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naffeclipse · 3 months

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Cold Scales

Naga!Moon x Reader. Sickness.

The first sign of your fever hits you with a pulse of heat. You brushed it aside, believing the sun had been beating on you too long, and the jungle warmth was simmering your blood. Sun leads you to the cave come nightfall. The buzz of mosquitoes fills the air with a menacing hum.

Sun has always been warm to you, even when he told you that you are warmer. His melting yellow and golden jewel tone scales, his cornflower blue eyes, wide and endearing, fit alongside the heavy humidity in the afternoons. The small scarlet markings on his throat and hips are metal-red hot, too. He always kept you warm.

Moon is cool. You’re not sure if that’s due to the cold tones of his scales, gray-blue on his belly and along his arms, and deeper into midnight blue along his back and on top of his hood. He hides in the darkness after sunset. His red eyes, even darker still, only flash once it’s too late for his prey. You’ve seen how fast he strikes—before, when you were acting foolish and trying to escape their aid, and after, when you watched him and Sun hunt a meal.

You slip out of Sun’s embrace. His arms fall away, lethargic from the day you both put your energy into scavenging for berries and nuts and small mammals. A soft hiss leaves his lips. You wait a moment to ensure he doesn’t stir, though his coils unconsciously tense, searching for the little human he was holding.

Sun had mentioned you felt warmer than usual, but you convinced him you were only tired and worn out from the hot day. Still, he frowned when you laid down beside him on the cool cave floor.

The fever pulses deep within you. You feel it burn across your forehead with a ripple of sweat. Staggering out of the cave, what strength you have is quickly sapped by whatever attacks your body. You need less heat. You need to be cold and imagine gulping down icy water to soothe the dryness infecting your throat.

A small trail that’s been trampled by your feet and the width of snake tails leads you through the trees. Even in the dark, under the delirium of a fever, you find the edge of the glinting water reflecting the canopy of thick verdant leaves overhead.

You kneel, almost collapsing forward before you manage to catch yourself with both hands splashing into the pebble-bottom stream. The heavy breaths in your chest heave in and out. You sigh and tell yourself you’re being a baby—one little fever, and you’re struggling to concentrate on the water before you.

In the reflection of the stream, you catch two red eyes glowing above you, leaning out of a tree to survey your feeble attempts to quench your burning thirst. A hood of midnight and diamond yellow stars surround the visage.

“It’s nothing, Moon,” you whisper to the water. Slowly, you cup your hand and carefully bring it to your lips. The crisp coldness douses your heated lips, filling your mouth with a jolt due to the sharp contrast of cold and fire within you. When you swallow, you shiver.

The softest rustle echoes. A few branches quiver, then, you feel his presence behind you, cool as a tree’s shadow.

A large, blue-gray hand snakes around your forehead. Knuckles press against your temple, and you sigh in relief at his blissful, fresh touch.

“Fever,” Moon rasps, carrying the end of the word with a soft hiss of disdain, as if saying it with a curse will make it no longer reality.

“I just need a drink.” You cup your hand in the lazy flow of water again. “I’m fine.”

“Too warm,” he says when you greedily gulp another mouthful.

Water spills cut down the corners of your mouth. He presses closer to you. His thumb smoothly wipes away the drips falling off of your chin, then he shifts. Your mauve shirt with the sleeves cut off allows his frosty arms to offer a barrier against the next wave of heat crashing against you. He’s never felt so cold before—or have you never felt this feverish before?

“It’ll go away.”

You try to get to your feet but Moon’s hand on your waistline stops you from rising.

“Come here,” he rasps. “Let me see you, orchid.”

You would have given him a look at the pet name, but you don’t have the strength to muster the effort. He eases you back against his chest. His palms slide and cup your shoulders, his sharp fingertips slipping slightly under the frayed edges of your shirt and resting on the end of your collarbone. Is that a shiver from the elicit touch or sickly chills beginning to take hold?

“You’re flushed,” he hisses softly. A slight slip of his tongue, forked at the end, peeks out of his mouth as he leans closer. You moan unwittingly at his cool, flat cheek pressed against your clammy face.

“It was hot today.”

“You’re sick,” he decides.

This time, you groan out of refusal rather than relief.

“I’m not sick.” You slowly shift, managing to get to your knees to face him. The fever forces your shoulders down. You bow under the exhaustion taking hold.

Moon hisses in an amusement yet concerned note. His long tail drapes behind him, cutting across the ground like the connections of a constellation. It’s black in this lowlight, but in the day, when he sleepily shows himself, you’ve caught the iridescent indigo and jeweled blue tones of his beautiful scales.

“If you keep denying it, I will take drastic actions. Do you want that, orchid?” his tone lowers to a menacing threat, all dark cords and hisses, but you’ve learned to tune your senses to his hands and expression. He looks only at you, a slight frown playing along his wide mouth. His eyes are narrowed, displeased with your condition.

“No,” you shake your head, “You and Sun are so dramatic.”

“Says the stubborn flower,” he touches your cheek. You nearly collapse into his palm. The rasp of his laugh stings your pride as much as it soothes your aching chest.

“I’m not a flower,” you mutter as you feel his arms lower slightly, coaxing your hands over his shoulders. He rises higher on his tail, lifting your feet off the ground without effort, and you slump over his shoulder, little more than a child being carried to bed. Moon hums a low, hypnotic sound (that you’re sure is part of his allure, his power).

