#besides the day of fever and body aches so severe laying in bed hurt...but i painted so much and enjoyed life after that

[whorkn33]

blanket ghost breakdown

genre: angst words: 3139 warnings: mentions of death, being told to die, severe illness, vague themes of issues with abandonment and helplessness summary:  Komaeda has the despair disease, and suddenly it's like he's not the same person. You're just trying to help, to keep him in bed and watch over him in case his condition tanks again, but he seems dead set on making that as difficult for you as possible. a/n: i wrote this on a bad day where i just wanted to get what i was feeling out of my brain, so here it is lol. im fine btw, just needed an outlet and decided to post it bc i like the final product

☆~☆

You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept in two days now, mostly out of worry, but partially because he won’t shut up.

Komaeda is laying in his hospital bed, rambling on and on about how much he just fucking hates you, about how he thinks you’re a worthless piece of shit and he wishes you died instead of anyone else. He’s cackling in between his words, talking so much he’s constantly out of breath. 

He isn’t even looking at you anymore, tossing his head side to side as he giggles manically to himself. Every so often he’ll get a burst of energy and thrash about, screaming at you until his throat is raw to just leave him alone, get your ugly face out of his room before he vomits on his bedsheets.

You know logically he doesn’t mean any of it - that’s the nature of the despair disease, after all. But it still hurts. Komaeda had always treated you with nothing short of respect, even when you had your more clumsy moments. He had a weird, messed up way of communicating it, but you knew he cared for and respected you just as much as anyone else on the island. 

Even after his breakdown during the first trial, you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate him. You wanted to believe he was just scared, like everyone else, and acting out because of it. You knew the others judged you for it, and you couldn’t exactly blame them. He’d done some pretty messed up shit. 

Maybe you were just too empathetic. Or maybe Komaeda was just pretty enough for you to willingly put on a pair of rose-colored glasses.

Whatever your motivation, selfish or not, it landed you here. You’d been stationed with Komaeda, since you were the only one who could stand being around him for longer than two minutes, and your job was to make sure he didn’t do anything to hurt himself or anyone else, and call Tsumiki if his condition worsened.

You gave this job to yourself willingly, and while you don’t necessarily regret it, your patience is certainly beginning to wear thin.

You sat on a cool metal chair next to his bed and watched his lips form all the venomous words he spat at you, his face red and sweaty from his ridiculously high fever. His hair was sticking to his forehead, and though he usually seemed to be a bit colder than you, now you could feel the heat emanating from his body. 

You knew he must have felt horrible. You had to try four times before he would finally drink some water, and even then he kept a bit in his mouth to spit at you. But the look of relief on his face when he felt the cool glass against his burning skin and sipped told you everything.

You kept a glass of water on the small table beside his hospital bed now, along with a blood pressure cuff he had nearly thrown at Tsumiki last time she tried to use it. You’d just barely managed to wrench it out of his sweaty hands - for how skinny he is, you didn’t expect his grip to be that strong, especially while sick.

He coughs suddenly, a rough and scratchy sound that erupts from deep within his chest. His brow furrows and his eyes squeeze shut, his whole face twisting into a pained expression that makes your heart ache. You stand and move behind him to rub his back until it passes; it’s the only time you can touch him without him trying to shove you away. 

The moment he can draw a breath again, he’s back to talking. Back to insulting you, your talent, your friends, your entire existence. You sit back down in your chair and watch him lay back, fidgeting with the edge of the thin hospital blanket you’d thrown over him.

Tuning out his insults, you remember how scared you were when Komaeda collapsed in the restaurant. He’d let out such a choked noise, gasping for breath like he was being strangled, and his head collided with the hard wood floor before you could catch him. You remembered the panic that settled in your chest while you ran behind Hinata towards the hospital. That panic had simmered down over time, as you sat by Komaeda’s side, waiting for him to wake up. Eventually it pooled into your stomach, having concentrated itself into a feeling you could only describe as dread.

There was a scare for a moment, where you left for a drink and returned to find he had stopped breathing. You had helplessly pressed down on his chest, your knowledge of CPR very limited, as you screamed for someone, anyone to come help.

And then a few hours later, he opened his eyes, and for the first time in over 24 hours you felt hope. 

It lit up your chest as you watched his eyelids flutter open, his pupils darting around the room for a moment before they landed on you. As you locked gazes, that hope died when you caught the look in his eye, unlike anything you’d seen from him before. It was like the boy you met on the beach that day had vanished, replaced by a stranger. His eyes were dark swirls of emotions you couldn’t place, unfolding onto each other and mixing into a whole new person. And then he had cackled at you, maybe your expression gave away your agony, but he saw it and he could do nothing but laugh.

“Hey! Aren’t you listening?!” He snaps you out of your reminiscing, and you realize you’ve been crying. You turn your head so he won’t see you wipe away the tears, but he’s smart even when he’s sick, so he catches on. Laughter bubbles up out of him. “You’re crying?! Seriously?! That’s pathetic! Weeping into your hands like a child who got their candy stolen!”

You rest your elbows on your knees and hide your face with your palms, covering your tired eyes so the sunlight pouring through the window doesn’t hurt as much. He only cackles louder, and you’re sure everyone on this floor of the building can hear it, but can’t bring yourself to care. If you have to hear him berate you like this, if you have to be kept awake by his never ending babbling, maybe everyone else should be too.

‘That’s not fair.’ You think to yourself. ‘You’re just cranky from lack of sleep and this headache you’ve got, don’t take it out on the others.’

Suddenly, it’s strangely silent, and your eyes snap up to him frantically. His eyes have slid shut, his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing, and you sigh in relief. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last few hours now, probably exhausting himself with all the fucking talking he’s been doing. You repress the urge to sigh, afraid that even the slightest noise could wake him.

You stare at his unconscious body and feel tears pricking your eyes again. You don’t fight them, letting them slip down your cheeks freely. You hadn’t had a moment’s sleep since this all began, and it’s weighing on you now, making you more irritable and emotional. You’ve had a headache for hours now that no over the counter painkiller could help. 

Kuzuryu had brought you several drinks from the vending machine, so you would actually drink something - after the last time, you refused to leave him alone for even a moment, waiting until Tsumiki came in to check his vitals to use the restroom. You tuck a bottle of water under your shirt and open it very slowly and carefully, the fabric muffling any little sounds it makes. You take a drink and set it down on the floor beside you.

The room is a little chilly, but not so much that it’s uncomfortable. You lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling. You kept the lights in the room off until the sun went down in an attempt to stop the pain in your eyes, but it didn’t do much. At least you didn’t have to deal with the constant buzzing of the fluorescents. The only sound in the room was Komaeda’s breathing and your own. Without thinking, you hold your breath for a split second to sync your breaths with his. You don’t even realize you’re doing it at first, and when you do notice, you’re a bit embarrassed despite nobody being around to witness it.

You’re always a bit embarrassed around Komaeda. It’s stupid, really, considering no matter what you did you’re pretty sure he’d still sing your praises unconditionally, but you’re still nervous around him. At first, you were sure it was just because of his breakdown, but as time went on and you continued hanging around him, you slowly realized it was just his presence that made your stomach flutter. 

You pretended you didn’t know what it meant - now wasn’t the time for those feelings, not when lives were at stake. It was easier to accept your unease than to confront it head-on. Not the healthiest option, but certainly the easiest.

You hear a loud crash and it startles you out of your thoughts, your body lurching forward. Komaeda is on the ground next to the bed, having knocked over the small table next to his bed, sending the glass of water and the blood pressure cuff scattering across the floor. He pushes himself onto his hands and knees, grinning wildly and letting out a wheezy noise through his teeth. You notice the sun is much lower in the sky now, bathing the room in a golden light. You must have dozed off in your chair. That explains the ache in your back.

You get out of your chair and reach out to help him up, and he smacks your hands while he leans away from you, letting out a displeased grunt that you choose to ignore. You have to hook your elbows under his armpits and hoist him up from behind so you can get him back on the bed. He tries to steady his legs underneath his body, but they shake so hard it nearly throws both of you off balance.

“Fucking filthy,” Komaeda pants, clawing at the collar of his hospital gown as he lets out a wheezy, unhinged giggle that shakes his entire body. “You’re so fucking filthy, your hands have tainted me, I think I’m gonna be sick!” You ignore him, fluffing his pillow and flipping it over to the cool side before grabbing the thin hospital blanket and dragging it over him. The moment you let go, he grabs the blanket and flings it over you, and it drapes over your body and pools at your feet, turning you into a ghost before his eyes.

The sunlight can’t reach you under here, and the ache in your skull begins to subside a bit, despite his continued wheezing, babbling, and you have no choice now but to listen. He’s telling you how much he hates you, how disappointed he is in you, how he’s utterly disgusted by your presence. He laughs again and it rolls into a harsh cough. It sounds painful.

He doesn’t mean it.

“You look much prettier under there! Stay there! Don’t take it off, I might just leap out the window to get away!” 

He doesn’t mean it.

“I can’t-” He burst into another fit of giggles. “I can’t believe how stupid you are! Don’t you get it?! I don’t want you here! Nobody does!”

He doesn’t mean it.

“I…” A wheeze, a cough, he’s out of breath again but he can’t silence himself long enough to fill his lungs properly. “... I hate you. I hate you so much. I wish you would just-”

Your legs wobble for a moment before you collapse to your knees on the cool tile floor. The blanket pools further around you, its warmth and weight completely enveloping your body. You’re reminded of being a child again, wandering through the house with a blanket over your head and pretending to be some kind of spooky spectre. You would bump into walls without fail every single time. 

Your shoulders shake and you hold your breath to avoid sobbing, afraid of what he might say if he hears. Tears spill, but they’re hidden now. The only thing giving you away is how hard you’re trembling.

“You’re crying again?” He laughs. “At least your face is covered so I don’t have to see your pathetic face, even if your tears are soiling my blanket.”

“Shut up.” You whimper through your tears, and it sounds just as pathetic as you feel. You take a deep breath, hearing him shift around on the bed. He sounds a bit closer when he finally replies with a simple “Huh?”

“I said, shut up, Komaeda.” Your voice comes out more forceful this time, and you grip the blanket pooled on the floor around you until you’re sure your knuckles turn white. “Just shut up. Quit talking. For five minutes, please, for the love of god. I can’t…” Your voice shakes, throat tightens, and the tears start coming faster.

“Can’t what? Can’t stand to be away from me?” His tone is bitter, sarcastic, patronizing, but a sob finally escapes as you choke out a ‘Yes’ through your tears. You gasp for breath, and suddenly the dam breaks.

“When you were asleep, you quit breathing, and Komaeda I was fucking scared. I know you think everyone hates you, and some of them do, but-” You sniff, your nose is stuffy and your face is so damp with tears you’re starting to feel gross. “-but some of us actually don’t, and I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I thought you were going to die and I sobbed over you and I begged you to breathe again.”

He’s silent, but even if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself and listen. It spills out of you like a waterfall and you don’t have the energy to force it to stop.

