constantly shaking and on verge of breaking down, and will, who is fucking out of his mind because its his first time, is trying his best to remain calm and be there for nico
AND THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE…
will accidentally admits that he liked percy and nico is shocked because what are the chances and theres about two pages where they just talk about liking percy etc etc they just think hes hot
301 notes · View notes
cinnamonest · 2 years
Text
I have more dark violence post thoughts! Also I finally compiled all of said posts so you can find past ones here:
Violence HC compilation 1 (Razor, Albedo, Kaeya, Childe)
Violence HC compilation 2 (Scaramouche, Xiao, Thoma)
Childe gore/violence post
Razor gore/violence post
Corpse disposal methods
With that being said, depraved animal boy thoughts have been coming to me so enjoy, feat. references to cannibalism (none actually occurring) and more birb content
-------
Gorou has a biting problem.
 At first, it sounds kind of funny, doesn't it? Thinking of him growling and snapping at people like a little grumpy puppy. You think his little pokey teeth are cute, even.
 It quickly becomes not so cute. See, "biting people" doesn't entail the comedic scene you might play in your head of him chomping someone's arm and the victim cartoonishly flailing around to shake him off.
 There's a few telltale warning signs that you learn to recognize. His tail stops wagging (if it is at the moment), his ears flatten to the side, the fur on both bristles up. Unfortunately, his facial expression doesn't quite change to a snarl until he's already lunging and it's too late to stop, so you have to learn to recognize the smaller signs. However, since these are also signs of plenty of other emotions, you have to watch out for the one sole sign that always spells danger -- his pupils go wide. That's how you know go grab him, hold him back... But sometimes that doesn't work.
 Gorou's teeth break skin. Gorou's jaw is far more powerful than a person's. Gorou can lunge forward at speeds that send a person flying back and toppling over.
 It's not funny or cute. The sound makes you freeze, makes your breath stop. The sight makes you retch. There are few such situations a normal person witnesses like that, where you hear a human screeching from such agony that it sounds indistinguishable from an animal.
 By the time they -- about five or six people total required -- pull him off, there's blood pooling on the ground. The man begins shivering, gasping for breath, going into shock.
 There's a few marks where teeth sunk in, but didn't break the skin. And likewise, a few places where the skin was torn. But one spot, a mouth-sized place on the upper arm... You can see bone. When the man spasms, the muscles contort and shift visibly in the exposed tissue around the bite that remains. The flesh is just... gone.
 Well, no longer attached to the arm, that is. It's in the attacker's mouth, lodged between jagged teeth, a raw hunk of human meat, only to be spat out onto the ground with a snarl. He's still growling, feet scrambling on the ground in an attempt to break free from the hold, desperately trying to go back for another bite.
 And then, just as quickly as it came on, the hold the instinct has on him drops. His entire body goes limp, not that it matters too much considering his weight is being supported by the entire group it took to haul him off.
 His ears droop downwards, rather than flatten backwards. His tail tucks between his legs. His upper arms are restrained by those holding him, but you see him slowly reach his forearm up, pressing a few fingers to his mouth, and pull them back to look down at them, eyes widening when he sees the red painting his skin.
 He's apologetic, of course. Not that it really helps. He's still stuttering and trying to get reassurance from himself while they haul the guy away. He'll be fine, right? Right?? But no one takes the time to answer him. He even offers to help, but quickly realizes from a few glares that he's not welcome to do so, and ends up scurrying away to shut himself off in his own lodging.
 He doesn't promise it won't happen again -- he considers it, when apologizing for the matter. He almost says it, but he soon stops... because he knows deep down he might not be able to keep such a promise.
 It does inevitably happen a second time. Third, fourth, fifth. The first incident was one of the worst, only surpassed by a similar incident in which he permanently incapacitated someone's arm, or so the on-site medical supervisor said. Not totally, he just, uh... won't be able to bend it certain ways anymore, and will probably have basically a missing chunk of flesh where they weren't able to reattach everything... but, um, other than that, he's fine.
 It's only really a matter of time before he ends up killing someone. Everyone knows that, everyone thinks it, no one says it out loud. When that day comes... well, some of the higher-ups have already brainstormed for excuses on what to tell families. The most agreed upon is just 'mauled by a feral animal'.... and you suppose it's not exactly inaccurate.
 --
 Xiao has a similar problem, and a bad habit of not... Cleaning up.
 See, in his normal day to day tasks, he doesn't really need to. He just sort of leaves the scattered piles of dead monsters where they are. Animals or natural decomposition will take care of it. There is no need for him to dispose of bodies, the way one would with a murder. So he forgets, when it comes to people. Whoops.
 See, birds of prey often do not bother killing. Sometimes the impact of the bird lunging down to grab its prey will snap the neck of said prey, but the unfortunate fate of many a creature killed by hawks or eagles and the like is to have their bodies ripped open at the gut and eaten alive.
 Not that he intends to eat anyone... But his instinct gravitates to that same soft, vulnerable spot. The stomach is the spot with the least protection, no bones or anything, so it makes perfect sense to him to rip that part open, even if perhaps to a normal person it would be more logical to go with a quicker route. He just sits down and patiently watches the heaving and spasming until it goes still. Okay. Task accomplished. Now he can just leave it there and go do more important things.
 He does not think about the consequences of leaving a mutilated body laying out in the open, gut torn open and organs all spilling out onto the ground, right in the middle of the open harbor streets or inn lobby. He hears people screaming, goes to check on things to ensure it's not some monster that needs to be dealt with, head poking out over the railing to see, but no, it seems a group of them are all freaking out over something laying on the ground that he can't quite see due to the crowd. How odd. It can't be something that bad, seeing as he can see the owner over at her desk, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose.
 That changes, of course, once he has you tucked away somewhere. If he kills things, they must be brought to you. Yes. This makes sense. Must bring the kills for your sustenance. Except instead of, say, mice or rabbits, he's dumping various churls and, now and then, humans into your space.