“Of course not,” he gives with amused demean.

You work up a growl at your throat that sounds weak even to your own ears. Moon shushes you with a soft stroke of his claws against your spine. The shudder that follows through your body is both cold and hot, and you hate that he silences you so simply, and that you like how he strikes back against your harshness.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs as if calming a tiger. You want to snarl at him again but the brief spark is quickly smothered under an internal infernal cooking your core.

No one agitates you and reassures you as much as Moon.

He glides across the ground to his tree—it’s wide and high, thick with strong boughs and leafy but not too leafy. A perfect tree for a naga. Moon tends to lounge up there when he wants to escape the shadows of the cave you usually make your bed in. You wonder how he intends to hold you through the night up in its verdant limbs, but Moon hooks a hand behind your head and lowers you softly to the cool, moist ground at the base of the trunk.

“Moon?” For a piercing moment, you’re afraid. You refuse to let go of his arm as he draws away. Where is he going?

“Hold still,” he gently hisses.

You let go. You wait for him.

Slowly, his coils gather, curving in loops close to you. He draws himself around you, his long body following. The darkness shimmers. He takes you into his arms once more and guides you to his chest where he fully embraces you. The end of his tail drapes across your waist, sealing you within a deliciously cool embrace of the naga’s scales.

“Shush,” he says when you groan, soaking in his invigorating presence. “Sleep, orchid.”

You almost tell him that you can’t, or that you won’t, but the comfortable weight of his body surrounding you, the chill of his arms against your burning skin, and the soft tuck of his chin upon your sweaty head chases away the last of your resistance. You might have pressed back—saying you don’t need his help, but it’s hard to resist the frost-gentle relief of his presence. It’s hard to be stubborn when he feels so good.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’ll feel better soon.”

The sweet caresses of his cool touch across your forehead eases your ache. Against your will, your eyelids flutter. He hums low, a lullaby you can’t name, and it soothes you gently into a dreamless sleep, comforted by a cool cradle of scales and songs.

#i'm burning up with a fever as we speak #i wrote this at like 1 am #because of the fever #if there are any mistakes no you don't see them #cold scales #naga au #naga!moon #moon x reader #naff writing #i'll add this to ao3 later #when i have more energy

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bby-deerling · 4 months

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Idk if you're taking requests right now, but I saw you wanted to write the sex pollen or one bed trope. I am a SUCKER for both of those!!!!! I would totally be down with either or both of these with Law!

oh anon you know i just had to combine them >:^) !!!!

i went absolutely feral writing this so i hope you enjoy!

spin circles for me (law x reader nsfw)

18+, mdni, nsfw, wc: 3.0k masterlist

cw: afab!fem!reader, slapping, rough sex, sex pollen and all that entails, law is kind of an asshole, law is also a bit feral, choking, biting, semi-public fooling around, creampie, mentions of blood, evil sex, one bed trope

tagging: @bowsa-jr @eelnoise @freelemmingsdownload @kaizokuniichan @wolfegoddess

“And…that’s all folks! Everyone should have their room keys.” Shachi exclaims, hands visibly empty. A pit opens up in your stomach as you feel your heart drop like a roller coaster—everyone had their room assignments for the night, save for you, whose name wasn’t called. Face red as your anxiety brews, you step forward towards your crewmate and tap him on the shoulder.

“Shachi, I didn’t hear my name; who am I rooming with?” you ask, puzzled and hoping you had simply tuned out your name when he called it; Law was taking care of sorting the bill out with the innkeeper, and the last thing you wanted to do was pile more undue stress onto your captain.

Curly chestnut hair hangs in his face as he scans the list he made one more time, mumbling each crew member’s name under his lips as he counts. Eyes widening as he reaches the end of the list without muttering yours, he checks again, face slowly turning white.

“Captain, we’ve got a problem.” Shachi says as he strides towards Law, carrying a slight sense of worry in his voice; realistically it wasn’t the end of the world, but when Law is in a snit, the slightest mistakes can lead to a snarky dressing down in front of the rest of the crew. Tired and exhausted, Law doesn’t answer Shachi verbally, and simply gives him a look that tells him to continue. “I messed up the room arrangements. I forgot to assign her to a room.” he explains, motioning towards you with his thumb.

“Put her with Ikkaku then. Do I really have to hold your hand like this, Shachi?” Law says, rolling his eyes with a huff as he starts to walk away; your crewmate’s hand on his shoulder pulls him back and prevents him from getting too far away.

"That’s the thing Captain, all the rooms have twin beds except for yours…” he says voice laced with trepidation as his words trail off. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you watch Law carefully as he makes eye contact with you for the briefest of moments, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Fine.” he sighs, too exhausted to even bother reaming Shachi out for his mistake. Instead, Law glares at him, causing your crewmate to simply smirk at him before running off towards Penguin.

“Don’t expect me to sleep on the floor. We’re more than capable of being adults.” he warns in a hushed tone that edges on the side of being unnecessarily harsh.

“Of course, Captain.” you reply, stare fixed at the floorboard beneath you as you followed him to your room. His exasperation had seemingly no end, causing you to preemptively walk on eggshells to avoid being the target of his scorn.

