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sun-snatcher · 2 months

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🌾 ・ OF CLARION CALLS

summ. The rebellion runs into trouble, & Jet takes the brunt of it. In the aftermath, you fight to keep him alive. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.5k a/n. So little Jet fics/imagines around so i had to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy!

The moonlight casts a halo above your head, and for a brief moment, Jet thinks you’re a divine spirit, perhaps a goddess— or whatever it is his mother used to read to him before bed.

( In some ways, you are. )

…Jet, he hears, distant. He can’t pinpoint exactly where— every sound is either muffled or echoing, and the world keeps tipping in and out of a blur. All he can sense through the haze is the belt of dull pain creeping up his chest, and the cotton-numbness engulfing his head. Right. He’d been shot clean through his armor plate by a wayward arrow after he’d jumped infront of Sneers to protect him. He remembers now, vaguely. It had been an ambush on their way home.

...et, stay with me.

Jet.

“Jet!”

The world focuses. He inhales, sharp, and the pain blinds him white as he gasps.

“Easy there, handsome,” you joke (not really), holding his twitching body down and trying to meet his dazed look. The blood is thick enough to taste, and one look is enough to tell he’s walking a tightrope between life or death. He's growing colder, and losing colour by the minute. You make quick work to staunch the gaping wound in his chest, hope he can’t detect the shakiness in your hands, or the tears gathering in your eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Will he?” comes a voice behind the two medics crowding him. It’s Smellerbee, standing at the step of the medical tent; her voice sounds uncharacteristically frightened, and it sends a pang through your heart. I’m fine, Jet instinctively wants to insist, but you answer for him instead. “Yes. He will." ( And, well, surely such a small deception would not count against you, not when it was meant to give the others some measure of peace. )

Jet blinks, finally orienting himself enough to look at you and not through you— and blinks again. You’re lying. He could feel it. He could always tell, whenever it comes to you.

…Stay, he thinks, suddenly and senselessly, and clasps his bloodied hand around your wrist. He calls your name, voice straining in pain. But he must’ve said it aloud instead, because you’d smiled at him as gently as you could— even when it looked as if the effort of doing so would wound you— and said, calmly, convincingly: I promise, I’m not going anywhere.

“With me?” he asks, again, even when he knows he must’ve sounded like a madman. Perhaps it’s the bloodloss. Likely, it was. It wouldn’t be such a bad end, though, so long as you stood by his side. He wants to tell you this— been wanting to for a long time, now— but the strength has left him, leaving him floating somewhere between the world of waking and dreaming.

“With you,” comes your reply.

You catch the ghost of his trademark smile just before he slips away.

Jet survives.

That’s the first surprise.

The second is that; you’re here. Just as you’d promised.

He must have been out for longer than he thinks, because the atmosphere in the medical tent seemed to have ebbed to something much more conducive than last he remembers. The tinctures of alcohol and sedatives surrounding him and his bloody bandages that night are now replaced with dry ingredients; yarrow half-crushed in a mortar and pestle, mixed herbs and colourful liquids corked in tiny bottles and tins he couldn’t begin to name. His armour had been stripped from him, lying above a chest by the corner.

Ever the leader; “Sneers,” is the first word out his mouth, once he’d stirred awake on his cot and recognition returned slowly to him. It’s early sometime in the morning, judging by the colour of the sky outside the tattered tent flaps and the still quietness in the air. Beside him, an incense of sandalwood burns. “Sneers—”

“Is alive, thanks to you,” you override. The faint bitterness in your voice is not lost on him.

Somehow, someway, seeing him conscious now seemed to make you bristle. You think— no, you know— that it’s unfair of you; that it’s simply the pent-up frustrations and stress overflowing from the night he’d been hauled back to camp with one foot in the grave. But Longshot’s harrowing clarion call for a medic from the trees still rings clear as a bell in your head, just as much as the cold shock that had seized you the moment you realised the birdcall was for Jet.

“Good.”

“Not good,” you correct, “Not when you of all people pay the price.”

( Jet doesn’t delude himself into thinking that there could possibly be another meaning to what you said. It would be impossible. ) “You would’ve done the same,” he bites back, and takes your silence as quiet agreement.

“You’re upset,” Jet points out, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

A sigh. “You just woke up,” you dismiss, if only to get him off your scent. “We can talk another day.”

“We’re already here, so let’s settle it now. The mission went well, and as far as I can see, I’m the only one in here, which means nobody else got hurt on the way back but me. Atleast, not as badly.”