 There's some sort of mental disconnect. You've freaked out every single time, you say so, he acknowledges it and tosses the body outside and says he'll remember next time, yet he keeps doing it. Sits there and waits for you to wake up, nudges the body towards you as if expecting you to do something. Here. For you. You assume it must be some sort of instinct that can't be overridden.
It's usually met with a blank stare -- it used to be a horrified one, but you've become desensitized over time. Now, you just sigh. What do you want me to do with it?
 Only then does he seem to remember that your diet does not exactly consist of such things, so his response is also always the same.
 ...I'm not sure.
 It's only after a few moments of silence that follow that he decides to dispose of it instead. You have to remind him to go take it somewhere and not just toss it out the window... bodies falling out of the sky and splattering onto the eating area below would not exactly be good for business.
 --
Razor, on the other hand, does intend for you to sustain yourself on what he brings you.
 He prefers it cooked, too, but sometimes that's not an option -- it rained recently, so all the trees are wet and he can't make fire for you. But your stomach is growling. So, come on, what's stopping you? Aren't you hungry? It's good. Promise. He knows you especially don't like the organs, so he already took those out. Just the meat is left, he got the best part for you... but you bury your face in your hands.
 I need *people* food...
 People food... okay. He can do that. He promises to get you some, determination on his face and in his voice before turning and running off, quickly disappearing into the woods again. You can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. You convince yourself it's nothing to worry about, until you are, in fact, proven correct in your gut feeling.
 Hm. Why are you so upset now? Even more so than before? He got you exactly what you wanted. People-food. Straight from the road. It was hard to get, you know. Humans have weapons and are bigger than other stuff he usually gets, so he had to utilize his vision... but hey, that black char on the skin means they're kinda cooked, right? If you don't want to eat it now, he can always bury it in the ground and dig it back up later, if you want (it adds flavor!).
 That... incident, is just one of many. There were plenty before you got dragged out. Such "incidents" tend to be due to some combination of a lack of familiarity with human norms, while simultaneously making an attempt to act according to human norms. The two collide very unfavorably. Like that time he stabbed someone.
 Wolves fight all the time. Sometimes they get mad at each other and sort of spar, they growl and bite and claw at each other. But they have no intent to kill. It's communicative, seeing as they don't have words. Back off, stay away, this is mine and not yours. That sort of thing.
 But you, you've had a lot of talks with him now about not biting people, so in order to make you happy, he has resolved to restrain himself to the best of his ability. That's not how humans fight anyway. No, he's seen the knight's weapons, he has his own too. He's seen illustrations in books and historical paintings on the walls in the knight's headquarters. Humans fight with swords.
 Except you told him to leave his weapons outside when he visits said headquarters to see you. So he has been left with no choice but to improvise, seeing as something about seeing you speak to the person you are engaged with conversation in makes him feel a very unpleasant feeling. You watch him wander off, but he does that a lot. You've tried to explain appropriateness and politeness, but eventually gave up -- if he sees something that captures his attention, he'll walk off, even if someone is talking to him, and he frequently breaks off from joint conversations where someone is talking to you about things above his head to go sauntering around exploring whatever is around him to see. Only this time he's looking for something specific.
 You don't really figure it out until a single second too late. Your attention is torn between trying to be polite and converse with the other person, while still trying to keep an eye on Razor, wondering where he's run off to, but you feel some relief when you see him come back into the room with something in his hand. You can't make it out just yet. Your processing is a bit delayed as you try to absorb what's being said to you.
 Ah, he must have gone downstairs, he has one of those steak knives from the kitchen.
 Wait.
But alas, too late. Still, see, he knows he shouldn't kill. That's why he only stabbed the shoulder part. Now the other guy is supposed to fight back... but it would seem he has instead chosen to fall to the floor making some unpleasant sound. Basically forfeiting. At least winning this spar was easier than anticipated.
165 notes · View notes
interlagosed · 2 years
Note
hibi please release your mpreg universe for the world alone or hgiftbn?? thank you
[for hgiftbn - this is long]
Carlos woke up with a feeling of immense difference. He had never felt anything like it before; quite reasonably, then, he chalked it up to a dream. What had he dreamt about? He couldn't recall. He opened his eyes slowly, a feat against the sun, and reached out for Lando. But there was no Lando.
How many years had it been since Lando had kissed Carlos in his kitchen, covered in flour? And yet Carlos still felt a momentary panic every time he woke up to a bed empty but for himself. Usually, the panic evaporated quickly, but the sense of monumentality still lingered. Carlos sat up, willing his senses to sharpen. Lando was likely in the bathroom, and the bathroom door was closed-
A muffled retch.
Carlos launched himself out of bed and ran to their bathroom door. Lando was on his knees, bent over the toilet bowl. Carlos flung himself down beside Lando and held his curls away from his forehead, running his hands over Lando's back in calming, soothing motions.
"Ay, amor," Carlos murmured sympathetically. Lando's eyes were screwed shut, a single teardrop holding on for dear life at the tip of Lando's eyelashes. Carlos looked away - he was not sensitive, but he knew Lando would value his dignity - and just held his boyfriend until he had emptied whatever was in his belly.
Quite predictability, Lando scowled at the toilet bowl before flushing away the evidence of his- what? Sickness? Nausea? He walked to his sink and grumpily snatched his toothbrush and toothpaste out of the cabinet.
"So...that is not good," Carlos noted. Lando glared at him, though the effect was spoiled on account of the vigorous toothbrushing. Carlos leaned against the cool, slate gray colored tiles, and mused aloud: "We ate carbonara last night. You love carbonara, no? It has never made you sick before. And then for lunch I made you a sandwich-"
"Biggest sandwich I've ever seen," Lando mumbled with a mouth full of fluoride. It was a testament to their closeness that Carlos understood so well what Lando was trying to say.