A slightly irritated huff escapes your lips as you let your bag hit the floor of the run-down hotel room. An opportunity to spend more time with Law like this would be heaven sent under normal circumstances, but his mood lately was nothing short of foul, and he had been short not only with you, but with everyone around him for the past week or so. Truthfully, being alone with him left you brimming with anxiety; you had been slowly and steadily building a deep bond with him prior to this nasty mood swing, and something intangible swirling in your gut spurred the notion that his mood was somehow your fault.

As you head to the restroom and change into some plainclothes, you run through a list of possible transgressions; perhaps the time you patted his shoulder reassuringly had been crossing the line, or maybe he had noticed the way your eyes soften, gazing at him when you were convinced his eyes were focused elsewhere. Law is rarely one to miss details or subtleties; in retrospect, one would be a fool to think he wouldn’t catch you staring. Whether your behavior was the cause of his irritability or not, one thing was certain—he had been avoiding contact with you as much as possible since this snit started, leaving you lonely. Rituals you had built with him—taking your morning coffee and tea together, sitting next to each other at lunch, and reading together in the evenings—had all come to a crashing halt with no explanation, leaving you with an empty chasm in your chest, left to wonder what you did to spur this sudden abandonment; however, even if it were possible to track down Law to for a private conversation, you were too nonconfrontational to inquire what your grave misstep had been.

“Need a walk to clear my head. Coming with?” he asks gruffly, momentarily removing his bucket hat to comb his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. His words break you from your daze, and you nod affirmatively and give him a vocal mhm, lacing up your worn-out sneakers in the process. Though he was touchy at the moment, there was no resisting his bid for attention, especially when a hint of softness in his tone makes his words feel like a request for your presence. Law was complicated, and at times unbearable, but as far as you were concerned, he was beyond reproach, for the simple fact that you cared far too much for him.

The rocky atmosphere softens as you walk towards the nearby trail together, afternoon breeze filling your lungs with tranquility and turning the tension between you into a comfortable silence. The two of you venture roughly a mile into the woods before being met with a roadblock—a wall of flowering vines preventing further progression down the trail. Slightly annoyed, Law unsheathes his sword, hacking at the plants, only to be met with a haze of dust and pollen in the air; instinctively, you pull your shirt over your nose to prevent inhaling it, but your captain is not so lucky, and ends up breathing in a fair amount before sneezing.

Frustrated at the endlessly dense cluster of vines and flowers still remaining in front of you, your captain makes the executive decision to turn back, and you follow accordingly, sighing softly in frustration that your walk together was cut shorter than planned—that is, until Law starts acting weird.

It started with the staring.

The penetrating gaze fixed on your form only feeds into your paranoia, assuring you that there was something wrong between the two of you that had been leading him to behave strangely as of late. Then his right arm begins to swing more freely, almost aimlessly; the contrast of the motion compared to Law’s normally composed nature made the way his hand carelessly swung seem downright silly—and then it starts to brush against you. He’s simply tired, you tell yourself. A simple mistake.

And then blood pools in your cheeks as he pokes your side, almost playfully, emulating the cocky, laidback Law you've come to know and adore. It’s intentional, and impossible to ignore; you return the favor in kind and flash him a grin. You expect a similar expression to be mirrored on his face—a smirk with a glint of mischief in his eyes—but are frozen in place when the look he gives you is downright predatory, lust pooling in his eyes.

Suddenly aware of your surroundings, you find your back flush against a tree, and far closer to Law than you remember being before; completely absorbed in the delight of his subtle flirting, you had lost track of where you were, and subsequently had fallen into his grasp like a fly in a spider’s web.

“Tell me now if you don’t want this.” he whispers in your ear, leaning in close and ghosting his lips along the shell of your ear. The trance he put you in was nearly dreamlike, all of his transgressions nearly forgotten as he feeds you the tantalizing promise of exchanging them for the touches you have been yearning for.

“Keep going.” you murmur, letting out a sharp gasp as his mouth immediately connects with your neck. His teeth graze the column of your throat, eliciting sinful mewls from your pretty mouth; the song of lewd sounds echoes into the humid, sticky air, encouraging him to slip his hand underneath your shirt.

“I thought it wasn’t like that, hm?” he murmurs, voice husky as his hands roam your body, making you whimper as his thumb rolls across your nipple. “Thought you didn’t like your Captain like that?” he taunts, making your cheeks flush with both arousal and embarrassment as pieces click into place in your mind—a little more than a week ago, Shachi and Penguin had confronted you about your little crush during a game of cards; unwilling to give in to pressure from them to spill your guts out, you had denied it with a pink blush covering your face. A dreadful liar through and through, your crewmates refused to buy your fib for a second; however, judging by the way Law had echoed your own words back to you as his hands claim your body, he had taken your words at face value. It was borderline hypocritical—he was a man who constantly veiled his true emotions, yet he was somehow unable to see through the wide cracks of a similar mask.

Fever broken, a storm of anger brews in your chest, and you want to smack him, to gain some type of retribution for the needless cold shoulder he had given you; however, the way his mouth heatedly slots against yours leaves you too dizzy to fully realize your intentions. Instead, you end up lightly swatting his cheek, sighing against his lips. In return, your eyes are blown wide in shock as his inked hand smacks you back, not terribly hard, but enough to make your heart nearly jump out of your chest as you gasp.

“Don’t act like you don’t want it now.” he growls, soothing the dull sting with the pad of his thumb as he harshly grips your face, squishing your cheeks together. There’s something feral and desperate in his eyes as he scans every bit of your face for a sign of genuine resistance; even in his growing haze of delirium, he’s surprised to find a mixture of emotions on your face. Pupils blown out in lust, you want him, but you’re frustrated, jaw clenched as you let out a deep exhale.