“I stayed, I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, I watched you this whole time because I can’t be away from you or else you’ll die.” You bring your hands to your face and double over, your hands the only thing separating your face from the floor. “I can’t let you die. I can’t, I won’t. But ever since you woke up, you look at me like- you don’t even look like you anymore!”

You swallow thickly. “Y-you don’t look like you, you don’t talk like you, it’s like you’re already gone. It’s like you already left.” 

You’re surprised you managed to hold it together this long. You made it through two murders and two executions, watching your classmates drop like flies around you. You made it through night after night, laying in bed waiting for the next body discovery announcement. Waiting for the next motive. Waiting for a scream to rip through the quiet nighttime air, waiting to guess whose voice it was.

A barely audible squeak leaves your throat, a half-hearted attempt at continuing your rambling, but your lips can’t form the words. You press your palms over your ears, prepared to shut out another wave of harassment. You can’t handle another insult, you can’t handle hearing about how everyone hates you, about how you should be the next to die. It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie, because it’s coming from him. A boy you felt for. A boy you kept an eye on. A boy you were scared for, scared of losing. 

Why did the thought of losing him hurt you more than it would - or had - for any of your other classmates?

The question echoes in your brain like a gunshot. You gasp between sobs, unable to form a coherent thought, much less answer such a loaded question. You just sat on the floor, stifling any noise as much as you could, wrapping your arms around yourself and squeezing your eyes shut, wanting to bury yourself in the thin white blanket until you disappeared into the fabric.

It takes you a good few minutes to collect yourself. When you yank the blanket off your head, your face is still stained with tears, eyes still red and puffy, breath still shaking with each inhale. Komaeda is on the floor next to you (you aren’t sure when he did that), his head hanging low between his shoulder blades, his breathing soft and steady. He’s asleep again, you think. That should make this easier.

You use the edge of the blanket to dry your cheeks, taking a deep breath before pushing yourself up off the ground. You toss the blanket over your chair and situate yourself behind Komaeda, once again hooking your elbows under his armpits and lifting him back onto the bed with a grunt. He stirs the moment you touch him, but you have him back on the bed before he can truly wake up. You toss the blanket over him, tucking it in at the sides as his tired eyes drift open and shut.

You’re about to return to your chair when a warm hand wraps around your wrist. 

He looks up at you and his grin is gone, his face mostly relaxed save for a twinge in his brow. And there, for a split second, as you stand over him and mentally prepare yourself for another insult, you see it. It’s tiny, it’s fleeting, but you catch a glimpse of the boy you just got done crying over. He’s not gone forever - when he recovers, he’ll come back to you, and knowing him you’ll be enveloped in his arms. He’ll wrap his coat around your entire body and hide you away in his silhouette, spewing a constant stream of apologies, ways to make up for the things he said even if he doesn’t remember them. Something tells you he’ll remember this moment, your puffy red eyes staring down at him with a look that probably conveyed the unease and slight fear you were feeling towards him.

You sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, his eyes drifting shut a moment later. His long fingers hold you close to him, and you watch his chest rise and fall with his calm, sleepy breathing.

You watch over him silently as the sun finally dips below the horizon. His silence, despite his consciousness, tells you everything. 

Maybe he actually gives a shit about you beyond your talent.

Or maybe he just went quiet because you told him to shut up. He’s pretty good at that.

#nagito komaeda #nagito komaeda x reader #angst #danganronpa #sdr2 #despair disease #gender neutral reader

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Bring Me To My Knees

Part 3 (Read part 1 here, and part 2 here)

Dark!Ex-boyfriend Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings ⚠️: Dub-con/Non-con, smut (18+), stalking, obsessive behaviour, somnophilia, groping, mentions of violence, mild choking, creampie, mentions of blackmail and cheating, angst. (These warnings carry across to the other parts)

Summary: You're trying to move on from your ex-boyfriend, Billy Russo. It's a shame he won't let you.

A/N: Dedicated to @allegra-writes who got sick and inspired this fic. Hope you're better now ❤

You haven’t left your place in two days, and Billy gets worried. He tries to call but your phone goes right to voicemail, he even knocks on your door several times.

He knows you’re home- at least he thinks so. The only real way to know is to check for himself.

When he calls out your name and you don’t respond, he begins to panic, thinking that you might have been taken.

That’s until he finds you passed out on your bathroom floor.

“Y/N?” he calls in a panic, getting on his knees to feel for a pulse. Your skin is scorching hot, and your eyes are red.

You’re sick.

When he touches you, he sees your eyelids flutter, you're somewhat conscious.

He scoops you up easily, carrying you to your bed. He grabs whatever medicine he can find and encourages you to take it. You don’t even open your eyes, you’re too weak to move. He goes into the back of your closet and digs out an extremely soft blanket he once bought you and drapes it over your body.

He makes you some soup and carefully feeds it to you, hoping that you keep it down. The medicine pulls you into sleep and he lays beside you, making sure that you’re okay. When you start shivering, he pulls your body into his, and you curve into him gratefully.

He stays beside you for hours, holding you, worrying that he should take you to a hospital.

He’s almost asleep when he hears you call his name.

He looks down at you.

“What’re you doing in my place?” You try to push him away, but you’re too weak.

He shushes you, “We’ll worry about that when you get better. Okay?”

You still put up a small struggle, wiggling in his arms.

“Hey,” he says soothingly, “I just wanna make sure you get better. I won’t hurt you.” He pats the top of your head.

You go still, fatigue pulling your eyelids closed.

“You can’t hurt me more than you already have.” You mumble, just before you fall asleep.

You initially fight him at every turn, grumbling when he pries your mouth open to place the foul tasting medicine on your tongue, pinching your nose and covering your mouth until you swallow. You weakly slap at his hands when he strips you bare to help clean you, rubbing a damp cloth into your skin. He even palms at your breasts and ass several times which makes you angrily tug at some strands of his beard, knowing he doesn't like it.

It’s four days before you can stand on your own, and Billy hasn’t left your side since.

You pass out shaking a couple of times before you eventually agree accept his help ans not ask questions or fight him as he nurses you back to health.

He helps you to the bathroom, cooks healthy meals for you and gives you your medication on time. He rubs your feet when they ache and puts a cool rag on your forehead when your fever spikes.

Your heart hurts everytime you look at him, you want to ask him why he’s here, but you’re not ready for the confrontation just yet.

He holds you close to his chest at night whilst you sleep, and you let him. He doesn’t kiss you, probably to stop himself from being infected with whatever you have- but you find yourself wanting him to.

“I’m stupid, aren’t I?” you finally say to him on day six, sitting on your couch, watching him prepare dinner.

He glances up at you with a small smile.

“No, you’re not, you’re smart for prioritizing your health over whatever we’re doing right now.”

“What are we doing right now? How did you get in?”

“I have a copy of your apartment key.” He says matter-of-factly.

“What?”

He takes a breath. It’s time to come clean to you. He stops what he’s doing and moves to sit beside you.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, and you wait patiently.

“I’m so sorry for what I did to you- about Madani. She’s my worst mistake, my biggest regret. We had sex three times. We were, uh, I was… seeing her for a total of five weeks. I was using her…. And when I got what I wanted, I left. She obviously wasn’t too happy about that.”

You nod, remembering the night Dinah knocked on your door to tell you that Billy was cheating on you. You had already figured that he had done something to piss her off.

It hurts to hear it though, but you let him speak.

“I didn’t know how much you meant to me- how deeply I felt for you, until I lost you. I thought getting over you would be easy- but it wasn’t. Losing you was one of the biggest mistakes of my life and I’m asking you… if it’s possible for you to give me another chance? I’ll never do something like that again. Ever.”

You clench your jaw, looking down at your hands, a lump formed in your throat.

“I can’t.”

“Please.” He gasps, his eye fill with tears, he blinks rapidly to push them back.

“If I- If I give you another chance, I won’t be able to trust you like I did before. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder. Always worried that you’re fucking someone else behind my back.”

“I’ll give you access to my phone! My computer! I’ll wear a tracking monitor on my ankle if I have to!”

Your eyebrows furrow, you give him a small shake of your head.

“That’s not fair to you, Billy. If you’ve really changed, you deserve someone who can give you their complete trust. Don’t give me that much power over you. There’s someone prettier, funnier, smarter out there-“

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours swiftly to stop whatever you’re about to say next.

You pull back swiftly.

“What are you doing?! I might still be contagious-“

His hand cup either side of your face.

“I don’t fucking care.” Is all he says before his lips are back on yours again.

You kiss him back eagerly, missing his mouth after not kissing him for a long, lonely year.

You make a disapproving sound in the back of your throat, pulling back. He growls in frustration, pulling you until you’re seated in his lap.

“Woah, woah, we were talking.” You say, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“Sorry. Had to stop you from saying something stupid.” He lets out a little laugh when he sees your eyes roll. “There may be people out there better than you, but I only want you. It may take a while for you to trust me again, and it may be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but I’m asking you to try.”

You shake your head, deep in thought.

"It really will be the hardest thing I've ever done, and you're still asking that of me."

He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses at your fingers.

“I know you still like me. That you miss me and you can’t stop thinking about me.”

You fix him with a stern look.

“How do you know that? How did you make a copy of my key?” Scary speculations start filling your head. “Tell me what you’ve done.”

“Promise me you’ll give me a second chance. And I’ll tell you everything.”

“Billy-“

“One more chance. That’s it. If it doesn’t work out… I’ll never bother you again. Please, Y/N, I know what I’m asking of you, I’m not your mom, and you’re not your dad.”

You look at him, you really look at him, his dishevelled hair, his beard that’s grown just a little too long, his tired black eyes. He spent six days, pinned to your side, taking care of your every need, giving you sponge baths when you were too weak to hold your head up, holding you tight to his body when you were shivering from the fever, he even called a doctor to check you out when you were unconscious for a little too long. He called your work and explained your illness. He found you, passed out on your bathroom floor and he took the time to nurse you back to health.

That alone was probably worth a second chance, right?

“And what if I told you no?” you say softly, “What if I told you to leave right now and I never want to see you again?”

He takes a shaky breath.

“Then you’d never see me again. But that doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying to get you back. I’ll still send you flowers, I’ll still threaten every guy that looks in your direction, I’ll still give the doorman an umbrella on a rainy day and make him give it to you while he explains that he had an extra and you look like you could use it.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, recalling a similar scenario happening a few months ago.

You can’t help the fact that your mouth curves up into a smile with amusement. You shift on his lap, feeling his erection press against the inside of your thigh.

“And is that all you’ve done for me? Gave me an umbrella on a rainy day and cockblock some guys?”

He has the decency to look guilty. He shakes his head, looking away.

“Hey.” You say softly. He looks up at you.

“If you tell me the whole truth, right now… no matter how bad it is- I’ll give you that second chance.”  

 “You may not like some of the things you hear. I’m not- I wasn’t a good person without you.”

You nod, attempting to understand.

“The whole truth, and you’ll have me back.”

He nods.

“Well, for starters-“ He grabs a tiny dolphin figurine sitting on your coffee table. He presses his hand into the small of your back to support you while he moves. He puts it between you and flips it over. On the underside, you see a small shiny device. He pulls it out of the ornament, placing the dolphin back in its place and holding the little device out to you.