"I do not think it is anything I made you," Carlos concluded, somewhat relieved. Dios, he had never cooked anything that had made anyone sick! But then...what happened?
"Probably a fluke or something," Lando muttered eventually once his teeth were clean. Carlos leaned in to kiss him, but Lando dodged out of the way. "No! I still feel gross. More importantly, you're gross."
So Carlos laughed and set about working on his morning routine. They had had sex countless times right after waking up, breaths stale and eyes crusted with sleep, but he would never question his beloved's idiosyncrasies when they came out.
And yet, when Carlos gave Lando his usual breakfast, Lando took one look at it, pushed it away weakly, and said, "Sorry. Just- not- feeling this."
Carlos frowned. "I can make you something else?"
"No. No. Don't want- anything."
Carlos' frown deepened. Lando did agree to lunch, and he looked excited about what Carlos had prepared - tacos with leftover guanciale from the carbonara - but after a few bites, he paled, mumbled something, and fled to the bathroom.
Carlos glared accusingly at the guanciale. "It must be you," he hissed in Spanish. He thought briefly about tossing the rest - but he was not a man to waste food, even treacherous food. When Lando reappeared, though, he ate the rest of his tacos with gusto and it did not seem to upset his stomach.
Eh?
"...should we go to the doctor?" Carlos offered after Lando threw up a third time that afternoon, quite out of nowhere. Lando, rather pale by this point and in a thoroughly foul made, shook his head vigorously (Carlos quickly caught his chin lest the motion trigger Lando's nausea).
"No. It's just- random. It's nothing."
"Okay, but if it continues, then-"
"Fine! Fine. Whatever. If I'm still puking tomorrow you can toss me into the car."
The day passed. That night, Carlos barely slept; Lando, beside him, also barely slept. But Carlos pretended he did not notice Lando's discomfort, his constant shifting, the moments where Lando carefully sat up just to lay back down again.
And then, around 5am, when Lando got up to vomit violently into the toilet bowl again, Carlos just crossed his arms and waited at the door. He did not think Lando was too surprised when Carlos quietly handed Lando a coat, pulled the keys to their Ferrari (a present from Lando; it was excessive, but Carlos' very unmanly scream upon seeing it didn't really support his hastily added, "You shouldn't have! Dios, the color-") out of his pocket and nodded towards the door. Lando pouted, but he followed.
He was always a cute pouter.
They thought nothing of it when, after she listened to Lando explain his symptoms and took his vitals, the nurse handed Lando a cup and asked him for a urine sample. Lando made a face, and Carlos made fun of how much urine Lando had been able to supply despite being definitely dehydrated. Lando threatened to fling his piss onto Carlos, and at that point, the nurse politely said she could take the cup.
They waited in the examination room for the doctor. Lando was laughing, which made Carlos feel better. Even if it was a bug, they could take care of it. Carlos would take care of Lando.
When the doctor walked in, Carlos was mid-hysterics over a story Lando had been recalling from a business trips two, maybe three weeks ago (when Lando had come back from that trip, Carlos had thoroughly spoiled him. That had been a very good night). He quickly got himself together and shook hands with the doctor.
"Lando Norris? That's you, correct?" the doctor said, nodding towards Lando.
"Yeah," Lando said, and Carlos knew he was somewhat relieved that he hadn't been recognized. "Just can't stop throwing up. It's rough."
Carlos smiled to himself. His Lando.
"And you are-?"
"Carlos Sainz. We are-"
"He's my-"
They looked at each other and laughed. "He's my boyfriend," Lando said finally, and Carlos resisted the urge to puff out his chest proudly at the statement. Three years! He needed to get over all these little things!
"Yes, I see here now - civil partnership?"
"Yes, we are not married yet," Carlos said, just as Lando said, "We're not married."
Lando looked at Carlos and raised an eyebrow. Carlos smirked. Lando rolled his eyes, though he looked pleased, and that in turn made Carlos feel pleased.
The doctor cleared his throat and leaned forward at his desk. "I just want to preface by saying that, of course, this is not impossible," he said, and Carlos frowned. "It is a slim chance - one in 700,000, you see - but not impossible."
Lando's eyes widened. Carlos felt similarly alarmed. What on earth-?
"But we tested for it, and it came back positive, so the statistics-"
"Statist- what came back positive?" Lando blurted out, and Carlos immediately reached for Lando's hand. His heart was pounding. The doctor smiled a little and said:
"I suppose you were not really trying. Few people ever do, and if they are trying, there are other treatments to make it more likely but- well, Mr. Norris, you are expecting."
Silence.
Carlos' brain stopped working.
Then, Lando said, quite simply, "Expecting what?"
The doctor cleared his throat again. "Er. A child. Well. A fetus. You are pregnant."
"I'm-"
Carlos could not comprehend anything. He couldn't think, he could not speak.
But neither could Lando. He just stared at the doctor, catatonic, and that meant Carlos had to say something. The doctor, his voice patient and sympathetic, said, "We can discuss options. You will have to set up appointments and there are, of course, ways to termin-"
Privacy. They needed privacy.
"We will call," Carlos said, his tongue heavy and words clumsy. He stood, and gently took hold of Lando's hand. It barely took any coaxing before Lando was on his feet, his eyes still staring, his gaze far away. "We will- call the hospital, we need to- thank you, Doctor."
"Within a few days would be best, Mr. Sainz," the doctor said kindly, and Carlos nodded vigorously. He needed to get Lando home. He needed- they both needed.
"I will take care of it," Carlos said again, and the doctor nodded so Carlos quickly, gently, but quickly led his mute, shocked boyfriend out, and settled him back into their car.
The drive home was silent. Of course it was. How could it not be? Carlos did not know what to say. Lando couldn't speak.
Dios. Dios. Dios. His heart seemed to beat towards god, begging, praying for- something.