“You were being so mean to me, Law. And for no reason—” you say, voice wavering as you become overwhelmed and desperately try to keep your head above water. The flood of emotions from latent, seemingly unrequited feelings being returned was intense enough; the addition of a slew of heated and fevered sensations as the two of you get so physical so fast scrambles your brain and leaves you feeling bare and vulnerable.

Deep down, Law wants to explain himself, but as he succumbs more and more to his altered state of mind, he can only pull back and offer you a bargain. “Let me make it up to you.” he pleas, making the remaining sane portions of his mind cringe at the way his voice drips with want. It’s a pitiful replacement for a litany of apologies that he is too ill-equipped to deliver—doubly so when under the influence. Nevertheless, he waits for your move, nearly drawing blood as he digs his nails into his palm, hand clenched into a fist as he fights the urges coursing through his veins.

When you move to kiss him, knocking his hat onto the ground and tangling your fingers into his hair, you mean to take a gamble and tease him with a sly, snarky remark, but he’s uncharacteristically needy and captures your mouth with his at the slightest hint of permission to continue. He’s sloppy, desperate, and messier than you ever could have envisioned in your darkest, murkiest fantasies. Back hitting rough bark, you feel swallowed whole as he presses his body flush against you, knee prodding between your thighs. Law is impatient, more so than you have ever seen him as he plays with the waistband of your sweatpants before dipping his hand beneath your panties.

“This wet for me…God, you want it just as bad as I do, don’t you?” he murmurs against your lips as he slides two fingers past your folds. Dragging his fingers along your spongy spot, he coaxes the only reply he cares about from you—sweet, strangled moans as he tries to make you understand, tries to make you feel a fraction of the desperate yearning and arousal he has for you, latent emotions only amplified by his current state.

As the sky darkens, losing the afterglow of a sunset neither of you caught, you became acutely aware that the two of you weren’t even that far from the inn, and most assuredly visible to any prying eyes gazing out their windows; however, Law’s focus is honed on your chest, leaving deep purple bites all over your sensitive skin.

“Law, people can see us.” you mumble, noticing the yellow haze from the windows casting over your bare chest. Intoxicating as it was to be pressed against a tree, feeling the tips of his fingers tease your sweet spot as his tongue circles your nipple, you yank on his hair in a silent plea for him to move to your bedroom; the last thing you wanted your crewmates to see was your captain turning you into an incoherent mess.

As his fingers pull out of you, the light dances across his digits, illuminating the slick coating them with a tantalizing glint. Grumbling something intelligible under his breath, he shoves his inked fingers past your lips, letting out a sigh as you obediently suck them, tongue dancing along his digits. As your eyes flutter shut, pleased by tasting the gentle tang of your nectar, he teleports you into the bedroom; the privacy shields you from the curious eyes of others, but strips you bare for Law, leaving you subject to the dark whims brewing behind his intense stare.

He wastes no time making short work of your sweatpants, yanking them down before plunging his tattooed fingers back inside you, a deep sense of need imbedded in each motion of his hands. Following his lead, you fling your shirt over your head, swallowing hard at the cool breeze from the cracked window grazing over your nipples, still wet from Law’s tongue running across them. He gives you a feral grin as he stares down at you, satisfied at the sight and grasping one of your breasts with his free hand and pushes your back onto the bed—your shared bed.

“Such a good girl for me… such a good little slut for your captain.” he mumbles under his breath as he hovers over you, inked hand moving upward to grip your throat before his lips descend onto yours. He’s needy, for both sensation and control as he frees his cock from his jeans and lines himself up with your soaking entrance; sinking his teeth into your lower lip as he sucks on the soft, plump, rosy skin, he finally indulges in the sweet bliss he’s been craving for ages.

It’s a consummation of an attachment too fragile to be subjected to the gridlock of matrimony, or anything remotely similar. As he pushes into you, the ragged breaths against desperate lips are the only vows spoken, the only promise is for more. Thrusting into you harder, he becomes too clouded by his high and too drunk on the ecstasy of having you underneath him that he loses himself completely.

Law means to take you whole.

Soft whines are all you can let out against his mouth as he bites and sucks hard on your lip, nearly drawing blood as he fucks you into the mattress relentlessly. The way he takes you is rough, full of passion and choked back moans; as you grow slicker, arousal coating both of your thighs, he pushes into you deeper, making you see stars with each thrust of his cock.

Death. Five of his fingers dig into your hip, while the other five wrap tightly around your throat. Death. You feel somewhere between the earth and the sky as he drowns you in his essence, and bleeds you of your life force. Death. He reaches his little death with a shudder of his hips, cold beads of sweat rolling from his forehead and dripping onto yours as he paints your walls white.

Rolling back into bed after cleaning yourself, uncertainty hangs in the air; swirling in trepidation, you feel like death.

“What does this mean, Law.” you whisper hesitantly, voice nearly fading away into the chorus of crickets chirping outside the slightly ajar window.

Still as a board and gaze fixed to the ceiling, he doesn’t tell you that the plant had influenced his behavior—besides, something in the distant tone of your voice told him that you were clever enough to have come to that conclusion on your own. He doesn’t give you an apology for his recent rough and uncaring behavior; it was irrelevant to the question at hand—your real inquiry pertained to how he felt about you, while sober and lucid after working out a burst of frenzied passion.