“You bugged my apartment?”

He nods, “I bugged your apartment. You left your keys in your gym locker and it wasn’t hard to open your locker and make a copy of the key.”

You put one hand over your mouth, turning over the small device in your fingers. A short, sharp laugh bursts from your lips- the idea that someone-anyone- would even want to listen to what you’re doing throughout your day.

“This isn’t funny.” You say seriously, another laugh escaping your mouth.

“What else have you done?” you ask.

“I… got you promoted.”

You frown.

“It’s not like you didn’t already deserve it. But your boss was going to choose that girl he was sleeping with over you… so I just… gave him a nudge.”

You nod your head, trying to wrap your mind around it.

His index finger comes up to trace your lips.

“I’d do… anything for you.”

You lean forward to kiss him, sighing into his mouth, licking at his lips so that he gives you entrance. You grip his hair, rubbing your body against his. He groans, wrapping his arms around your middle, pinning your body to his.

“You say you’d do anything, but you won’t leave me alone.” You murmur into his mouth.

“You don’t want me to leave you alone.” He counters, pulling your shirt over your head in one swift move.

He unclasps your bra and tosses it behind him. He pushes you back until you’re lying on the couch with his body between your legs.

He kisses your neck and works his way down to your breasts. He runs the tip of his tongue over your nipple, moving between them whilst moaning.

“You’re so soft.” He gasps against your sternum.

You tug at his shirt too, running your hands over the broad expanse of his back.

“Is that all you did?”

He laughs, his breath tickling your tummy. He kisses at the soft skin.

“You remember Jon?”

“The guy from the coffee shop that asked me on a date?”

He nods, “I broke his arm.”

Your mouth drops open.

“I also convinced the guy from the club that you were gay, and I hid your condoms, and I ripped your pretty black dress, and I sabotaged your vibrator.” He says in a rush.

He tugs your shorts and underwear off your body.

“You may not have seen me, but I was always there. I wasn’t going to let another man touch you. I had contingency after contingency in place to make sure that my cock would be the only one filling this tight pussy.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, moaning when his thumb brushes over your clit.

“My pussy isn’t that good, Billy.”

He growls, looking down at you.

“That’s your opinion.” He unbuttons his pants and undoes the zipper, pushing the material down his thighs and freeing his erection.

“You’re mine, and nobody touches you… whether you agree or not.”

He sighs harshly, leaning forward to kiss you.

“I’ll be more gentle next time.” He promises, before lining himself up and pushing himself into you in one swift move.

You gasp, feeling a mild burn at the stretch. It’s been a whole year since you had anything this big inside you and you struggle to accommodate his girth.

His knuckles turn white where they grip the couch, he’s almost afraid he’ll rip it to shreds. It’s just that you feel so good- too good. He hasn’t had anyone in a year, and he feels the effect that has on him.

He doesn’t bother trying to go slow, slamming into you and listening to you cry out at his intrusion.

He pumps his hips expertly, trying to get you just needy enough so that he can confesses his last things.

“Pussy feels like heaven. Never should have hurt you. Never should have taken you for granted.”

His mouth is right by your ear, “Won’t make that mistake again. I love you and I’m not letting you go.”

His soft words are violently contrasted by the harsh thrust of his hips.

“Don’t say- ah- don’t say things you…fuck!- things you don’t mean.”

 He growls, biting your shoulder roughly, making sure you feel it.

“I mean it.” He grunts. “I fucking mean it.”

You squeeze him tighter, so close. His cock filling you just the right way- at just the right pace. Your eyes roll back, orgasm imminent.

His hips stop.

You groan, clawing at him, frustration mounting.

“One more thing.”

“Fuck! Now?!” You say, clenching your jaw as your nails dig into his shoulder.

You try not to be too upset when you see the solemn look on his face.

Oh god, did he sleep with someone else? That would be okay… right? I mean, you were broken up, so it should be fine. Unless you weren’t broken up… in which case all your promises were about to go out the window

“That night I saw you, and you told me to stop sending you flowers… I followed you home. I was so upset that you were trying to move on from me, and I knew you mixed the wine with the sleeping pills and I-“ He shuts his eyes tightly. You rub his shoulders soothingly, encouraging him to continue.

“You were wearin’ my shirt, and you looked so pretty- and your hair smelt so good and I couldn’t help myself.”

You try to recall the night, but it’s a bit fuzzy. You vaguely remembered waking up and thinking you were all sorts of fucked in the head when you caught his scent.

“What did you do?” you ask softly, afraid of the answer.

“I pushed your shirt up. I licked at these pretty buds,” his thumbs flick over your nipples, “I spread your thighs and kissed your sweet pussy until you were dripping wet for me in your sleep.”

He smiles, cock still buried to the hilt inside you, feeling the way you squeeze him tighter as he speaks. You like this.

It fills him with confidence.

“You came, on my tongue, in your sleep, as if your body knows who it belongs to.”

“That’s so fucked up, Billy.” You murmur.

“I think you wouldn’t mind if I did it again.”

“What? No I wouln’t-“

His hand reaches up to grip your jaw.

“Then why is your cunt squeezing me so fucking tight?” He leans in till your lips are touching.

“You can lie to yourself, but not to me, and not like this. You’d like it if I used you in your sleep again.”   

He resumes his rough thrusts- unable to stop himself when you’re clenching so hard around him. 

“How’d you feel if you woke up with my cum coating your pussy this time, hmm? Or maybe I’ll come inside you and make a little video of it dripping out.”

You give up on pretending that his words aren’t fueling your desire. You moan desperately, thinking about the ways he could use you, happy to be owned by him.

You moan his name, so close to bliss, hoping that he takes pity on you and lets you cum.

He kisses you, licking into your mouth as his thrusts get harsher, you try to pull away for a breath, but he doesn’t let you. He closes his hand around your throat, watching your eyes widen as he cuts off your air.

“Cum for me.” He growls.

Your eyelids flutter, mouth open in a silent scream as you cum hard around his cock. He releases his grip on your neck and the added rush of air enhances and prolongs your orgasm. Tears fill your eyes as strong emotions flood your head, overwhelmed with his body all around you.

He wastes no time- pulling out of you and flipping you over. Keeping your body flat against the couch, he spreads you open and pushes his cock back into you. He feels bigger in this position, with your legs closed. You moan, clenching as he resumes his rough fucking.

He watches the spot where you’re joined to him, keeping your cheeks spread apart. He bends his head slightly and dribbles some of his saliva over your back entrance. He watches, immensely pleased as his spit drips down to where he’s fucking you deep.

He can’t help but fuck into you harder, loving the filthy, desperate gasps, and mindless moans that you can’t hold back. He no longer feels guilty for anything he’s done within the last year, knowing that it’s lead him to this point makes it all worth it.

Your lip wobbles, a small whine escaping the back of your throat as you squeeze him hard, coming around him for a second time.

He barely gives you any reprieve, pulling you up and sitting you back down onto his cock. His breathing puffs harshly into your ear, his hot chest pressed to your back. He continues to guide your hips up and down his cock.

“ ‘s too much- I can’t.”

“Don’t fucking care. Take it.”   

He doesn’t stop whispering in your ear between his moans, a somewhat constant string of Take it. Take it. Take it. Take it. Take it.      

He gives you no choice but to have another orgasm, going almost limp in his arms.

You struggle to catch your breath, not even noticing when he moved you onto your back and props one of your legs onto his shoulder. He’s slipping back into you- all semblance of resistance- gone.

“So pretty. Love you so much. Could fuck you for days.”

You nod in agreement, ready and willing to be railed for however long he says.

His thumb taps gently on your clit, guiding you steadily to your last orgasm.

“One more, princess, give me one more.”

You nod obediently, arching your back, pulling his mouth down to yours. You cry out into his mouth as your final orgasm hits, he moans in approval, making a couple of harsher thrusts before he’s releasing into you.

You feel his hips stutter, the pulsing of his cock and you squeeze him tightly one more time, milking him for all he’s worth.

He swears, and you smile blissfully at his reaction.

He peppers kisses into your chest the way you know he likes to do. You briefly wonder if he did the same thing with Madani.

You swallow, trying not to let the hurt show on your face. You take a deep breath.

“What? What is it?” He asks, picking up on your mood shift.

“If you lie to me again, you’ll never find me. I’ll drop everything I have, everyone I know, and you’ll never see me again. I won’t even give you a chance to explain or apologize.”

He sighs, giving you a wry smile, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

“I’d die before I lie to you again.” He says passionately, you somehow find a way to believe him.

You sigh, "I'm scared."      

He nods against your chest in understanding, "I know what I'm asking. I know it's hard. I love you, and I'd go to the ends of the earth for you."

You smile at him, heart stuttering pathetically at his words.

~

Of course he gets sick.

You're left to deal with a grumpy, needy marine in your bed groaning.

It's not as bad as your illness though- having caught it in time.

He looks cute, with his red nose and watery eyes, begging you for sex.

"Pleasee," he asks, voice nasal, "Just sit on m'cock. I won’t move, I'll be good."

"I'm not letting you talk me into this, you fainted from your last orgasm, Billy."

"I'll die if I don't get your tight pussy."

You laugh.

"You'll be fine, you big baby." You argue.

"No, I'll die, 'm dying right now." He folds his arms petulantly.

You snort, moving to curl yourself into his body. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you and pull you closer.

"When I marry you, I'm not making you sign a pre-nup." He says suddenly.

"What the fuck is going on inside your head?"

"If you want half of my stuff I'll give it to you willingly."

"Jesus Christ, Billy, my pussy isn't that good."

He giggles, high on medicine and almost half asleep.

"You're wrong. But I love you anyways."

You can't resist a laugh at his expense.

#dark!billy russo #billy russo #my writings #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #the punisher #ben barnes #billy russo smut #this probably suxx #i tried

[warmblanketwhump]

Idk if its too late to send this in but if it isn't, how about ⬤ and ✿?

✿: feeling so out of it, they need constant attention

⬤: being called soft things like baby, sweetheart or honey

(note: this MIGHT be cheating but my poor brain was stuck on ideas SO this is a part two to this prompt fill! would recommend reading that first for context, but pretty sure you can enjoy them independently :)

To any other person, the remote cabin would have looked like any old shack – slightly dilapidated, covered in moss, nested away among the trees. But to a lost, soaked, chilled-to-the-bone A, the cabin looks like a warm little slice of heaven, and it takes all they have not to run up the stairs. Instead, they slide an injured B off of their back and help them hobble to the small porch.

The pair limp across the threshold of the cabin and leave the pattering rain behind them, entering a small, spotlessly clean living room that smells of cedar and pine. A large, squashy-looking couch faces a dark fireplace with a tall stack of split logs nearby, and to the right of the doorway is a small kitchen. In the back, A spots a darkened bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and a linen closet. The cabin's rustic, so there's no electricity or hot water - just a single spigot and a gas stove for cooking.

They set a trembling B on the couch, pushing away the guilt of yelling at them earlier, of making them come out here in the first place.