The elevator ride was quiet too. Lando hadn't reached for Carlos; so Carlos left Lando alone. But when they got inside their apartment, Lando whispered, "I'm sorry," and Carlos, oh Jesus, Carlos' heart exploded. He turned towards Lando, pulled him close, and whispered, "Mi amor, mi Lando-"
And that was when Lando started crying. "No, no," Carlos whispered, his mouth against Lando's forehead, kissing over and over, "Mi vida, do not cry, we are in this together, yes? We will figure this out- do not cry-"
"I'm not a freak," Lando said, pleadingly, and Carlos' eyes shot open. No. No. He cupped Lando's face, his beloved's beloved face, his beloved's beloved eyes wet, his cheeks red, his eyebrows knit together in despair, and Carlos kissed Lando.
"You are a fucking miracle," Carlos whispered fiercely, his heart blooming, blossoming, his love - molten as it was, always, for Lando - warming even more. "Why would I think- Landito, why would I think this about you?"
"We talked-" Lando said thickly, trying to contain his emotion, and he did not know how hard Carlos had to work to contain his own, "about- kids- but this- we never talked about this-"
"Because I did not think it could be!" Carlos exclaimed, and he could not help but laugh as he said it and kissed Lando's lips again, his miraculous lips. "Dios, Lando, if I had thought- if I had known- I didn't want to get my hopes, your hopes up-"
Lando stared at Carlos. Then, hesitant, he whispered, "You- want this? You want me- like this?"
Carlos fell to his knees. How could he not? He took Lando's miraculous hands, pressed them to his own cheeks, pressed his lips to Lando's stomach through his shirt - miraculous - and whispered, his eyes sharp with tears, "Want? More than anything. More than anything."
When Lando fell to his knees, too, Carlos just scooped him up and took him to their bed. He held Lando, close, so close, and when Lando whispered, "Can you keep holding me?" Carlos laughed, his cheeks damp with tears that would not stop coming, and said:
"Always. Always. Forever. I will not let you go. Not even if you asked."
Then, he paused, and said, "Okay. I will let go if you really want me."
And Lando laughed, and it was glorious, and when Carlos placed a shaking hand to Lando's stomach - his stomach, with their baby - Lando placed his own hand atop Carlos' and murmured, voice wondering, awed, happy: "Our baby."
Carlos wept again.
There was so much work to do. So many appointments to make. So many people to tell eventually. But in that moment, Carlos' world became a little larger.
And it was a miracle.
90 notes · View notes
thequeenofthewinter · 9 months
Text
Midyear
feat. Teldryn Sero with a special guest appearance by Neloth
AO3 Link
A gift for @changelingsandothernonsense based on a prompt challenge of the same name "midyear". I hope you enjoy it, friend. <3
Swaths of long green grass swish and sway underfoot, parting their way for the tired soles of one lonely adventurer as he treks across a sea of endlessly verdant green. Nowhere and nothing is untouched by the color as it drapes its way across the vast plains of Whiterun’s Hold. It is the height of Midyear, that time on the calendar when the sun unfurls its lazy rays to touch the lands of Skyrim with her warm fingers. 
While during the other months of the year the sun is a rarity in the province, the Nords living there do not have a care for it whatsoever. Their hearts would appear to be as cold and unyielding as the frozen ground beneath their feet for 9 months of the year. Unbothered, they march their way to and fro from place to place, not even bothering to lift their heads and look around them.
Perhaps many would assume that Spring is the season of change; however, it is different here in this province of all places. Midyear is the real point of metamorphosis. As the sun breaks up the many layers of ice and snow, it uncovers a side of the province which bristles and teems with life. Flowers blossom, opening their petals with a stubborn grace, reaching up towards the sun with defiance. And the birds, butterflies and the bees, titter, flutter, and buzz between the new growth to be found everywhere.
If only the everyone living here appreciated it. The novelty of it all wears off rather quickly after the fourth time in one day someone has lost their shoe as it sticks into the sallow mud.
Teldryn quickly reaches down to snatch up his boot for the fifth time that day. Why did he bother listening to Neloth anyway? He could be curled up in his favorite dark corner of the Retching Netch instead of hauling his ass across this seeping, rotten, good-for-fuck-all excuse of a country.
Blacklight is much more impressive in his ever-so-humble opinion, and he would know as has seen his fair share of sprawling backwater swamps. After all, he is the best sellsword in all of Morrowind. There is not much his eyes have not seen in all his years. How could this place possibly be any different?
He huffs as he makes his way up the lumbering hills between Whiterun and Rorikstead.
In all of the ill-conceived ideas to occur to Neloth that fetcher has decided to send him here to this Azura accursed, Aetda forsaken land on a wild cliffracer chase. 
Smug, pompous ass. If he is supposed to be this great Telvanni mage, shouldn’t he be able to acquire his own ingredients? Why does he have to waste his valuable time to walk across this dismal excuse of a country? Sure, Solstheim might have its problems and ash might reach into every crevice and crack of his body, but at least the Redoran’s have their shit together.
Teldryn had no idea that Skyrim could be any more miserable than it already was. If it is bad during the coldest of months, it is even worse in the heat. He can’t even keep a low profile or risk steaming himself alive with all the humidity here. And then the Mosquitos which whine in his pointed ears…
He swats at one absent-mindedly. Neloth is going to have to pay dearly upon his return.
Knowing him, he probably has his nose pressed close to the musty pages of an old tome muttering incoherently to himself about some archaic nonsense or another as he sits comfortably in his glowing mushroom tower. Fetcher must think he’s much too important to come down and grace the presence of normal people. Shudder the thought that he should mix and mingle with the ordinary riff-raff and dust off his centuries old table manners. His sense of self-importance and inflated ego are bigger rivaling that of Red Mountain itself--and the hot air he blows is twice as hard.  