“It means I want you to come closer.” he says, voice raspy as he sprawls his arm out, an invitation for you to settle into his side. The way you sigh as you nuzzle into his chest expresses a littering of sentiments that you were too exhausted to express; starved for affection, you drape your arm across his inked chest and give him a light squeeze, and you hum in delight when he tightens his grasp on your shoulder in return.

“Thank you for having me.” you mumble—forgiving, bright, and as fragile and damaged inside as he is, you’re far too good for him, and Law wonders if you’re even slightly aware of it.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be able to find the words to tell you what you’re truly worth; selfishly, he doesn’t even try to cobble them together.

He can’t take the chance of losing you now, after all—not when he finally has you.

#one piece x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law smut #trafalgar law x you #law x you #trafalgar law x y/n #law x y/n #trafalgar law #one piece smut #x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece scenario #a fever consumed me when writing this.........

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sadisthetic · 4 months

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limewire virus

#chai hi fi rush #hi fi rush chai #hi fi rush #my art #if anyone reads the tags i put under my art. you know this has been a thing ive been thinking for a While #i think if an ai program can take over chais body then a virus ABSOLUTELY can #love thinking about fantasy symptoms because i think the computer virus symptoms can produce effects that are equivalent to irl viruses #i think it would be funny if he got cryptojacked and his core's processing power gets used for nefarious purposes (lol) and that #raises his temps in other words fever #headaches likely... definitely fatigue #this bitch aint gonna be able to FOCUS #if i wanted to write a fic id probs flesh the symptoms out more

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die-rosastrasse · 9 months

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Some of my medieval-inspired calligraphy with Florence & The Machine songs ✒️

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cheesecakethots · 7 months

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Part 2 to this.

He had never been so caring for another, the guard noted. Lord Scaramouche was not the caring type, after all.

Despite that, the man had watched the lord express actual worry for you, the one huddled away in his tent as he barked orders at soldiers to find medicine, make warm soup, and heat up water. One of them had had his fingers broken for making the food too cold for the harbingers liking.

On the very few occasions the guard was permitted inside the tent, he had caught glimpses of the lord knelt beside your feverish figure in bed, the back of his hand softly resting on your forehead. If they had been any longer in finding you…

The few medics in camp were situated nearby, with any and all injuries not held by you being mostly ignored for the time being. You had barely been conscious for the past few days, slipping in and out, with some mumbled and confusing phrases leaving chapped lips.

The guard is brought out of his memories when Lord Scaramouche passes him, dramatically parting the tent covering and entering with a few quick strides. He immediately makes a beeline for your cold, limp body tucked away in bed.

Scaramouche places a hand to your cheek. His frown deepens, and you groan, glazed over eyes opening only a fraction.

“M…Mother?”

A sigh escapes him. His soulmate really is pitiful… and weak.

“… You’re safe now,” he mutters, surprised for a moment at the tinge of emotion in his own voice.

“Do… I have to help c…cook dinner?”

“No. You’ll never be doing that again.”

“Oh… okay…” A yawn leaves your throat.

“Go to sleep.”

“Can we have… chocolate later? I bought some… to share,” you murmur, trailing off until your breathing becomes light, and your eyes fully close.

The lord sighs. A shiver wracks through your body, despite the multiple animal hides you have on. He’s certain that his men have destroyed the surrounding ecosystem just to keep you warm, but, oh well.

He stands, hesitantly turning away from you. You need more blankets, maybe some more soup, anything to keep the fever from taking you away from-

Oh. His eyes widen, and he glances back to you, and then at the shaking hand pulling on his fingers.

“Don’t… leave me…”

You’re still asleep. It’s not as though you’re conscious and would know if he left, is it? It’s not as though your plea is anything more than some deluded fairytale in your mind, is it?

“I won’t.”

Curses.

Curse him, and curse you for awakening something he didn’t think he had, something in his chest that for centuries he was sure was simply an empty void of nothing.

He wants to scoff and leave you here, to tell you that he has no need for someone as weak as you in his life. He wishes he had left you tied to that tree and just kept moving, that he had never felt the touch of your skin against his own. That he had felt absolutely nothing, that he hadn’t felt a stab of fear for the first time in a long time when carrying your freezing cold body back to camp. It would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long, long while.

The next morning he leaves you alone for a short time, an hour at most. He regrets it when he comes back to you standing on two wobbly knees, the parts that make him up jolting at the sight.

“What are you doing?!”

You flinch, yelping when you abruptly turn to him and lose your balance. Hands, ones that send a feeling of static and electricity straight to your very core, are soon grasping onto you, holding you up before you can hit the ground.

“Are you daft?” The man spits out, visibly aggravated.

“Wh-What? What?”

“Get back in bed. I won’t ask you again.”

You don’t move, the sensation that comes with his touch only growing the longer the two of you stand.

“You’re… you’re…?” You whisper, eyes widening.

He pauses, the irritation in his expression dropping a little. After a beat, his lips part.

“… Yes.”

“We were in the woods, right? My village, they…”

Any softness on his face is wiped away the moment you mention your old home, and the people that resided in it. No longer waiting, he lightly pushes you back, leading you into the makeshift bed below. A blanket is soon wrapped around your quivering shoulders.

“Eat this,” he orders, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it close to your lips.

Chocolate.

“I’m not-“

“Eat.”