“I’ll find us some towels and blankets. Can you start getting your wet clothes off?” Amid their violent shivers, B nods and starts shedding A’s raincoat and their own denim jacket with pruned, fumbling fingers. The sight nearly crushes A, but they know someone has to go find blankets to help them both get warm.

A pushes into the bathroom and locates several clean, threadbare towels, then heads to the linen closet. They nearly burst into happy tears when they see the large bundle of hideous plaid blankets and a couple piles of flannel and thermal clothing stacked neatly in the corner (forgotten by whoever rented it last, they guessed) and grab as much as their numb fingers can hold.

When they return to the couch, they find B in nearly the exact spot they left them - denim jacket off one arm, on the other, rain jacket fallen to the floor. They're hunched over, stiff with cold, arms crossed tightly.

“Oh sweetheart.…” A sighs, dropping the blankets on the couch and rushing to them.

“T-tried to ch-change. F-fingers won't-t work-k. I’m s-sorry-”

“B, you have nothing to be sorry about. I should’ve helped you in the first place.” A unthreads the soaked clothing from B’s shaking frame, gently patting their wet skin dry and lightly squeezing the water droplets out of their hair with a towel.

B’s eyes are bleary and unfocused, but they respond to A’s simple commands as they dress them in a pair of warm red flannel pants and a grey thermal long-sleeve. A casts a glance towards B's swollen ankle - it's not the worst injury they've ever seen, but it's definitely got to hurt. They dart back to the bathroom and locate a small first aid kit with a cloth bandage, and tenderly wrap up the sore ankle to immobilize it.

When they’re finished, they wrap B in two blankets: one around their legs and elevated ankle, and the other over their wet head and trembling shoulders. B sneezes, cinches the blanket tighter and groans.

“Look-k like a Russian p-peasant woman.” B grumbles, and A can’t help but let a chuckle escape. They really do look like a grandma, with only their face sticking out of the blanket cape.

“Alright, then, babushka. Let me get a fire started, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

Mercifully, it only takes a few minutes for A to get a roaring fire going. A drapes another blanket around B's shoulders and gives them a quick, reassuring rub.

“I’m gonna change, okay? You just worry about warming up.” B moans weakly and pulls the blanket over their nose, edging closer to the flame’s heat.

A peels off their wet clothing in the drafty bedroom, hurriedly drying their own cold skin and pulling on their own warm clothes - a cream thermal and blue flannel pants. The brief exposure makes them shiver, and they chafe their arms and legs to rub away the goosebumps and the damp chill that sinks into their marrow. For just a moment, they acknowledge how cold they are, too. God, they wish this place had hot water.

The adrenaline of the moment begins to fade, and several facts strike them at once. They were freezing. They were stuck in a remote cabin with no electricity for the weekend. This whole weekend was their idea - and all their fault. And they felt guilty as hell about it.

Squeezing their wet hair, they shove the intrusive thoughts from their mind and grab a blanket from the bed to wrap tightly around their own shoulders, along with a couple pillows from the bed for B.

On returning to the living room, they see B managed to hop on their one good leg over to the fire, leaving a trail of two of their other blankets behind. They’re huddled as close as possible to the warm glow, head resting on the hearth. A drops the pillows on the couch and kneels down, running their fingers through B’s damp hair, now exposed by the fallen blanket.

“Feeling any better, love?”

B gives a small, wan smile that fails to light up their peaked face and shakes their head, turning to cough. When they’ve finished, they shudder weakly, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Can’t shake the chill in my bones.” B coughs again. A can see them rubbing their arms under the blankets. “Heat’s bouncing right off me. And I ache all over, not just my ankle.” Another chill rattles their teeth, and they pull the blanket up to their chin. “I just can’t warm up at all.”

A pulls a shivery B into a hug, rubbing their shoulders and trying to share the little body heat they’ve created - unlike B, the fire’s warmth is beginning to thaw them out. In the dim firelight, A can see a sheen of sweat on B’s forehead, and alarm bells go off. Instinctively, A reaches out to press their cold hand to it. It’s warm now. Too warm for someone who just spent two hours trekking through the cold rain.

"Sweetheart, you're feverish. That’s why you’re achy and chilled.”

“S’pose it makes sense. I’m just freezing.” A gust of wind rattles the cabin, and a draft snakes its way into the living room, making B shudder and curl up even closer to A. “I’d kill for a hot shower right now.”

“Don’t go all ‘The Shining’ on me yet - we just got here.” A grabs a towel to try and further dry B’s damp hair. It was probably an old wives’ tale, but they didn’t have many options to keep a sick person comfortable out here, and wet hair couldn’t feel good.

B had complained about feeling a cold coming on a couple days ago, and mentioned that they might not want to go this weekend. A had made fun of them for it, joking about how someone like B never let a little cold get them down. And now, thanks to them, B was even sicker. They really were the worst friend in history.

“Do you think you could manage some tea?" A asks quietly. B closes their eyes and nods, laying their head back on the hearth.


It takes a few minutes, but A manages to light the gas stove and locate a kettle, along with a dusty box of herbal tea tucked away in a cupboard. Whoever they had rented from had stocked it high with all kinds of canned soups and dry goods, so at least they’d be prepared for the long haul.

A sudden glance out the window reveals that the rain has turned into fat, white snowflakes, whirling in the sky and dusting the porch. A rubs their hands together, holding their chilled fingers as close to the stove flame as possible. The kettle whistles and A pours two cups, reveling in the warm steam that tickles their nose.

Once the tea is brewed, they make their way back to the fireplace. B's too weak to lift their own head, so A sits behind them and props them up, holding the teacup and helping them take small sips of the warm liquid. Once the cup is empty, A helps B lay their head back on the hearth before adding a few more logs to the fire and starting on their own tea.

Despite the warm fire, A can feel the ambient temperature of the room dropping. There's no way B's going to stay warm enough in the bedroom, so they’ll just have to make do out here for now.

After pushing the couch until it's just inches in front of the fire, A sweeps B into their arms and helps them back to the couch, easing them gently onto the pillows they've laid and tucking a blanket back around them. Even this close to the fire, the brief movement had set off another round of bone-shaking chills in B, and they grip their blanket so hard A’s afraid they’ll tear it.

“A?" B's voice is weak.

“I’m right here.”

“A, can you hold me? Please?” The desperation is palpable. B’s breathing is hoarse and they're close to tears, arms wrapped tightly around themselves. “Shivering hurts, but I can’t stop. I know you probably don’t want to get sick from me-”

A’s heart breaks. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll keep you warm.” They slide onto the couch and wrap their own blanket around the both of them, pulling B’s fevered body to their chest. B clings to their body, and A can feel the shakes that ripple through them. A gently massages their arms and back in slow circles and B presses closer, the vulnerability almost too much to bear.

Finally, A says what’s been eating away at them for hours. “B, I’m so sorry for what I said on the trail. I shouldn’t have said it, and I didn’t mean it. I do want you here. And now we’re here, and you're sick and hurt and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry for that too.” The apology comes out in such a rush, and B is quiet for so long in their arms that they doubt B even heard it.

But then they feel B’s trembling arms squeezing their waist. “Nature’s not your fault, A. Besides, if being taken care of is a part of your apology, it's warm and I'll take it."

A grips B even tighter, fighting back tears. “Whatever happens this weekend, I’ve got you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do. You always have,” B mumbles as they slip into a restless sleep. In front of the warm fire, A reasons that the drafty bedroom was probably too cold for anyone to sleep in. No, they were perfectly content to stay right here with B - and not even the promise of a warm shower could lure them away.

#this is a damn novel but whatev #I loved it too much to stop #sickfic #sickfic prompt #whump prompt #cold whump #cabin whump #shivering #flu #fever #blankets #hurt comfort #lost in the woods #this was so fun to write #literally sat on this the entire holiday weekend #edited this SO MANY TIMES #this is what happens when you adore a trope #my writing

[amidstsaltandsmoke]

51&84 plss you drables are so cute. its like a comfort read

Anon, thank you 😭 that's sweet of you to say and I'm happy that you think so! Thus, here is my gift to you; hope you enjoy it!! 🥰 _____________________ Prompts: “I’m your husband. It’s my job.” & “Come on, baby, up to bed.”

Jon Snow was certain about approximately two things: one, that he adored and cherished and loved his wife more than any other living soul on the planet. And second, that she had to be the most bullheaded, stubborn piece of work he’d also ever come to know. He knew these things could not be, and were not, mutually exclusive.

At present, Daenerys was buzzing around the house, corner to corner, leaving not a centimeter untouched with her magic cleaning sponge, the vacuum practically an extra limb at this point, and a bucket full of various other cleaning supplies.

She had come down with a nasty case of the flu two days ago, and he could not figure out why (for the life of him) she was absolutely insistent that she do this. Actually, he did: her parents were in town, had dropped in last minute yesterday afternoon, and all but demanded they come over tomorrow to visit. Even despite Dany telling them over and over again that it wasn’t a good time right now, that she would get them sick (selflessly leaving out the bit where she was actually, completely miserable).

Jon didn’t much care for her parents, but he was able to survive their get-togethers thus far. Seven years and he hadn’t yet lost his mind in their presence. They were rich, snobby, judgmental arseholes who disapproved of every decision Dany made in her life because she had made them and went against their expectations. Even down to their house decor, or tidiness, which was why Dany was being the way she was right now.

They especially did not approve of her choice of husband, but he couldn’t bother to give any less fucks. She was his, and he was hers, and the Targaryen in-laws could quite honestly shove their phony, one-dimensional personalities right up their uptight asses.

...Maybe he was a little bitter.

Nothing he did could convince Dany to stop. She’d been going and going with barely a break, except when he could distract her enough to do so, whether by luring her into the family room to catch her favorite movie and fibbing a little by telling her it was on cable (it wasn’t, but there was something about them being on live telly that she loved so much, even despite owning the physical copies, which he had put on to convince her to sit her perky little arse down). Or, when he’d set up the extra bed in the guest room for her parents to stay (he prayed to all seven gods it wouldn’t come to that), that he really needed her to go lay on it for a few minutes and be sure it was comfortable enough (because, yes, her parents were that finicky and found no issue voicing their opinions). When she hadn’t come down ten minutes later, he found his plan had worked, and she had passed out.

It didn’t last; she had woken in a panic some thirty minutes later, half-asleep and still muttering that there was too much to do yet.

Multiple times did he attempt to intervene and take over, but she would not have it. And he understood it on a normal day when they might host something; she had certain things she was particular about, and he had his. But this was overkill, even on a normal day. He took to all the other chores, but not without keeping two eyes wide open on her, for fear she would exhaust herself into a coma.

At the rate she was scrubbing away every spec of dirt she could find, he was beginning to worry she’d burn holes in the walls and floors. He was exhausted just by watching her, and he decided he had enough. Her hair was frizzed and pulled away from her face, her skin clammy, her pallor more desaturated than normal and that was with a new golden tan after their mini vacation, and overall, she appeared too frail for his liking.

Jon set down the clothes he had bundled up before he was going to shower, padding over to where she was on her hands and knees, swiping away at the floorboards. “Dany...come on. You need rest, not to be worrying over parts of the house nobody notices.”