Finally, Teldryn makes his way to the apothecary, collects and pays for whatever Tribunal-damned plants Neloth wants, and then stomps his way back towards the saddened, sorry streets of Windhelm.
This time he manages to lose his boots only three times instead of five.
____________
“I expected you to be back no less than three days ago.” Neloth doesn’t even bother to look up from the experiment he is conducting--some sort of experimental amalgamation of alchemy and enchanting. Teldryn didn’t even know you could mix the two schools together.
He sighs heavily but knows by now that there is no point in arguing with the fetcher because it will just make things worse for him in the end. As much as he is an insufferable, impatient know-it-all, he’d rather like for his friend to retain some of his good humor. It’s either that or he isn’t going to get paid. Again.
He taps his ringed fingers against the dark wood of one of Neloth’s many bookshelves. The dull sound is Teldryn’s only answer to him. 
By now, they both know this song and dance as they both tip-toe around the finer points of each Dunmer’s personality: Neloth will continue to ignore him. Teldryn will eventually get fed up with the silent treatment. (The boy does love to hear himself talk, after all.) And eventually, he will break. Neloth has it all down to a science.
Stirring his concoction counterclockwise twice, he flourishes his wooden spoon and lays it down carefully on the enchanting table. All the while he pointedly ignores the sellsword.
With all the time that the master wizard uses for studying, he has learned a great many of things from conjuring dremora to the secrets of the daedra.
The one thing he hasn’t learned is tact.
Upon sitting down his spoon, he waits precisely 10 seconds before Teldryn approaches him. “And you’d still be waiting on anyone else to come back if they did at all.” He sniffs as he crosses his arms in defense and raises a brow. “Come now, master wizard. Let’s be reasonable today, shall we?”
Begrudgingly, Neloth reaches into a pocket of his robes and pulls out a small sack of coins before placing it unceremoniously into Teldryn’s waiting hands.
“That’s the spirit.” He flashes a smile as he leans against the wall adjacent to the enchanter to count out his coin. Can’t have him shortchanging him. Again. “Say, what did you have me run halfway across Skyrim for anyway?
The crunching and crushing of leaves by mortar and pestle fills the room.
Teldryn rolls his eyes even if he did expect as much for answer. “Fine then, don’t answer me. I’ll just hang out here with all of my other friends here.” He absentmindedly fiddles with his scarf in attempts to busy his hands. While most times he wouldn’t bother with Neloth’s nonsense, this time his curiosity is piqued. 
 “And how is that any different from how you normally spend your time, hm? At least here you could learn something if you bothered.”
Why does Teldryn even bother?
Just as he is about to finally give up and leave, Neloth carefully tips the contents of his mortar into the liquid boiling over his enchanting table, stirs it thrice more—clockwise this time—and the proceeds to strain out the ingredients into a small decorative bowl. He wafts the aroma to his nose, breathing the aroma in deeply, before taking a tentative sip before proclaiming, “Much better.”
Teldryn blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. “You mean to say that you sent me all the way into that blasted, backwards swamp to retrieve your afternoon tea?”
Unperturbed, Neloth waves him off as he brings the teacup to his lips again. “Who else was going to get it? The post doesn’t go from Skyrim to Solstheim ever since Ulfric closed the trade routes due to those barbaric cultists.”
Teldryn gestures with exasperation towards the enchanting table, “What’s with the fancy enchanting table? Too good to drink normal tea?”
Neloth raises one of his carefully-manicured brows. “Oh that? I finished with that hours ago.”
11 notes · View notes
accidentalmistress · 11 months
Text
Accidental Mistress - Cat's in the Cradle
It's that time again! This post is a little later in the day than I like, but it ended up being a little longer than I thought it would. At any rate, today we have the triumphant return of Quinns and Oliver! And this one has some worldbuilding! Woo!
(For more Accidental Mistress content, check out the Master Post.)
Title: Cat's in the Cradle
Word Count: 3,882
Content and Warnings: snz (nonbinary), fantasy violence, some mild gore (translation: there's monster fighting)
In which Quinns's good intentions earn them a bit more than they bargained for...
----------------------
The most basic utility of a sword is to swing it with a degree of force and try to hit whatever you’re aiming at with the sharp part.
Dark blood dripped from the end of their blade and sank into the dirt, leaving a stain that, in the moonlight, resembled a slick of black oil. Their chest heaved with panting breaths as sweat dripped down their brow and neck. The stench of entrails and ichor hung in the air, and they fought the sudden urge to retch that rose in the back of their throat.
The creature was dead. That much was clear as a rush of mana flowed into them, as with killing any monster. Its furred head lay several feet away from its body, frozen in a snarl that bared its erratic tangle of crowded fangs. The rest of the grotesque corpse still twitched as it cooled on the side of the road. The oversized, hand-like paws had too many fingers, too many joints. The massive barrel chest was completely at odds with the slender, almost emaciated, waist and hips. Its skin was a patchwork of fur, scales, and feathers that made no sense, had no pattern, and was dotted with weeping splits and sores.
This was what happened to Devourers eventually. They became an absurd pastiche of whatever they consumed, until the imbalance in their form started to tear them apart. They were then at their most dangerous, attacking indiscriminately and without provocation as they were driven to frenzy by madness and agony.
A barking laugh cut through the tension that clung to them like a suffocating blanket.
“Ha! Amazing! Knight Shaw, you’re incredible.”
They flicked the blood off their sword before sheathing it with a deep sigh.
“You don’t have to call me Knight Shaw. Just call me Quinns.”
They turned to the person sitting on the ground behind them and offered him a hand up, hauling the much taller and broader young man to his feet with a grunt.
“Oh, right. And you can call me Oliver!”
The green and black uniform he wore was nearly identical to Quinns’s own, save that Oliver’s lapel only bore a single gold stripe instead of the three Quinns possessed, denoting their difference in rank.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Oh. Right. Um, then how about you call me Ollie?”