You tentatively take it from him, and the atmosphere grows awkward, at least for you, while he watches you chew on the rest of it.

“Thank you, it was delicious,” you tell him, truthfully. You haven’t had chocolate in a long time, as it was simply too expensive for your family to afford. Your mouth curves downwards into a frown.

“Rest.”

You don’t. You’re not sure if you can.

“My family, they let them take me. They didn’t… they didn’t stop them. They must…” A gasp is torn from you, and you meet his eyes once more. “How long has it been?”

“… Three days.”

You begin rise to your shaky feet, “I-I must go back, they’ll think that I’m-!”

He pushes you back down effortlessly.

“Are you a fucking fool?”

You can’t help but flinch at the absolute venom in his tone, but he isn’t done yet, towering over you.

“What do you think will happen if you go back, hm? That they’ll accept you with open arms, or they’ll send you right back to where I found you? Or, better yet, maybe they’ll set you alight there and then, rather than troubling themselves in having you freeze to death, they’ll instead watch you burn. Would you like to test if your family would spare you from that? Hm?”

You have never felt this small in your entire life.

“I-“

“Enough.” It appears the question was rhetorical, and your mouth closes, quickly feeling very dry.

His chest shudders with each deep breath he draws in, and he closes his eyes shut for a moment, seemingly trying to calm himself.

“Sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us. Don’t ask me anymore stupid questions,” he turns on his heel, most likely deciding that he has something better to do. However, before he fully departs, he pauses at the entrance to the tent, still not looking back at you.

“You deserve better than that village, than that family who threw you out as though you were nothing to them. Know that I do not plan on doing the same, and that you… aren’t nothing to me.”

The intimidation you feel from him dimishes when you catch sight of the pinkish tinge to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t wait for your response, swiftly departing. You miss the few words of parting he gives you, as you tuck yourself into bed.

“Besides, it’s not as though you have anything to go back to, anymore.”

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noosayog · 11 months

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[baby fever] ft. sakusa kiyoomi

wc: 400

iwa | ushijima | atsumu | osamu | kageyama

You quietly slip into the gym, taking your seat on the stands to watch the boys finish up practice. You hear the whistle and your eyes are drawn to where Iwaizumi is running drills. You can’t help the smile on your face when you see the athletic trainer standing there with his daughter, only reaching knee height, but diligently blowing the whistle every time her father gives her shoulder a tap.

Iwaizumi calls out the last set of drills for the day and you don’t have to wait long before a dark, curly head of hair hovers overhead to shade you from the harsh lights of the gymnasium.

You crane your head backwards, smiling widely. “Hi,” you greet your boyfriend.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says.

“You don’t need to shower?” you ask.

“Nah,” he responds. “We can shower at home.”

“Okay.” He takes hold of your hand naturally. Kiyoomi is silent but pleasant on the walk home. You hold the conversation, but you don’t mind as he hums in affirmative and flashes you his sweet close-lipped smiles in acknowledgement at the appropriate times.

“Did you see Iwaizumi’s kid?” you ask casually.

“Hm.”

“Do you like kids?” you peer at him through your lashes.

He looks at you strangely. He thinks for a bit. “No.”

You pout a bit. “But she was so cute!”

“More hassle than they’re worth, don’t you think?”

He says this in a lighthearted tone but you ponder this seriously. “I mean yeah, but don’t you think a few really good moments can outshine the ugly? It would be worth it.”

He glances at you, slightly taken aback by your earnest response.

“I’m not pressuring you though, okay? Just want you to know that you’re the one I want a family with someday.”

He nods slowly but says nothing else and you drop the topic willingly. He’s silent the rest of the walk and you know you got him thinking.

When you arrive at home, he keeps his hold on your hand until you’re both standing in front of the bathroom door. You tilt your head at him in question, but don’t pull away.

He squints a bit, like he can’t believe what he’s about to say next.

“We have to get married first, okay?”

“What?”

“Married. That has to come before the kid is… conceived,” his cheeks flush a bit.

You laugh easily, “okay, Kiyoomi.”

He lets go of your hand, retreating into the bathroom. You make your way to your room to change, all smiles, but Kiyoomi’s hand jolts out to grab onto you.

“Aren’t you coming in?” he asks.

Your smile turns into a huge toothy grin, as you cheekily tell him, “I guess we could practice now if you’re so inclined.”

He rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are red to his ears.

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warmasf · 5 months

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Not snz but just general whump

The idea of someone literally “waking up with a fever” is so sweet to me. Just imagine whumpee at their partners house, having a slight headache and a weird feeling in their throat, but thinking nothing of it, taking a nap with partner and blaming it on being tired. In a few hours, whumpee wakes up to partner placing a cold flannel to their forehead and whispering their name into their ear.

“Hey, you gotta wake up baby, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling good?” In a hushed voice.

Whumpee lets their eyes close as partner feels their cheeks and embrace them again. They feel terrible, but maybe waking up sick was the perfect catalyst for the love and care they so desperately desired.

#whumpcember2023 #fever whump #caretaking #sickness #sickfic #imagine #ficlet #domestic fluff #snz thoughts #snzblr #whump writing #fever

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squintingcats · 9 months

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“I’m sorry. I have to do this, okay?”

Said by Caretaker before:

Lowering Whumpee into a cold bath for their dangerously high fever

Lowering Whumpee into a lukewarm bath for their dangerously severe hypothermia (it feels boiling to them)

Doing stitches, cleaning and dressing a wound, etc.