As soon as she halted her movements and cut him a glare, which was adorably terrifying despite her condition, he knew she was right, even without any words. Her parents did notice these things, for why he could never and would never even begin to try to understand, but to be reiterated, he gave zero shits as to what they thought.

They lived a perfectly comfortable life, organized messes and all.

Resuming her cleaning, he was shocked by how weak her voice sounded. “Would you rather they nag me about my inability to manage a house - or my life, for that matter - or listen to them ramble about their thousandth trip to the Virgin Islands?"

"If it were up to me they wouldn’t be coming at all,” he muttered, earning himself a look that, this time, read, ‘I know, me too’.

Jon sighed. “I’m goin’ to shower - if I find you down here still at it…,” he cut her his best implacable eye, brows raised.

Dany went to roll her eyes, then winced and squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers rubbing at her orbital sockets. She was so congested that she couldn’t even get snarky with him. Instead, she playfully, threw a wet rag in his direction, but it fell with a sad flop barely two feet from where she was kneeling. She burst into a snotty fit of giggles, whilst Jon simply shook his head at his wife and her heavy red eyes, clucking his tongue. “Am I to take that as you throwing in the towel?”

“Jon!” She squeaked, a nasally little sound as she doubled over, not an ounce of energy in her petite and fatigued frame to handle even that. “Augh, disgusting,” she mused after a minute, grabbing a tissue from the second box that had been attached to her hip and blowing her nose.

“I mean it, Dany - ten minutes. Consider that a warning. No arguing this time,” he jut his index at her, but she waved him off without acknowledging him as if she had the most mild case of a cold and not severe body aches, a sinus headache, chills, and fever. Because her parents had never supplied her with love and comfort as a child, her defense mechanism was to do everything herself as often as possible.

It was still a work in progress; she was better at accepting his help these days (except for now, when her parents exacerbated her need to prove herself, of which she most certainly did not need to do), and she was open to letting him pamper her with all the TLC he wanted to give her. He understood that desire for independence, he longed for it himself, but it was time to take matters into his own hands.

________________________________________

Less than ten minutes later, after a quick washing down, Jon came downstairs, and paused. He didn’t hear any sign of movement at all, and for a moment he panicked, the worst of his thoughts diving into his worst fears that she passed herself out from exertion.

However, to his (sort of) relief, he discovered her sitting and hunched over the kitchen table, her forehead on her arms. As he stepped closer, she produced a towel, the very one she’d tried to assault him with earlier, and flung it blindly across the table. “Yes, that’s meant to be literal this time,” she mumbled in the cave she was hiding herself in.

With a victorious smile, Jon made a quick job of switching off the lights, then tucked one arm under her knees and the other around her back. The deep wrinkle between his brow was immediate. “Gods, Dany, you’re soaked.”

She hummed a pitiful laugh into his neck where she nuzzled. He’d foregone a shirt, and her skin was blazing against his, even through her clothes. “Not the first time you’ve told me that.”

“Seven hells,” he grumbled good-naturedly, “and you’re delirious. Come on, baby, up to bed. Let’s get you a bath goin’ first though, love.”

________________________________________

After some careful finessing, Jon deposited Dany atop the closed toilet seat, then went off in search of clean, dry, cool clothes for her. While the bath filled, he instructed her to stay where she was so he wouldn’t need to worry about her hurting herself with how unbalanced she was at the moment.

He boiled her a cup of ginger sweet tea and water, dumped a couple of ibuprofen into his palm, and made his way back to her. Luckily, she didn’t try to move, and soon enough he was helping her peel away her sweat-ridden clothes and getting her into the bath. Nothing too hot so her fever wouldn’t spike further, but a little tepid.

As soon as her medicine was down and he handed her her tea, she turned her sleepy eyes on him where he knelt beside the tub, freeing one hand to gently scrape over his beard. “You spoil me,” she murmured, a soft smile tugging on her lips.

He took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm, scooting closer so he could do the same to her damp forehead. “I’m your husband; it’s my job,” he said, his own eyes weighing down as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

The water had begun to cool shortly after, and a chill took over her. Jon grabbed the thickest towel in their storage closet and wrapped her up like a newborn babe, swaddling her with his arms until the quivering stopped. The medicine still had some time to kick in yet.

Clothed in a tank top and underwear, dry, and warm enough, Dany let him carry her to their bed, setting her down on her side and bringing a light sheet up to her waist. Once the lights were off, he slid in beside her, the pair of them immediately seeking out the other, her back to his front. Jon sat up to lean his head in his hand, using the miniscule light from outside to see her and brush some half dry hair away from her face, running his knuckles down her arm and back up again.

Dany rolled onto her back, her eyes adjusting until she could see him clearly enough. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered. His heart broke, and virus be damned, he leaned down and kissed her plump lips, though she tried (and failed) to weakly push him away.

“You’ll get sick,” she said, her hand cradling his neck.

“Worth it," he declared, giving her neglected lips several more pecks before laying back on his side. "Dany…"

"Mm?" She rolled so she could face him.

“You never have to thank me for taking care of you,” he said softly, tugging her closer, but also trying to be mindful of too much shared body heat would make her fever rise.

“Okay,” she agreed, her voice slightly hoarse.

“I love you,” he whispered against her forehead.

“I love you, too. Even when I’m a disgusting snotty, sweaty, contagious mess?”

“Do you remember our first date?” He smiled into the dark room, a chuckle already bubbling up in his throat.

“I don’t think I could ever forget you trying to pretend you weren’t on your deathbed, just to go on a date with me,” she mused, and he could hear her own grin in her words, her head tilting up so that she could see him.

Ah, yes. The ultimate game of cat and mouse. Daenerys Targaryen had been convinced she would never date again, never give a man a second look for at least another twenty years. Even after Robb introduced the two of them, and Jon was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain he’d fallen in love with her at first sight, she was reluctant. For six months. But he was patient, and he gave her space while also being conscientious that there was a balance between coming off as far too clingy and seemingly disinterested if he didn’t at least try to find a place in the back of her mind.

Naturally, as was his luck, she finally accepted...and the next morning he’d woken up with a severe bout of the stomach flu. Fate was trying to fuck with him, but despite a trip to the toilet to heave every forty-five minutes, the gods would not win that day. Unfortunately, their plans included dinner, and nothing would stay down in the time leading up to their date. They went to a movie first, and he only had to make two trips to the bathroom to throw up all of his popcorn. When dinner came, it was so physically demanding to keep everything from not reproducing onto the shared table between them, Dany noticed the sweat on his face and kept having to ask him if he was alright

Then his anxiety spiked and he knew, for sure, he would fuck up a very important day by completely freaking her out by his odd behavior. There was bowling, and then they concluded with ice cream, and that did him in. As they took a would-be romantic stroll around the nearby park, the garbage bin never looked so appealing, and that was where he, ironically, definitely fell in love with her. Because rather than run away or laugh at his humiliation, she threw out her (and his) remaining ice cream and rubbed his back as his body seemingly caught up and punished him for holding it all in for hours.

When he tried to apologize between ralphing, she shushed him and told him to stop being ridiculous. Then she took him home and doted on him like a pitiful, helpless little boy (not that he didn’t completely eat it up - not unlike tonight, but roles reversed.

“We’ve come full circle,” he snorted, running his fingers up and down her back.

“I think it was meant to be,” she giggled.

Jon hummed and pressed his forehead to hers, shutting his eyes. “I know it was.”

#jonerys #jonerys fanfic #jonerys drabble #one of my fave tropes #I think this is a record in how quickly I was able to whip this up :') #my drabbles

[kingreywrites]

There Beside You

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2912

Eugene Appreciation Week Day Three: Home

Summary: Eugene gets sick and needs to rest. His friends and family check up on him, because what's a home if not people taking care of you when you need it?

Note: this is... an extremely self-indulgent sickfic asfhdghj hope you enjoy!!

Read on ao3

At first, Eugene had blamed his headache on the amount of paperwork he had to go through that day. Being Captain was something he loved, but it did involve filling a lot more forms than he had expected, and sometimes he grew tired of looking at papers all day. 

Except that his headache came as soon as he woke up. And with that, the constant shivering, despite having closed the window in his office. Ah, and he was also bone-tired, for some reason. In all honesty, he had an inkling that whatever that was, it was not paperwork induced, but Eugene was trying to power through, hoping that this was simply an off day. 

He did not remember laying his head on his desk, or closing his eyes. 

"-don't know Pete, this isn't like him," Eugene heard, somewhat distantly. He felt cold all over. His cheek was smushed on what felt like paper, and he hoped that he hadn't wrinkled whatever it was too much. Or worse, drooled on it. God, was he drooling? No, no, his mouth was shut, and felt drier than a desert too. Why was he- 

"Eugene?" Stan whispered, way closer than before. Eugene felt a hand on his shoulder and startled. 

In his mind, he was going to straighten up quickly, but in reality, he blinked sluggishly, tried to raise his head, realised that he felt way too nauseous for that and buried it in his hands. Yay. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I was just... uh..." 

"Sleeping on the job?" Pete offered helpfully. "Which is totally okay!" he hastily added. "It can stay between us!" Eugene groaned from behind his hands.

There was no way the entire castle wouldn't be aware of his untimely nap now. He gave it twenty minutes, tops.

"You okay Eugene?" Stan asked. "You really look, uh… tired."

"Didn't sleep well," he muttered. That was partly a lie, because he did sleep all night without a hitch, he simply woke up without feeling rested at all. Sighing, he finally raised his head fully, a dull ache at the base of his neck making itself known. The room was way brighter than he remembered it being.

"You sure? Because-"

"Yes Stan, thank you, I just-"

Eugene tried to get up while he was talking, so he could avoid falling back asleep on his desk. However, he understood very quickly that this was a bad idea - it was as if his entire body became too warm at once, and then he was looking at the ground, Stan's arms around him and keeping him from actually falling on his face.

Huh.

Pete's shrill voice was echoing loudly in his ears, as was Stan's panicked exclamation that he had a fever, and just like that, Eugene knew the next few hours (days?) were going to be a pain.

------

Eugene didn't have to open his eyes again to feel the curious and intense gaze that laid on him. 

"Varian," he muttered, voice not as strong as he had hoped, "I told you I'm fine." 

He opened one eye just in time to see his friend pout from behind his goggles, quickly hiding the contraptions he was apparently trying to put on Eugene when he saw the older man looking at him.

"What's that?" Eugene asked suspiciously. 

"Wha- Nothing!" Varian waved his hands in the air, immediately betrayed by the sound of something crashing on the ground behind him. He grinned awkwardly. "Nothing at all, yep." 

"Liar!" Kiera exclaimed from the other side of the room, dashing to pick the thing up before Varian could even protest. 

Eugene groaned as they started to chase each other, slowly stretching his legs and feeling how much he still wanted to go back to the sorta sleep thing he was doing before that. After the initial freakout of what felt like everyone in the castle, Eugene had managed to convince them that he just needed some rest, which was what he was doing. Or trying to do. He had hoped that lying down on the couch of his own bedroom (because he didn't feel like going to bed so early) would be enough to feel better, but that was without counting the guests that had invited themselves today. He didn't even know when the girls arrived.