It’s a debrief, you recognise. A coping mechanism for him— to spur himself into action and settle himself. Given the stress and trauma his body has been enduring the past days, you let it pass.

It’s only when you shift out from your seat by his cot, standing to begin putting away the bowls of medicine prepared, that Jet realises your fingers had been holding his wrist before. You must have stayed up for, what he can only imagine to be long nights, to keep track on whether his pulse was still beating. ( Something inside his chest burns. He can’t tell if it’s your doing or the injury being fussy. )

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, sighing out. “If that’s what you wanna hear.”

“For what?” You set the mortar down on your table with more force than necessary, and looked at him sharply from over your shoulder. Jet, damn him, still looks at you straight in the eyes, confident as ever. You want to kiss him. You want to break his nose. “For being a hero?”

“No.”

“Playing martyr?”

“No.”

“For saving Sneers? Everyone?”

“No—”

“Then what?”

“For scaring you,” he says, simply.

Your heart starts.

A frisson runs through you, and you feel the back of your eyes begin to burn.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he emphasises, and doesn’t say, I’m sorry I made you cry, because your prideful self would have denied it instantly, even if he remembers it clear as day. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”

He yanks at a loose thread on the blanket you’d laid on him a night ago. It must have been terrifying to see him be dragged to the table, half-dead with a broken arrow in his chest, and leave a mess of blood and horror in his wake. It must have been terrifying, indeed, to be the one responsible for him against Death itself— to carry the weight of his life on your shoulders, while the rest of the Freedom Fighters watched on.

“It’s, it’s my job,” you turn away to close a drawer of medical instruments, because you’re not quite sure you can stand meeting his gaze. Not when it only reminds you of just how much he lived, breathed and bleeds chaos and revolution; not when you know this accident definitely won’t be the last.

You can’t handle him. Or maybe it’s yourself you can’t handle, when it comes to him. “Just, be careful.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he salutes mockingly, albeit with a wince. The flinch is what kicks you back into action.

“You’re staying in bed until you’re better,” you order, curt, ignoring his groan. His wrapped shoulder still seems painfully defiant despite all the numbing you’d given him; it would be a couple of weeks longer before he’d be fully healed, but knowing Jet— he’ll be up performing duties within a week. “That means no strain at all. No scouting or recon or hunting, got it?”

He lulls his head, but there’s a dash of humour on his face. “Since I’m bedridden, does that mean you’re at my every beck and call, then?”

Your face twists. He lets out a laugh when you answer, "In your dreams, Jet."

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

You roll your eyes, though without heat, and place a bowl of fresh water by his side. There is, at the very least, a smile on your face, and Jet’s sure he can sleep well tonight knowing you both are, at the end of the day, okay.

“Hey,” he calls your name, once you've begun making your way out the tent. You try to ignore how much more sweeter it sounds coming from him. “I really am sorry. I’m serious.”

He had caught your sleeve when he spoke, so your fingers now brush against his. You try not to focus on the touch too much. “So am I.”

“We can’t lose you, Jet,” you continue, unsteady; because saying I can’t lose you would have been unthinkable.

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fangisms · 4 months

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bf who isn’t afraid of anything, gf who scares him a little bit

#please im begging #somebody write this #theodore nott #draco malfoy #theo nott #mattheo riddle #dean winchester #eddie munson #bucky barnes #simon ghost riley #hp universe #marvel #headcanon #slytherin #fanfic #fanfiction

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inoreuct · 7 months

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sleepy zosan cuddles please? maybe sanji crashing zoro’s catnap 🤭

this was IMMENSELY fun to write. i couldn’t resist adding in a flipped scenario with zoro crashing sanji’s bed,,, enjoy 😽

Sanji poked his head into the men’s quarters, biting his lip against a smirk. The night was still young; Nami and Usopp were outside, ensnared in some inane drinking game while Luffy egged them on. He, however, had much better things to do with his free time.

Such as bothering the one man currently asleep on the ship.

The wind whistled before he shut the door. It was going to get chilly, which was why he’d had the foresight to be here; Zoro put out heat like a bloody furnace.

The swordsman was belly-down on his bunk, arms splayed out, his broad back rising and falling in time with his breaths. Sanji was really banking on Zoro subconsciously recognising him here in order to not get run through with a katana, but better safe than sorry, he supposed.

He crept across the room in the soft lamplight, planted his feet, and announced “Marimo!” like he was summoning the man— before jumping and face-planting between Zoro’s shoulder blades.