Cauterization

Forcing them to eat/drink something after an extended period of illness and/or starvation

Resetting a broken bone

Field surgery

Dragging their ass to an actual hospital

Dragging their ass to an actual therapist

Restraining them during a violent (as in, physically harmful) flashback or nightmare

Inducing vomiting when the Whumpee clearly needs to, but can’t

Uncomfortable medicine (bad-tasting, syringes, aerosolized medicine through a weird mask, etc.)

Moving a Whumpee who’s in a particularly bad state

Tell me more.

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jump-in-the-whump · 5 months

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They lie there, wheezing, their body heavy, even their bones are hurting.

They feel one hand slowly passing through their sweaty hair. Such a small thing that means so much to them. This is the first time, in what feels like months, that they have been touched this gently.

Suddenly, almost unconsciously, they feel their eyes become hot and wet, but they don’t dare open them for fear of what they might see.

They just want to imagine they are safe and sound.

Just for once.

#whump #whump community #whumpee #whump prompt #whump scenario #weak #caretaker #fever #whumpee x caretaker #sick #jump-in-the-writing #touchstarved whumpee

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sunkissed-zegras · 6 months

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i think i just died dead 😭😭😭😭😭

HES SO DAD ARE YPU SERIOUS?!?!

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greenorangevioletgrass · 5 months

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fever pitch (b.b) - prologue

soundtrack: mastermind - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: Bradley shoots his shot in public, but will he fumble when he meets you in person? warnings: language, drinking, meet cute notes: my first series in a while! this is shamelessly based on the epic Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce saga currently happening rn, and combine that with my innate love of football (the kicking kind, not the NFL kind) and... voila! I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks. Happy reading! <3 ✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Soccer Sensation Bradley Bradshaw Fails To Shoot His Shoot With Y/N At Her Concert?

Arsenal captain Bradley Bradshaw may be among his club’s top scorers this season, but even he misses a chance in romance like the rest of us.

The 29-year-old athlete spoke about his missed opportunity with the multi-platinum songstress Y/N while speaking to his former teammate Héctor Bellerín on the latter’s podcast, “More Than A Footballer”, earlier this week.

When asked about any fun stuff he did last weekend, Bradshaw replied,

“I went to the Y/N concert at Wembley [Stadium]... it was awesome. It was pouring rain, but it was amazing. I don’t remember Wembley ever being that electric aside from, like, cup finals. She was sensational.”

Bellerín nods in agreement, having heard great things about the famed singer-songwriter’s live concerts.

Unprompted, the American midfielder then continued,

“If you’ve heard about the tour, there’s this tradition of trading friendship bracelets. And I actually made one with my number on it, hoping I could give it to her after the show…”

The Cockney-raised Spaniard cackled in surprise and teased him, “But she didn’t wanna see you, bruv? [That is] legend!”

“No hard feelings!” Bradshaw raised his hands in defense over the Zoom call. “She needed to dry off and get warm. Gotta make sure she stays healthy, protect those vocal cords. But yeah, I was a bit bummed out about it.”

Bellerín laughed and jokingly addressed the camera, “Y/N, if you’re watching, give my boy a chance, will you?”

Mononymous pop sensation Y/N is hot off of her Kaleidoscope North American Tour, which wrapped in September. Her six-show run at Wembley Stadium this November officially kicks off the European leg of her sold-out tour.

Will they be the next pop royalty and conquer the stadiums with their own crafts, or will this fizzle out as this week’s viral anecdote? The ball is in your court, Y/N.

Y/N’s representatives have not responded for comment.

***

Your Miu Miu heels click and clack against the ground. The pavement gleams after the rain and glistens under the streetlights. Everywhere you look, your eyes hurt. Down, and you worry about slipping into a puddle and falling on your ass. Forward, and a million camera flashes are ready to give you an aneurysm.

All in the name of reporting your night off of work, performing live in front of 90,000 people in a stadium.

In other words, all in a day’s work.

There’s a moment of reprieve, when the silvery white blitzes disappear into the dim tangerine lighting of the lobby. The flight down the stairs is so dark, you’re seeing green. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but as soon as they do, the thumping bass line of some dance music hits your ears. Clashing perfumes doused on the dancing, dressed-up bodies that you have to weave through.

You are seriously regretting your girl friends’ invite to a night out. You could’ve just had them over to your hotel, open a bunch of red wine, and you would’ve still had a blast. But no. You had to say yes to going to the Cuckoo Club with Lacey, Amara, and Jo.

And this evening is making you feel quite cuckoo.

There’s champagne at your booth and you’re much too eager to take a glass and start a toast. “Cheers, bitches!” you yell over the music, clinking your glass against theirs before downing the whole thing in one go.

It’s nowhere near enough.

There’s not enough buzz to dull the assault to your senses—not even after the three glasses of wine at dinner earlier. Everything is still too loud, too bright, too crowded, too… much.

“Hey!” you nudge Amara, who is sitting right next to you. “Let’s do shots!”

She turns to you, eyes widening at the slightest. “I thought you wanted to take it easy tonight!”

“Changed my mind,” you shrug, as you get up to the bar.

While you make your way through the crowd on the dance floor, Bradley Bradshaw looks up from his booth and does a double-take at the girl who just walked by. Even in a high-end club full of the well-dressed and well-heeled, people still get starstruck. And why wouldn’t they? You’re about as famous as an iPhone.