A louder noise erupted, and he opened his eyes again to see Catalina dangling Varian and Kiera above the ground. In wolf form, of course. Eugene's head hurt too much for him to try to intervene and, at that point, he would give her an alibi if she needed one, as long as he got some quiet. 

"How's my man feeling!" Lance exclaimed loudly as he opened the doors with a bang. Eugene cringed, trying to hide further under his duvet. 

"Inside voice, Dad," Kiera mockingly reminded him, as if she hadn't been fighting with Varian a second before. 

"Ah yes sorry, what-" Lance paused, probably seeing for the first time the position the kids were in. A dull thud also told Eugene Catalina probably released the others at this exact moment. "You know what, I'm not even going to ask. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Eugene!" 

Eugene wanted to be forgotten right now. He felt miserable, probably looked miserable too, and absolutely hated the fact that he was. Lance, who knew him better than most people, also knew exactly the stuff that bothered him, and commented that his hair was a mess, gathering a hateful glare for this. 

"There he is," he announced smugly. 

"Fuck you," Eugene muttered in answer. 

"Love you too, G-bug." 

Lance was very lucky Eugene didn't feel like doing anything, because if he had been only a fraction better, he would have strangled him. He huffed when he felt his friend put his hand on his forehead, a shiver running through him. 

"Oh yeah Stan was not kidding about that fever." 

Given that Eugene felt like death warmed over, he could only guess what the others were feeling when they touched him. 

"Ahem," Varian coughed from where he was still sitting. The kid got up, snatching his invention back from Kiera's hands. "You know, measuring someone's temperature with only skin contact isn't a very reliable method to get an accurate reading. Which is why I made- This!" he exclaimed, brandishing the contraption high in the air. 

"Isn't it the stuff you use to make sure your boilers aren't about to explode?" Kiera asked drily. 

"I repurposed it for human use! I just... never tried it, but it's very easy, you place it under your tongue and-" 

"I'm not putting that in my mouth kid," Eugene interrupted. 

"It's perfectly safe!" 

"I trust you, I'm still not putting it in my mouth." 

Varian grimaced, obviously searching for a convincing argument. "What if I try it so you can see it's safe?" 

"I'm- I'm really not putting something you put in your mouth in mine." Catalina made a fake gagging sound to support his point, which was appreciated, and finally, Varian accepted that the debut of his invention wasn't for today. 

Which was the moment Lance chose to help Eugene straighten up so he could drink. Eugene really didn't want to but his best friend insisted and so here he was, sitting with his head swimming, slowly sipping from a glass of water as Lance chattered in his ear. The kids were arguing about something else now, though Eugene couldn't have told you what, and even if he had wished for quiet, he had to admit this was nice too. He really didn't feel well, but it was better with people at his side. 

"What are you guys even doing here?" he mumbled after a while. He had slipped a little on the couch and was now resting on Lance, who had his arm around his shoulder. "Varian was working here today but... You and the girls?" 

"Oh you know, I was coming to visit my favourite people and it so happened to be the day when- okay, okay," Lance corrected when Eugene raised his eyebrows at him, knowing his lying voice far too well. "Rapunzel asked us if we could keep an eye on you while she's working." 

"I don't need a babysitter." 

"I'd take you more seriously if you weren't also cuddling me." 

"Shut up." 

Lance laughed and Eugene smiled, not really that upset. He had known Rapunzel was worried, and he had had a lot of trouble convincing her she didn't need to put the entire kingdom on pause so she could stay with him. Being sick sucked, but he wasn't dying, he simply needed some rest. But… He had to admit that having some company was nice.

The sound of bickering, Lance's voice telling him stories, all of that was familiar and comfortable in a way that made it easier for Eugene to doze off against Lance. He was somewhat aware of shivering still, and of the brush of fingers against his skin. He could hear murmurs around him, too. 

He mumbled something when he felt himself move, but just as quickly, he was on his bed. It didn't take much more for him to completely fall asleep.

------

He thought he woke up once or twice to the sight of Pascal looking at him, but that could have also been a dream. Eugene wasn't sure. What he knew is that he kept oscillating between being way way too cold and way way too hot, which made for a frankly terrible sleep. Right now, he was on the hot side of things, and despite trying to kick his covers off, he could feel them still sticking to him. 

Something cold and wet touched his forehead, and Eugene opened his eyes with a start, surprising... 

"Your Majesty?" 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Arianna smiled, a wet cloth in her hand. From her shoulder, Eugene could see that Pascal was peering down at him too, a worried frown on his face. 

Eugene blinked several times. 

"What are you- I mean- What?" That made Arianna pause and he worried for a second that he was being rude, but she laughed instead, looking amused. "Sorry I just- did Rapunzel ask you to do this? Because you really don't have to." 

"As a matter of fact, no she didn't. Lance did." 

"Lance did," Eugene echoed, voice strangled. Lance asked his future mother-in-law to babysit him while he was sick. To be fair, Lance and Arianna had struck an... interesting friendship over the years, but Eugene was still easily flustered around her, and really wished she didn't have to see him like... this. 

"But it's really no trouble," Arianna added, after a beat. "I'm keeping you company, while Pascal here is keeping me company. We... Everyone is worried about you, Eugene." 

Pascal squeaked in affirmation, while Eugene just let out the faintest oh. He still kind of wanted to bury himself under his pillows. He really didn't want Arianna to see him in this state, even though it was too late for that. 

"Your fever has climbed a lot this afternoon," Arianna explained, settling back on the chair she had installed next to his bed, "but it hasn't worsened in the last half-hour, so, hopefully that's a good sign." 

Eugene hummed quietly, unsure of how to proceed. Pascal had abandoned his worry for his "You're being ridiculous" look, which Eugene felt was a bit unfair since he was sick and completely unprepared for this situation. Between his own awkwardness, Arianna's memory issues, the attack on Corona and its repercussions, they never really had a chance to become... friends? Maybe? 

Though, of all the occasions to do so, being sick and feeling too weak to even sit up wasn't the one he would have picked. 

"If you want..." Arianna trailed off, before picking up a book that he hadn't noticed was next to her. "I was reading this, with Pascal. Maybe I could..." 

"Oh, uh," Eugene hesitated. He noticed for the first time that she seemed just as awkward as he was, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing he did - that they never truly had the time to really get to know each other beyond their shared love for Rapunzel. "I- Yes, I'd like that, if that's okay," he finally answered. 

Arianna smiled, and slowly, she started reading. She didn't sound very used to telling stories aloud, but she was trying, and Eugene appreciated the gesture more than she could imagine. 

His only regret was falling asleep before he could hear the ending.

------

Eugene woke up to the soft touch of a hand on his forehead, mattress dipping a little as a new weight settled next to him. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know who it was, didn't even have to think about it for a tired smile to make its way on his face. 

"Hey you," Rapunzel murmured when he slowly blinked his eyes open. Her hand was still on him, gently stroking his hair, and she was lying on the bed on his right. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better now," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Can't feel too bad when you're here with me." 

That made her chuckle, and he grinned. He wasn't even lying - he felt a little better than he did earlier, and had stopped shivering all the time. Right now, he was warm and comfortable, if a bit exhausted still. 

"You'd flirt with me even if you were at death's door," Rapunzel said, more gentle than she had intended, happy wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. 

"Hmm, I think experience has proved that I would come back from the dead to flirt with you." 

Her eyes widened, before she burst out laughing, quickly lowering her own voice despite the giggles, mindful of his headache. He seldom made jokes about his own death to Rapunzel, the subject being a little touchy and all that, but when he did, they always landed. 

"Let's not test that theory further," she snorted. 

"Agreed," he sighed, before they lapsed into a comfortable silence again. 

Despite the dimming light, he could see the love shining in her eyes, wild hair sticking up around her face after a long day of fiddling with it. He had seen her do it so often that he could imagine it clearly, the way she would run her fingers through her hair, eyes narrowed in concentration - or how she would simply shake her head to get stray strands out of her vision. It was the cutest thing to witness, in Eugene's absolutely unbiased opinion. 

Rapunzel booped his nose, breaking him out of his reverie. 

"I'm gonna ask you to stop looking so cute when I can't kiss you," she joked. 

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing," Eugene smiled. "I've always hated being sick, but this is, by far, the worst thing about it." 

And it wasn't... It wasn't that much of an exaggeration. Before meeting Rapunzel, he had hated being sick because that nearly always meant he spent the day alone and miserable, with, if he was lucky, someone coming to check on him once or twice. When he lived on the streets as a thief, sicknesses were also often synonymous with death - if not because of the illness in itself, but because someone took advantage of it to take revenge on you. Thankfully, Eugene hadn't fallen sick often, but he had always dreaded the possibility of it. 

But now... He thought about the day he spent, being constantly checked on by the people he loved. He thought about the warm hands on his forehead, the voices trying to stay quiet for his sake, the worry and the love all directed at him. He thought about having a family he could count on, a home in all meanings of the word, and... And now, the worst thing about being sick, was the danger of passing it to someone he loved, even though he knew that if it happened, he would be there for them the same way they had been for him. 

No matter how many years had passed, it still surprised him, sometimes, to realise how much his life had changed for the better. 

"Come here," Rapunzel muttered, before sneaking her arms closer to him and bringing him into a tight hug. "Not a kiss," she whispered next to his ear, "but still good." 

He chuckled, melting into her embrace, finding comfort in the way he could feel her breathe against him. 

"I'm pretty sure I could still get you sick that way," he mumbled, resting his head on the cool skin of her shoulder, "but yeah, this is good. I missed you today." 

"I missed you too. You're not allowed to be sick when I have work." 

"I'll reschedule next time," he laughed. 

Slowly, he could feel his fatigue come back, his eyelids heavier with every blink. He didn't want to sleep right now - not when he was finally feeling a little better, and Rapunzel was here - but his hold on her kept getting slacker, and he knew he wouldn't stay awake for much longer. 

"I love you," Rapunzel whispered, kissing his hair gently. 

"Love you too, Sunshine," he answered. Or tried to. He wasn't too sure that anything he said was understandable, but she was still holding him close, and he knew she got it. At worst, he could say it again tomorrow, and every day of his life too.

#tangled #tangled the series #Eugene Fitzherbert #Lance Strongbow #Queen Arianna #Rapunzel

[castleshadows]

Sick Day

A short fic that contains a sick Poppy and a mother hen Casteel.

Requested by Anonymous.

Written June 16, 2021

Poppy groaned, immediately regretting it as the vibrations made the dull ache in her head throb harder. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to subside before slowly opening them again and blinking as the room spun a bit. Sniffing loudly, she reached her arm across the bed, flopping it around until she grabbed hold of a clean tissue. The loud and hard nose blowing that commenced did nothing to help her stuffy nose and only made her headache worse.

“Goddesses don’t get sick they said,” she grumbled to the empty room, “Goddesses aren’t susceptible to colds they said. Well look how wrong you were.”