“Let’s just get this thing off the road, please.”
“Oh, sure thing! I’ll grab the front legs if you get the back legs.”
“All right, fine.”
It was no mean feat to drag the Devourer’s reeking corpse, seeing as it was the size of a horse. Even as the two Knights grunted and strained with the effort, Oliver couldn’t seem to keep from chatting with that goofy grin on his face that drove Quinns up a wall.
“It’s a lucky thing -ngh- you got here when you did. -urgh- Another few minutes -hnng- and I would’ve been Devourer chow.”
Quinns made a noncommittal grunt and kept hauling. They weren’t about to tell Oliver that the only reason they’d been there at all was because they’d been tailing him since he left headquarters that night. They couldn’t shake the feeling that if they didn’t keep an eye on him, the naive younger Knight was going to do something stupid and get himself killed—a feeling that turned out to be correct when Oliver decided to take the Devourer head-on, alone, with nothing but a sword and the skills of a First-Rank Knight.
Once the dead monster was safely away from the road, Quinns cast a spell that would immolate the corpse by morning. They tried not to look at its six asymmetrical eyes, dead and glistening in the light of the arcane fire.
“Funny coincidence running into you out here at this time of night, huh?”
Quinns cast a sideways glance up at Oliver’s open, honest face. The taller Knight had a broad grin on his face, the furry, pointed ears on top of his head twitching. The cat ears and tail he bore marked Oliver as an Anima, a type of demi-human with animal features.
“I was just doing my own patrol. Couldn’t sleep, as usual, so I figured I might as well do something useful.”
A hearty clap on the shoulder made them wince.
“Ha! That’s my senior for ya! Always the overachiever! Save some glory for the rest of us, huh?”
They crossed their arms in front of their chest. “I don’t do this for glory. I do it because someone has to. You know, I don’t recall you being scheduled for a patrol either.”
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck with an abashed chuckle, his mismatched eyes, one gold and one blue-green, cast aside like a child caught sneaking a sweet from the kitchen.
“Ah, yeah, you got me. I was doing my own patrol, too. The higher ups hardly ever put me on official patrols anymore! I don’t know why; I don’t think I did anything wrong. Recently, anyway…”
Quinns kept their mouth shut. They were pretty sure they knew the reason: Oliver had quickly built a reputation around headquarters, and not an entirely favorable one. He’d passed his exams less than a year ago and was generally known to be affable and pleasant, yet already he had caused the Knights several embarrassing incidents. Quinns was away at the time, but they heard that during his first patrol, Oliver decided to attempt spellcasting in the middle of the marketplace, spooking a horse that was attached to a merchant’s cart and causing a messy collision with a fruit stand. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the Knights ended up responsible for the damages.
Not long after Quinns was officially introduced to Oliver during a late night sparring match, the junior Knight set up a series of bonfires throughout the training yard, apparently to simulate “being attacked by evil fire mages”, which quickly grew out of hand into a conflagration that set a stack of hay bales and half the company’s wooden training dummies ablaze. When Quinns arrived on the scene, they managed to contain the fire with a magical barrier until the other Knights got enough water to put it out. Quinns could still clearly picture how Oliver’s orange cat ears had been nearly flat with shame against his bright blonde hair as their Captain had chewed him out.
That incident, paired with this fight with the Devourer and a hundred other minor screw-ups on the part of the bumbling, cat-eared Knight left Quinns with the sinking feeling that they weren’t finished cleaning up Oliver’s messes. How had he even passed his exams?
Oliver’s voice brought Quinns back to the present.
“Well, since we’re both out here, why don’t we go patrolling together? I wouldn’t mind the company!”
Quinns blew out a sigh through their nose.
“Yeah, all right. Might as well.”
“Might as well keep him out of trouble, more like…” they declined to add.
As they set off together, walking side by side down the road that eventually led to Chambelf, Quinns remembered the other reason that Oliver quite literally irritated them: Quinns was allergic to cats. They cleared their throat as it started to prickle slightly and managed to avoid coughing, silently praying to any god that would listen that they could get this impromptu patrol over with quickly.
“What do you think a Devourer was doing this close to a town?” Oliver had his hands clasped behind his head and was walking along with his gaze on the starry night sky like he didn’t have a care in the world. Must be nice.
Quinns shrugged.
“It looked like it was dying. They go crazy right before they die, and they’re not exactly stable to begin with, so there’s no telling what it was thinking.”
“Do you think there could be any more around?”
“I highly doubt it. They don’t travel in groups; they’re solitary creatures.”
It didn’t escape Quinns’s notice that when he’d asked the question Oliver sounded a little… excited.
“You’re not actually hoping to run into another one of those things, are you? The first one almost killed you.”
The other Knight chuckled. “Well, okay, maybe not another Devourer, but it might be cool to fight some other kinda monster.”
A scoff of disbelief passed Quinns’s lips. “Seriously? Do you have a death wish or something? Why the hell would you want to fight another monster?”
To Quinns’s surprise, Oliver dropped his arms to his sides and a slightly awkward look came to his face. Was he embarrassed?
“Uh, y’know, no reason… It’s just… I-It’s what Knights do, right? Yeah, we, uh, we fight monsters and protect people, so… Just really excited to do, uh… Knight stuff.”
Quinns regarded Oliver with narrowed eyes and was just about to accuse him of being a terrible liar when an itch blossomed in their nose, so instead they turned to the side and rubbed it against their sleeve with urgent strokes.
“Agh…”
“Hey, you okay?”
“What? -snf- Oh, y-yeah. -snf- I’m fine.”
They thought for certain that their sniffles would give them away, but Oliver seemed to take them at face value and nodded.
“Oh. Okay, good!”
Quinns bit back a sigh. While they were relieved that he hadn’t caught on, it really illustrated just how overly trusting Oliver was. The guy needed to cultivate some common sense before it got him killed.