His eyes widen and immediately whips out his phone to shoot a text to his oldest and most trusted friend Natasha Trace.

‘Dude, I’m in the club and Y/N just walked in. What do I do??’

Natasha thankfully texts back almost immediately. Then again, maybe being a Communications Director for a major company requires her to be a good texter. ‘Wdym what do you do? Just go talk to her.’

‘You were supposed to introduce us!’ Bradley replies, eyes darting between his phone and you at the bar, conflicted.

Natasha is a mutual friend of yours, too, and when the Bracelet-gate clip went viral, she laughed in his face for a full 5 minutes before deciding to set the two of you up. But the schedule never really aligned, so he hasn’t got a chance to see you. Not even after he went to your concert with a friendship bracelet and a dream.

And now, seeing you here in the same room at the same time as him…

‘What do you want me to do, get down there and do it for you?’

‘...Can you?’

He senses the judgment even as the three dots appear on his screen.

‘Stop being a pussy, Bradshaw. Let me Netflix and chill with my gf in peace.’

Bradley scoffs, half-annoyed and half-fond. ‘Asshole. Have fun.’

The dance floor clears up, just enough to see that you’re right there. Leaning against the bar in your dress like a dirty daydream, talking to the bartender, and he couldn’t just let you go without a word. He thought about it, and he simply couldn’t.

“Oi, where are you off to?” His teammate Martin hollers, while the others watch him make his way to the bar in determined strides.

He squeezes past patrons across this jungle of a club, hoping to God that somebody hasn’t beaten him to talk to you yet, or you haven’t ducked out completely. Oh fuck. You’re still there, though. Good. You’re still at the bar, still glimmering under the mirrorball. Just a tap on the shoulder away. You can do it, Bradshaw…

“Excuse me, I—”

You feel the hand on your shoulder just as you turn and stand up, and in a flurry of miscoordination, looks up just as the other person moves in.

In a stroke of dumb luck, Bradley feels the top of your head slamming up against his nose and he groans in pain. “Ohh!”

“Shit! Oh my God…” you gasp, reaching out to the man in front of you. He’s tall, very tall, and you can’t quite see his face with his massive hand clutching his nose. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay. My bad…” It really doesn’t seem like it, so he lets go of his nose and smiles sheepishly. Gosh, he must’ve looked stupid right now.

But you see it differently. What you see is a dashing man in a sleek tieless navy suit and a well-groomed mustache, straight out of a Cinemascope flick, ever so handsome despite his reddened nose from the way you just accidentally headbutted him. “No, that was totally mine. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are crystal clear even in the dim light, the concern is palpable in your gaze—and rightly so. It’s just that he’d take the headbutt any day, if it means he can look at your beautiful face. “I’m… I’m swell. Y/N, right?”

There’s a shift in your gaze. First, alert—you’re assessing how much of a potential threat this person is, whether they’re gonna be weird about you— and then it relaxes. Not a threat. Then a slightest hint of mischief, like she wants to know what kind of dynamics they would have. “Have we met?”

And boy, can he.

“We haven’t, actually. But I went to your show at Wembley earlier this week. You were amazing.” He offers a handshake. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You didn’t quite catch his name over the blaring music, although you shake his hand anyway. “Sorry?”

He leans into your ear, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

You don’t know which one makes your heart skip, the sudden close proximity, the warmth of his timbre, or the whiff of his perfume.

“Right. Nice to meet you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You accept his handshake, hoping he doesn’t see how flustered you are in the strobing purple light.

“Likewise.” He nods with a smile. “And may I just say… you look stunning.”

“What, this old thing?” You brush down the art nouveau-inspired Balmain dress on your body. You’re just being modest, of course; you know you’re dressed to the nines. You have never been much into facial hair, but somehow that mustache suits him very well. “You don’t look so bad yourself. You remind me of a… young Robert Mitchum. Or Paul Newman— or one of those Golden Age leading men.”

His face lights up. It’s hardly the first time he received that kind of compliment, but when it came from you, it feels… different. It feels special. It makes him just a little bolder. “Yeah? Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be quoting lines from Butch Cassidy. Or would you prefer Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

This piques your interest. A man of culture, it seems. But of course, you can’t be too sure. “I’m more of a Paris Blues kinda gal, I’m afraid.”

Gosh, you don’t swoon so easily and he likes you so much for that. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good underrated musical movie, for the musically gifted… And Sidney Poitier was just fantastic in that.”

“Huh.” You raise your eyebrows. You honestly thought he was just spouting the famous titles. But the fact that he has likely seen this hidden gem might just mean he’s really into it. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

He leans in to speak in your ear yet again. “If you stick with me for a bit, I might show you another surprise or two.”

The music drowns out your racing heart just barely, and the bartender places a whole set of tequila shots on the bar top, and it snaps you out of your reverie for a moment.

“Wanna get some air?”

He seems surprised, but of course he wasn’t gonna throw away this shot. “Sure. Why not?”

You instruct the bartender to send the shots to your booth, not even spending ten seconds to ponder staying in this deafening hell hole. Not when this man looks like peace. Perhaps an undercurrent of mystery underneath, but his whole demeanor is as calm and comforting as those old-school movies you put on to fall asleep. At the same time, something about this person pulls you in, it’s almost magnetic, and you can’t help wanting to see this through.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fluff #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

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