She blew her nose again, her arm falling away rather dramatically from her face and hitting the bed with a whomp . As she stared at the ceiling, she contemplated the pros and cons of hauling several pillows from Cas’s side of the bed to hers so she could prop herself up. One the one hand it would probably help her nose clear up a bit, but on the other hand… Well there really was no other hand. Just the fact that she really didn't want to move.

After several seconds of self-debate, Poppy shoved a wad of tissues away from her side of the bed and dragged herself into a sitting position. She looked to where most of the pillows are stacked up. It was only a few feet away, but to her aching body, the task seemed impossible.

A door creaked open, and Poppy looked blearily at the tall figure that emerged from the hallway. The door closed behind him and she sniffed pathetically as Casteel came into view, his eyes filled with worry.

Slowly, pulling himself onto the bed, he reached a large hand up and cupped her cheek. At first the contact made her skin ache, but the feeling went away after a moment, and Poppy was able to rest her head in her husband’s warm palm. Casteel’s other hand came up to feel her forehead. He turned the hand over to the other side and then back again. Brushing a sweaty string of hair away from her temple, he pressed a slight kiss to her forehead and leaned back.

“How are you feeling, Princess?” he whispered, as if afraid of hurting her if he talked too loud. She almost snorted, but thought better of it, when she remembered the headache and the gallons of snot that seemed to be shoved into every crevice of her nose.

“Terrible,” she groaned, wincing as the dull throb returned full force. She closed her mouth, not wanting to make it worse than it already was.

“I’m so sorry, Poppy,” he sounded genuinely guilty, despite her being sick having nothing to do with him. She wished she had the energy to tell him it wasn’t his fault, “But don’t worry, I brought the best healer in the capital, she’s waiting right outside���”

“Casteel you do realize that this is probably just a cold right? And that colds aren’t curable?” Poppy opened her eyes, blinking away the blurriness, “I’m just going to have to wait it out.”

“I know it’s most likely a cold,” he started to rub his thumb along her cheekbone, and she leaned into the soothing motion, her eyes closing once again, “But there are certain things Atlantians are susceptible to that look like colds at first and that can become much worse if left untreated.”

Poppy found herself wanting to ask all about the different types of sickness Atlantians could get, purely out of curiosity. She also found herself wanting to protest that she was not an Atlantian, but she had no energy for anything more than a slight nod. A sluggish feeling was settling deep into her bones, and it didn’t help that she hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep the night before due to the fact that she couldn’t breathe through her nose while laying down and breathing through her mouth only hurt her already sore throat.

Casteel caressed her cheek one last time before leaving the room and returning with a tall, motherly looking woman garbed in healer’s robes. Her brown skin was lined with wrinkles and her hair was turning grey at the roots, but her eyes held a look of youth in them, and her smile was one of the kindest Poppy had ever seen. She came in, took one look at the state Poppy was in and immediately set her things down to start cleaning up the multitude of tissues that surrounded her patient.

“Oh you poor thing,” she said, dumping the snotty tissues into a trashcan and setting it beside the bed, “Don’t worry honey, my name is Nola and I’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Nola rushed back over to her basket of supplies as Casteel came to sit by Poppy. He took hold of her hand and gripped it reassuringly, watching the healer carefully. The woman came back holding her basket in one hand and a thin stick of wood in the other. She held it up to Poppy’s mouth, only smiling kindly when the Queen jerked away.

“Oh, don’t be alarmed dear. I’m not going to stick it down your throat,” Nola beckoned Poppy to come closer to the edge of the bed which Casteel helped with, “It’s just to hold your tongue down when I look inside your mouth.”

Poppy nodded, slowly opening her mouth and trying to ignore the fear that the woman was tricking her into getting something shoved down her throat. Casteel held her hand the entire time however, rubbing his fingers across her skin, and soothing whatever anxiety she had.

The healer used the stick only to press down Poppy’s tongue as she’d said, and peered down her throat. She nodded a bit, and mhmed once or twice as if confirming something she’d thought previously.

“It looks quite red,” Nola commented, “Has it been hurting at all, honey?”

Poppy was unable to answer with her mouth still wide open, but Casteel nodded for her.

“She said that her throat’s been sore for a while. It’s been around longer than the other symptoms along with the runny nose.”

Nola nodded again, and pulled the stick back, letting Poppy close her mouth.

“I see, and have you taken any medicine at all to relieve any of your symptoms?”

She directed the question towards Poppy, but it seemed that Casteel sensed his wife wasn’t in the mood to talk right now, and once again answered for her.

“She’d been sucking on some honey drops to help with the soreness, but we haven’t taken anything for the runny nose or fever.”

Nola started to dig through her basket, tossing things onto the bed. She spent a good five minutes or so pulling out bottle after bottle of tonics and reading each label aloud under her breath. Poppy really hoped that she wasn’t going to have to take all of that medicine.

Eventually, the healear found what she was looking for, and turned triumphantly to Casteel and Poppy, holding up a glass bottle.

“This is a tonic of my own making, designed to effectively treat the symptoms of a common cold,” she paused, turning to Poppy, “Which is most likely what you have dear.”

“Told you,” Poppy murmured to her husband, who let out a chuckle, nodding for Nola to continue.

“It doesn’t taste all that great and it can make you quite drowsy, but with as little sleep as you most likely got last night based on the way you're drooping, that might be a good thing.”

Casteel held out an arm and took the bottle from the healer, glancing at the label.

“Each dose is two tablespoons, and you’ll need to take one within the next few minutes and then again eight hours later. I wouldn’t recommend taking it consistently for more than two or three days, but I doubt your cold will persist that long.”

Casteel nodded, his expression quite serious as he committed all the information to memory. It was one of the things Poppy loved about her husband. The way he would take her and her needs completely seriously, no matter what. She snuggled in closer to him, pressing her face into his shoulder. He wrapped one warm arm around her shoulders and held her there as he asked Nola several questions about the best way to make the medicine taste better, and if it was safe to take it with chocolate or a bit of sugar. Godsdamn her husband was so thoughtful.

Poppy heard the sound of a wrapper crinkle and she lifted her head to see Nola handing Casteel a bar of chocolate.

“The best way to take bad tasting medicine,” she informed, “is to drink lots of water and swallow as much of it as you can at once, preferably all of it. Drink some more water to wash it down and then eat a bit of chocolate to get rid of the taste. At least that’s what I’ve found in my years of healing.”

Poppy grimaced at the thought of having to force down the tonic, and pressed her face into Casteel’s chest. Her husband brought a hand up and weaved his fingers through her hair, giving her some reassuring rubs on the back of her head.

“Thank you, from both my wife and I,” he said, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Poppy pressed in closer if only to feel those soothing vibrations again. She didn’t even care that she probably looked ridiculous acting like a child in front of the healer. Nola didn’t comment on it though, only gathered her things, thanked Casteel and left.

“All right let’s try this tonic out,” he said as Poppy continued to practically shove herself into his chest, “Two tablespoons she said…”

There was a sound of pouring and Poppy lifted her head, but only to make sure that he wasn’t pouring the tonic all over the bed. He wasn’t. The healer had left them a very tiny metal cup with lines etched into the sides, indicating the measurements. Casteel poured the brown colored liquid to the two tablespoons line and screwed the cap back on the bottle, setting it to the side.

Poppy wrinkled her nose at the strong smell that was emanating from the metal cup, and instinctively shied away when Casteel tried to lift it to her lips.

“Come on Poppy, just drink it,” Cas coaxed as she grimaced, “it won’t kill you.”

“You don’t know that,” she rasped, trying not to show that even just speaking was hurting her.

It didn’t work very well because Casteel immediately furrowed his brow, “Poppy I can tell you’re in pain, just take it.”

“The healer said we needed water first,” she reminded him in a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable. Thankfully, Casteel was the kind of person to be concerned about following exact directions when it came to things he had no idea what he was talking about, and several minutes later he was back with a cup of cold water.

Poppy reluctantly took the water from him and took a sip that was probably longer than necessary. She swallowed the cool liquid, wincing a bit as it hit her sore throat. Casteel watched on, taking the cup from her when she was done. The smaller metal one was then pressed into her hand.

Steeling herself, Poppy brought the metal cup to her lips and after taking a deep breath, drained the cup in one go. No sooner had she swallowed the disgusting tonic, she started choking, coming dangerously close to throwing it back up. Casteel took the cup and rubbed her back until there was no longer a danger of her vomiting.

“You okay?” he asked, handing her the water.

She took a long sip, the cool liquid helping to cleanse the taste of medicine from her mouth.

“I’m fine,” she croaked, unwrapping the chocolate and taking a ridiculously large bite. She felt better almost instantly. The sweetness chased away whatever lingering flavor was still there, and it was smooth enough that it didn’t bother her throat too much on the way down. She sat there for a while, savoring the taste, then went in for another large bite, glaring when Casteel stopped her.

“Let’s save the rest for the other doses,” he wrestled the chocolate out of Poppy’s hands and set it on the bedside table.

She thought about running and grabbing it, but it honestly wasn’t worth it, and she was still quite tired despite the fact that the tonic already seemed to be working. Her nose was less stuffed and she could finally breathe. Only through one nostril, but she counted that as a win. Her head felt better as well, and she didn’t feel as heavy anymore. Poppy looked around the room, cringing at the mess she’d made during the day.

Casteel seemed to note the mess as well, because barely seconds after she’d thought about it, he was up and cleaning, straightening the bedsheets, picking up tissues that had found their way underneath the bed.

“I talked to Kieran earlier,” his voice was muffled, “And had him move all of our meetings to different dates as well as fill out some of the paperwork you had.”

“Wait, what?” Poppy crawled to the edge of the bed, looking down at Casteel. Well really just his legs that were poking out from under the bed.

“I said,” he grunted, pulling himself back into the open, “That I talked to Kieran earlier and had him—”

“No, I know what you said,” Poppy interrupted, “My question is why. You’re not sick, so it’d be possible for you to attend the meetings, especially the one with the treasurer. We’ve pushed that back long enough. And I’m feeling a lot better, so paperwork is still manageable. I don’t want to pile all of that on Kieran, he works hard enough already.”

Casteel stood up, looking her in the eye. His brow furrowed.

“Okay, first of all, Kieran is perfectly fine. Second, I’m aware that I am not sick, however, I don’t feel good about leaving you here all day by yourself. And lastly, no way in hell am I letting you do any work while you're sick. Not only is it possible you could get someone else sick, but you also are currently running on a grand total of zero hours of sleep. So if we are going to focus on anything, I think it should be that.”

Poppy narrowed her eyes, unwilling to give in. Unfortunately, Casteel looked just as determined. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to lay around in bed all day. In fact, doing just that sounded like absolute heaven right now, but she didn’t want to feel useless. And not only that, but she didn’t want to make somebody else do all the work she was supposed to be doing when she was perfectly capable of doing it.

“Kieran will be fine,” Casteel said, practically reading her mind, “In fact he told me to tell you that if you try and do any of the work yourself he’ll come here and tie you down to the bed and tape your eyes closed.”

Her chest shook with restrained laughter as she tried to keep her mouth from curving upwards. She failed, the laughter bubbling up and releasing into the world.