Evidently he’d been expected, because the swordsman didn’t so much as startle even as the bunk swayed under their combined weight. “What,” he deadpanned, sighing into his pillow.

Sanji could feel it under his cheek, hear the soft whoosh of breath out of Zoro’s lungs. “It’s winding up to be a chilly night,” he sing-songed, stacking his hands to prop his chin on top.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Zoro groaned irritably, scrubbing both hands over the back of his head and clearly grouchy at being woken. up.

Sleeping constantly, horrible sense of direction, grumpy all the time— “God, chéri, you’re such an old man,” Sanji complained, absentmindedly tracing patterns into Zoro’s shirt and watching the loose linen gather and twist beneath his finger. “And for someone with so much muscle, you’re not a very comfortable pil— Hey!”

“Up,” Zoro grumbled, uncoordinated and sleep-heavy as he pushed himself up and toppled Sanji off to the side.

“What’re you— Have of my efforts in trying to make you a gentleman been absolutely—” The cook squeaked as he was grabbed, muscled arms tight around his chest and waist as Zoro picked him up and rolled them over.

“Y’talk too damn much,” he muttered, the words pressed into Sanji’s hair as he adjusted, thumb rubbing up and down Sanji’s upper arm over his sleep shirt.

The motion was repetitive. Soothing. Sanji went quiet as bony ankles tangled with his; with his back pressed to Zoro’s chest, he could feel every breath the swordsman took, deep and ever-steady. Every single beat of his heart, clear against Sanji’s shoulder blades.

The cook slid a hand over the one around his waist like he always did and laced their fingers. He’d lied about Zoro not being a comfortable bedmate; Sanji never slept better than when he was with him, and on top of that— If there was one thing better than a comfortable bedmate, it was a comfortable boyfriend.

He had the vague awareness of a kiss being pressed to his crown before his eyes fluttered shut, sinking boneless into the thin mattress with a contented hum. Zoro didn’t sleep with a blanket, but honestly?

Sanji never really minded.

His bunk creaked, dipping under the weight of a new person, and Sanji jerked awake with a soft “wha?”

“S’just me,” Zoro muttered, sliding into the blankets behind him and kicking them away after a split second of consideration, pressing the line of his body to Sanji’s back. “It’s too fuckin’ hot.”

“You’re sticky,” Sanji whined, awake enough to protest against the feeling of damp skin and swat half-heartedly at the arm winding around his waist.

“Because I just took a shower, idiot,” Zoro hissed, which, ah. Explained why he was shirtless.

“It’s too hot. Which is why you’re choosing to share a bed. And body heat. Okay,” Sanji yawned, his sleep-addled brain mollified as he settled back in, and Zoro huffed through his nose.

“You’re cold, it’s nice.”

“Hm.” The cook peered blearily over his shoulder before rolling over, tossing a leg over Zoro’s hip and shoving his head beneath his chin. “That’s the only reason you’re in my bed, huh?”

“Go to sleep, cook,” Zoro grumbled, something wry in his tone, “before I give you a reason to stay up.”

Sanji kicked him in the shin and fought down a sleepy grin. “Not so loud, they’ll hear you!”

“I’ve been awake this whole time, guys.” Usopp’s voice came floating from the darkness somewhere to the right, sounding a little traumatised, and Sanji sank his teeth into Zoro’s shoulder to stop himself from laughing out loud.

“Sorry, buddy,” he stage-whispered, still trying to control his residual chuckles. He could tell Zoro was laughing quietly from the rumbling beneath his cheek.

“S’fine. Just no funny business or I’ll get Nami… to…”

Their crewmate started snoring, and Sanji squinted up at Zoro’s face in the darkness. “Get Nami to what?”

“Can’t be anything good when that witch is involved,” Zoro sighed, shifting his arm up onto the pillow so Sanji could rest his head on his bicep. “Night, cook.”

“G’night. Don’t blame me when your arm falls asleep,” Sanji murmured, snuggling in with a shiver.

“Shut up.”

“Mhm. Love you.”

“…Yeah, whatever.”

“Marimo. You have to say it back.”

“Yes, okay, I love you, now please go to sleep.”

Sanji scoffed quietly. “You’re the one who woke me up.”

Zoro craned his neck to glare down at him. “I swear I will fuck off back to my own bunk.”

“…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Pissy asshole,” Sanji muttered into his shoulder, small enough that Zoro didn’t hear.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face anyway.

fin.