“You know, I feel pretty lucky right now,” Oliver said, and Quinns wasn’t sure if he was purposely trying to change the subject or if he just always said whatever came to mind. Probably that second one.
“What do you mean?”
Oliver glanced over at them, putting his hands up behind his head again with another trademark grin.
“Well, not everybody gets to go on a patrol with the Quinns Shaw. Actually, you almost always go out alone. Makes me feel a little special, you know?”
It actually took some effort for Quinns to not openly gape at Oliver. Sure, it was true that Quinns usually worked alone, but was that really so noteworthy? Furthermore, why did Oliver hold them in such high esteem? Did they stand out that much? They wouldn’t deny their own skill—they were the youngest Knight to ever achieve Third Rank—but they didn’t exactly go out and do heroic deeds every day. They mostly performed their regular duties, did any other tasks the higher-ups assigned to them, picked up any slack where necessary, and kept their head down the rest of the time. They were so thrown off by Oliver’s comment, in fact, that they were totally unprepared for when the itching in their sinuses flared back up. They froze up, powerless to stop it, before their head snapped forward.
“Etchoo!”
“Whoa, bless you. You sure you’re okay?”
Another rub with the sleeve. “It’s nothing. Thanks… Oliver, I really don’t think I’m as amazing as you seem to think I am.”
“Well, I think you are that amazing. I’m real grateful that you’re willing to spend time with a loser like me, honestly. Feels like you could be doing… I dunno… better things.”
Quinns opened their mouth to reply, but abruptly shut it again as they realized that they didn’t actually know why they concerned themself so much with Oliver. Getting involved with other people only complicated things. Just look at the whole situation with Noelle: if anyone knew Quinns was aiding a witch, they’d be before the Inquisition in irons in less time than it took for Oliver to make them start itching. Keeping an eye on the younger Knight just gave them more work to do and more stress to deal with, so why did they bother? Was it simply to protect a comrade from getting hurt, or were they somehow a magnet for hard luck cases?
They had to say something into the silence that had already dragged into uncomfortable territory after Oliver’s last statement, but no words came to their rescue. No sarcastic quip, no snappy comeback, not even something truthful came to Quinns’s lips. Instead, Oliver’s cat ears abruptly twitched, then flattened against his head the moment before he flung himself bodily into Quinns, pushing them to the ground.
“Look out!”
An explosive frenzy of sound and motion followed. Before they even knew what had happened Quinns was facedown in the dirt of the road. Something blocked the moonlight above, casting a deep shadow in the night’s gloom. Training, adrenaline, and instinct took over. They pushed off the ground, and by the time they were on their feet their sword was in hand. Quinns spun to face what attacked them and briefly froze at what they saw. There stood Oliver, ears flattened, teeth bared in a snarl that showed sharp canines that Quinns had never noticed before. He was face-to-face with a huge reptilian creature: long and sinewy like a massive snake, its hide protected by thick, leathery scales. It had no legs to speak of, and the frilled head with its long snout would not look out of place on a dragon.
A wyrm.
Not quite full grown, but still big enough to snatch up and drag either of them away. Sharp teeth the size of daggers lined its yawning maw, currently held open by Oliver with one hand each on the upper and lower jaws as the creature struggled to make the young Knight its next meal. Oliver’s heterochromatic eyes flicked over to Quinns for the barest moment.
“I can’t… hold it… forever!”
Snapped from their reverie, Quinns tightened their grip on their sword.
“Right!”
With a cry, they ran at the wyrm with sword raised, held in both hands to put their full weight behind it. The wyrm’s hide was too thick for a simple slash to do much damage, and there was no time to cast a spell or perform some flashy move. So Quinns used their sword for its second most basic utility: aim the pointy bit at something you don’t like and shove as hard as you can.
This punctured the wyrm’s thick hide, causing the creature to shriek bloody murder, which was probably warranted given the circumstances. It darted aside, abandoning its attack on Oliver in favor of swiping its lengthy tail at Quinns instead. They leapt back to dodge the blow, the whiplike appendage missing them by inches. When the wyrm did not hit its intended target, it switched its attention back to Oliver, curving the arc of its strike towards the other Knight. He made no move to dodge, standing there with his arms wide open like he was waiting for it.
“Don’t tell me he’s gonna try to—”
With a resounding thump, Oliver caught the wyrm’s tail in the chest and grabbed on, holding it in place. How was he still standing? That strike had to have been powerful enough to break bone. More importantly, though—
“What the Hell are you doing?!”
The grin Oliver flashed them was more appropriate for someone who had caught a prize fish than a guy currently bear-hugging the tail of a monster.
“I got it!”
Quinns watched as a powerful undulation traveled swiftly down the length of the wyrm’s body, and Oliver’s feet left the ground.
“Wooaah! I-I don’t got it!”
The younger Knight was flung backwards, landing heavily against the trunk of a tree with a worrying crunch.
“Ollie!”
Surprisingly, or perhaps less so at this point, Oliver gave Quinns a thumbs up from where he sat at the base of the tree. “Koff! Don’t worry! Koff-koff! I, uh, I’m good!”
“Damn it, just… Just stay there, okay?!”
A guttural growl cut through the night air as the wyrm redoubled its attack, launching itself towards Oliver, still recovering from being thrown.
“Shit,” Quinns swore as they rushed forward, beginning a chant that would cast a protective barrier spell in front of Oliver. Icy panic gripped their stomach as they realized that the wyrm was far too fast.
They weren’t going to finish the spell in time.
With a fluid motion that was unlike Oliver’s usual bumbling clumsiness, the cat Anima rolled to his feet and leapt forward to meet his monstrous opponent. As the wyrm charged, baring its fangs with a horrid screech, Oliver once more managed to grab the creature by the jaws. One step, two—despite the wyrm’s size and strength, Oliver yielded only two steps to its crushing assault. Straining with the effort, he then began to prize the monster’s jaws slowly apart.