#zosan #op zosan #zosan fanfic #one piece zosan #zoro x sanji #they’re so fucking stupid #somebody please go save usopp #luffy’s out cold like the dead in the corner he’s doing peachy #but poor usopp is NOT #one piece sanji #one piece zoro #one piece #ask box #ino’s ask box

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jonjaydami · 17 days

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I don't know if anyone else feels this way but I'm gonna say it for the ones that do. Cause we talk about how we basically can see the stories in our minds like motion pictures when we read a book or can even feel the characters pain and emotions but writing is a whole new level.

Cause I'll be writing and then blink back into existence and realize....wait...what do you mean I'm not two gay men making out under the moonlight??

Then I'll have to take a couple of seconds to collect myself cause I just imagined and wrote in such detail about living a life with another man and I need to mourn over the loss of that.

And then you gotta just sit there like this for a couple of minutes

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purplerain16 · 1 year

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So on one side we have Max Verstappen who, when put in a potentially dangerous situation, stays cool and collected to bring himself in safety.

On the other side we have Charles Leclerc who actually gets himself into a potentially dangerous situation by impulsively chasing after thieves without a single thought.

These two together would be absolute chaos with cute little Charles constantly getting himself in trouble because he's way too nice and trusting and Max always having to save the day.

#charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappen #please somebody write this #fanfic

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manufacturedrainbows · 2 months

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My Fabian fanfic is going great so far

EDIT: Fanfic is up on ao3 now! ✨️

#dimension 20 #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #d20 fantasy high #d20 fhjy #fabian seacaster #fabian aramais seacaster #he's such a disaster I love him so much #somebody comfort this kid already please I am begging #he's alone in a giant mansion jfc #by the time I'm done with this fic the next episode will be out already but idc #he needs a MOMENT #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #writing

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transmascutena · 29 days

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(a very quick and unpolished thing i wrote on the bus home today)

Utena, Anthy, and a conversation about love. Around 500 words.

---

“I loved him,” Utena says. She feels vulnerable admitting it, staring at the ceiling rather than at Anthy curled up at her side. “Not… not in the way he tried to convince me I did. But…” she sighs at the feeling of Anthy's fingers moving gently up and down her arm. “But I did love him.”

Anthy is quiet, and Utena can tell she’s waiting for her to say the next thing, the logical conclusion to this line of thought. It’s the hardest part to admit to herself, let alone to someone else. Let alone to Anthy.

She takes a breath. “Sometimes I feel like I still do.” Anthy exhales against her shoulder.

“Love is,” Anthy starts, then stops. Utena feels her shake her head. “It’s not… enough, on its own. I loved him too. I still do. I think I always will.”

Utena squeezes Anthy’s hand in the dark, and for a while they simply listen to each other breathe. “I’m not sure I even know what love is,” Utena says. “I definitely didn’t, growing up. But I wanted it, more than anything. He knew that. He offered it to me, and he knew I would do anything to keep it.”

“Family,” Anthy whispers, her mouth still pressed against Utena’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Family.”

They’re both quiet for a while, aware of the weight of the conversation. The entirety of what used to be their world, all contained in that single word.

“Do you think…” Utena starts to ask, but hesitates. She doesn’t want to say the words, and doesn't want to hear Anthy’s answer.

“What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Everything matters,” Anthy says simply, but in a tone that tells Utena that she doesn’t have to say if she doesn’t want to.

She sighs. “I just mean, it doesn't change anything. It doesn’t make what he did… better. But I just wonder,” and she has wondered for years now, “I wonder if he loved us too. If any of it was real.”

Anthy wraps an arm Utena’s middle and touches her scar lightly. “He did,” Anthy says, confidently enough that Utena doesn’t question it. “It was as real as anything was in that place. But like I said, love is… It’s not an inherent good.”

“No,” Utena mumbles. “And he hurt us in spite of it.”

Anthy catches Utena’s eye for the first time since the conversation started. “He hurt us because of it, Utena.”

“Oh,” Utena breathes, turning her eyes back to the ceiling. She lets that revelation settle in her chest, but doesn’t know how to feel about it. She was right that it doesn’t make any of it better. She’s not sure whether or not it makes it worse.

#grieving what somebody could have been to you / what they once were 👍#(i'm trying to get out of my comfort zone by actually posting more of my writing on this blog please be nice to me about it lol)#also i should hope it's obvious but this isn't about romantic love. just so we're clear on that #revolutionary girl utena #fanfics #utena #anthy #utena and anthy #akio #<- his name is never actually said and he isn't there but. the conversation is about him. so.#m #don't be afraid of this world where we'll meet

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