Still rushing to Oliver’s aid, Quinns thought for a moment that the other Knight was trying to break the creature’s jaw. Instead, Oliver wrenched the wyrm’s head to one side with a triumphant shout. Confused at first, Quinns then realized that with its head turned they now had a clear shot at the roof of the creature’s mouth.
They turned their run into a charge, both hands on the hilt of their sword as they raised it to eye level. With a rising cry they closed the distance, then thrust their blade deep into the soft flesh of the wyrm’s mouth, piercing its brain. The beast didn’t make a sound. Its long body spasmed with weaker and weaker movements until at last it went still.
Quinns pulled their sword from the monster’s corpse, and Oliver dropped its head to the ground. Within moments, the wyrm’s spent life force poured out in the form of mana, which Quinns felt flow into them. Beside them they heard Oliver gasp.
“Oh my gods, I think… I think I just got mana.”
Quinns raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that usually happens when you kill a monster.”
Oliver looked over at them wide-eyed as a grin slowly stole across his face.
“Does that mean…” He suddenly looked down at his arms in front of him. “Do I get my Mark now?!”
“Your… what?”
“The Adventurer’s Mark! How do I know if I got it?”
Quinns blinked.
Plenty of people in the world became Adventurers, but it wasn’t simply a job title. Slaying monsters, practicing magic, training in certain martial arts—these sorts of things granted one mana. Once a person’s mana reached a certain threshold, they would gain a Mark: a symbol somewhere on their body that marked them as an Adventurer. As one then grew in power, so too would the Mark, growing in size and complexity as proof of one’s skill.
“Wait, are you saying… you’re not an Adventurer yet?”
Oliver shook his head.
“No, I’m not. Or, at least, I wasn’t? Maybe I am now!” He actually started to unbutton his uniform shirt. “Would I feel it? What does it feel like? Does it, like, burn or something? How do I know where to look?”
Quinns had to admit that they were a little impressed. An Adventurer’s Mark was not a requirement to become a Knight, but a person was limited in the skills they could use and the magic they could cast without one, which of course made the job more dangerous. Though rare, it wasn't unheard of for someone to join up in the hopes of gaining their Mark, Quinns had just never met one before. Oliver had guts, that was for sure, and he could clearly take a beating. His eagerness to kill a monster now made a lot more sense as well: monsters granted a large amount of mana, so monster-slaying was often the fast-track to Adventurer status.
Quinns placed a placating hand on Oliver's arm before the other Knight got too carried away with stripping in the middle of the road.
"Whoa, slow down there, champ. I… I can't really describe it, but trust me: if you gained your Mark, you would know."
They watched as Oliver’s expression turned crestfallen, his orange ears drooping as he began to slowly button his shirt again.
“Oh… Yeah, that, uh, makes sense.”
Quinns pressed their lips together before sighing, though one corner of their mouth tugged up in a small smile.
“Hey, don’t let it get you down too bad. You’re well on your way. You’ll just have to deal the finishing blow next time.”
The quickness with which Oliver’s ears perked right back up was nearly comical.
“Next time? You mean… you wanna do this again sometime? Like, you’ll go out with me?”
At that Quinns was unable to stop a chuckle from escaping as they nodded.
“Yeah, but you don’t have to make it sound like a date.”
“A date?” Oliver’s cheeks quickly flushed pink and he waved his hands in front of him frantically. “N-no, I didn’t mean it like that! I-I mean, not that I wouldn’t— if you wanted to! But if not that’s totally fine! Wait, no- I mean, I’m not asking you on a date! Right now. I… I really just meant patrolling…”
He placed a hand over his face, thoroughly red. Another laugh bubbled up in Quinns’s throat, but all that came out was a cough. As the adrenaline that surged in their veins during the battle faded, the allergies it had suppressed returned in full force. They tried to forestall any further coughing by swallowing hard, but the ticklish feeling in their throat stubbornly persisted. Quinns put their back to Oliver and cleared their throat a few times, which only seemed to aggravate the irritation. A series of coughs seized them, which they tried, unsuccessfully, to smother with a hand.
“Uh, Quinns? You okay?”
“I’m f- Koff! Koff! I’m f-fi-...” Their body froze, which meant— “Etchoo! Etchoo! Ugh… I’m fine.”
A rare double sneeze. With a groan, Quinns remembered that Oliver had touched them when he pushed them out of the way of the wyrm’s initial ambush strike. He must have gotten cat hair on them.
“You don’t sound fine.” The cat in question came around to face Quinns, prompting them to take a step back. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?”
Talk about awkward. How do you tell someone you’re allergic to them?
“Uh… I have… Etchoo! … allergies?”
Oliver’s golden eyebrows rose, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.
“Oh, no… Well, you shouldn’t be outside, then! Come on: let’s get you back to headquarters.”
Quinns felt a firm hand on their shoulder, and suddenly Oliver was marching them back up the way they’d come.
“W-wait, Ollie- Hang on, what about- koff! What about the wyrm?”
“We can inform one of the other patrols, and they can come clean it up. I don’t think anyone’ll use this road anyway, and—” He paused. “Wait, you just called me Ollie!”
“Oh, uh, -snf- yeah… guess I did.”
Slight relief washed over them that he hadn’t noticed them yell it during the fight, but that was quickly squashed when Oliver’s arms wrapped around them in a bear hug.
“Aw, that means we’re friends now! I’m so happy!”
Quinns made a mental note to visit the temple when they got back, because the only explanation they could conceive for the events of the evening and their current situation was that, at some point, they had caused the gods some great offense. Of course, that was assuming that they made it back to headquarters alive, and, given how things had gone so far, Quinns was increasingly convinced they might regret letting this particular cat cross their path.
15 notes · View notes