The stubborn expression slipped away from Casteel’s face, and his mouth opened a bit. He looked like he always did when she laughed or smiled. Awed.

She giggled again at the expression, which quickly turned into a loud yawn that she covered with a hand.

Casteel pulled her into his lap, maneuvering them so that they lay against the headboard. Poppy turned to the side, her cheek pressed to his warm chest.

“Are we sure Kieran will be okay?” she said as a heaviness seeped into her bones once again. She sniffed and was handed a tissue by her husband.

“He’ll be fine. I promise.”

_________________________________________________

“I am not fine, I am not fine at all,” Kieran muttered to himself, staring at the huge pile of paperwork that had been dumped on his desk by Casteel several hours ago.

He’d been working on it since then, and had gotten barely a fifth of it done. Not to mention all the other work he had to do. Why the hell did Poppy have to get sick?

Kieran buried his head in his hands and let himself groan loudly for a couple seconds before pulling off the next large piece of parchment and getting to work.

#poppy balfour #casteel da'neer #poppy x hawke #poppy x casteel #sickfic #sick fluff #fluff #domestic fluff #fbaa #akofaf #tcogb #tcogb spoilers

[janekfan]

Too Much

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972698

When Jon stalked back into the archives the fierce conviction in his face belied his ragged appearance. Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d known there was something shady happening in this place probably before Jon did, considering. It didn’t stop him from purposefully hardening his heart against his pallid skin and bloody throat, his poorly bandaged hand, his filthy, mud-covered clothes.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice was soft and it set off a trembling in him that Tim could see from across the room. “Hey--” Without warning, Jon bent double over the nearest wastebasket, going down hard on his knees as he emptied his stomach painfully, shaking so hard the bin rattled. “Oh, oh, Jon.” Hands fluttering over his back, Martin hovered close, unsure of what to do, before settling next to him on the floor to hold his hair back, plaiting it loosely to keep it out of the way.

“Nngh...s’sorry.” Jon collapsed the rest of the way, resting his weight over the bin, his forehead on the arm slung across the top. “I, I...clean. Clean it up.” Shuddering, voice thick and wavering on a heavy breath. “God, I. I’m so, so sorry.” Another bout of dry heaving cleaved through him, Martin’s hushed reassurances making the ire in Tim rise to vitriolic levels and if he stayed any longer in this room he knew he’d do something to upset Martin. Physical violence had never been the way he preferred to resolve disputes but the confirmation of being trapped here. Trapped by Jon made him desperately want to lash out. Scream. Kick. Throw a tantrum and that wouldn’t do, even if the anger and dissolution flooding into every empty space left behind by the deaths of Danny and Sasha and his freedom begged him to take it out on the one thing left that represented it all.

“Tim, where are you going?” Martin’s attention was still focused primarily on the man panting under his palms, but he spared him a glance.

“Can’t be here for a while.” He flashed a bitter smile. “Guess I’ll be back, won’t I?” He was suffocating and if he stayed here one second longer he’d explode and Martin didn’t deserve that.

Martin had his hands full of a sick and shivering Jon so had no choice but to let Tim go. It was probably best at the moment. He’d been sniping at Jon even before he’d disappeared and the fury flashing behind his eyes wouldn’t help anyone right now. And besides, Jon was going to pass out any minute by the look of it.

“Jon?” His head jerked up and he swayed where he kneeled.

“Sorry, s’sorry…” the slurred apologies certainly weren’t a good sign. “‘L’get this cleaned up.” When he moved clumsily to do so, Martin stopped him with a hand on his cheek, ignoring his temperature for now in favor of attempting to catch his unfocused gaze.

“Let me worry about that later.” And Jon looked stricken, but when Martin pulled him to his unsteady feet he was more concerned with staying upright, embarrassment shoved unceremoniously to the back of his mind. “Can you stand?” Whole, long seconds passed and Martin almost asked again, but Jon took a wobbly step only to topple into the taller man who caught him up and held him close.

“S’sorry.” Martin hitched him a little higher. “Dizzy. Jus’...ah.”

“It’s alright, Jon.” Who knew having a cot in the archives would prove to be so useful and Martin was grateful for it now, lowering him as gently as he could. “Nothing to be sorry for.” The hiss of pain sucked through his clenched teeth didn’t bode well. “I’ll be back.” With the first aid kit, warm water, maybe a change of clothes--he was pretty sure he had a few things. They’d be big on him but certainly cleaner than what he was in now. When he returned with his supplies, Jon had tipped onto his side, apparently asleep, and Martin was careful to wake him slow, worried when he didn’t seem to remember where he was or what was happening. With him so sluggish and lethargic, Martin wasn’t sure where to start (maybe a 999 call), deciding top to bottom was as good a plan as anything. Forcing cheer into his tone, he talked about what had been happening while he'd been away, dipping a cloth, wringing it out, and wiping the muck off his skin, noting the pallor in his face underneath all of the dirt. He had the start of a pretty intense fever and looking at him it wasn’t hard to puzzle out why but the only thing for it right now was water and rest.

Jon pushed him away when he began on his neck and it took Martin several minutes to talk him back down, convince him that he was safe before he was allowed to hold a warm compress over the gash across his throat to loosen the blood. It was deeper than it looked and longer than he’d have liked; another brutal scar to add to his growing collection and how was any of it fair? Butterfly stitches applied and covered over with clean bandages, Martin gave Jon a break and kept urging him to drink. He was so silent, focused on pulling in short and shallow breaths, and Martin kept his questions to himself, trying to ease the ruined jumper over his shoulders when it became clear that he was too sore to do it on his own. Each centimeter bared developing bruises just beginning to black and Jon’s breath hitched the higher he was forced to raise his arms, exposing more over his stomach, his ribs and Martin couldn’t help himself.

“What happened?”

“Mm?”

“These bruises?” He ran a delicate thumb over the edge of one, watched him shiver in response.

“Oh…” Martin got the impression Jon was answering from somewhere far away and didn’t blame him. “Asked questions.” He didn’t elaborate and Martin moved on to his hands, draping the blanket over him while he unwrapped old dressings and examined the burn spanning his entire palm and fingers. He didn’t want to think about the shape of it, like he’d shaken hands with the wrong sort, and instead examined the broken blisters lining the long, ruined fingers of both hands, cleaning them gently and applying salves and more bandages before slipping a worn jumper over his head and joggers onto narrow hips, tying the cords to keep them secure. Jon was too pliant, too submissive, more than spent after whatever he’d been through and he sighed in heavy relief when he was finally allowed to lay down.

“Better?” Martin brushed some stray curls out of his face after tucking him in and he nodded.

“Tired.”

“You can sleep, it’s alright.” Jon forced heavy lashes apart, closed them again when Martin swept light fingertips over them. “I’ll keep watch. You’re safe.”

Late into the next day, Martin saw Jon back to Georgie’s flat where he immediately curled up in bed with the Admiral, clutching his borrowed clothes, so baggy they dwarfed his small frame and made the vulnerability in him that much more. He shared a cup of tea, spoke with Georgie in a hushed voice and urged her to keep an eye on him if he’d let her. She nodded resolutely and wished him luck when he left to return to the institute.

“Well?” Basira accosted him immediately as soon as he stepped through the door.

“Christ, Basira!” Hand over his heart, Martin calmed his racing heart, suddenly surrounded by the lot of them.

“Well?”

“He’s exhausted.”

“Aren’t we all?” Martin ignored Tim’s comment. It wasn’t a competition, just a bad situation all around, and after treating and cataloging all of Jon’s myriad injuries, he didn’t feel like continuing along that track. It wouldn’t help anybody. It wouldn’t convince them that Jon was as much a victim in all this as they were. That he didn’t want this. Instead.

“He’ll be back in a few days. Or probably tomorrow, knowing him.”

“Wonderful.”

“Tim!” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated. “Tim, just. Go easy, alright?”

“Oh, I’ll go easy.” Full of grief and anger and heartbreak with nowhere for all of it to go, it had sharpened into a blade Tim wielded with deadly precision. Jon had been at the other end of it for a long time and despite his own frustrations with him, Martin wanted to shield him from the worst of it even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to. If Tim wanted to hurt Jon, he would, and it made him want to weep.

Sure enough and right on time, Jon dragged himself into the archives, mumbling a breathy ‘thank you’ to Martin as he passed by him to his office on new fawn’s legs. It didn’t escape his notice that he was still wearing the jumper, bundled up in it with his bandaged fingers tangled in the sleeves.

And work began again as though they’d never stopped.

Jon could have spent the next eternity wrapped up in bed, bundled in the comfort of Martin’s clothes and hiding from his very new and very real responsibilities. He ached, deeply, profoundly, in a million different ways, crushed by the weight of it all and barely able to breathe. Georgie was disappointed by his decision to go back to the institute but he had to do whatever he could to protect the rest of them, even if that meant playing into Elias’ hands until they came up with a solution together.

If they would have him back.

Reading the statements was going slow, too slow, the pounding in his head increasing whenever he tried to focus. Jon kept the lights low, avoiding the hallways with their cold fluorescent bulbs beaming down at him from above, bowing his back, trying to push him into the floor, keep him there like an insect pressed between pages and he would gladly succumb if it meant he could rest.

“Oi!” He jumped at the sharp voice, groaning when the stabbing hurt all over his body intensified.

“T’Tim?”

“‘Y’yeah.’” He mocked, tossing a stack of folders onto the already overflowing surface of the desk.

“What, what’re these?” Though his hands were shaking and sore, Jon picked up the pile, paging through distractedly.

“How the hell should I know. Martin said you asked for them.” He had?

“I don’t. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Tch. Of course. Busy work to keep us preoccupied so we don’t have time to plot?”

“Wha--no, no!” It seemed his paranoia continued to have lasting consequences and he supposed it was only fair. “No, I wouldn’t. I. I’m sure I asked for them.” Reasonably sure, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember when. He couldn’t remember asking Martin but there was no reason for Tim to lie. Fingers snapping in front of his face jerked him back to the present.

“What’s wrong with you?” His eyes were narrowed and he was standing so close, too close, and suddenly Jon was on his feet, swaying into the wall and pushing past Tim in a desperate bid for the loo, head pounding enough to make him ill and only just making it in time to rid himself of the tea he didn’t remember drinking. Shaky, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back against the wall and willing the spinning to stop or slow or do anything that might make it less overwhelming. He washed his hands, his face, letting the cool water drip from his chin and closed his eyes against his reflection in the mirror. When he returned Tim was gone and Jon was thankful, tears prickling, threatening, as he sat back in his chair and rested his forehead on his folded arms for only a moment.

It was better in the stacks, dark and still, silent save for the rustling of statements and that didn’t make any sense at all even though something in the back of his mind insisted it did, encouraged him to pick one up and devour it. But the letters swam on the pages and his legs refused to hold him up any longer and he slid to the floor, hugging the folder to his chest and breathing in the stale scent of old, yellowing paper and ink. He felt so poorly, so tired, and he didn’t remember curling up on the floor but he must have, because he was, the statement still crushed in his arms like a safety blanket. How long had he been asleep? Getting up seemed too monumental a task and he let his eyes slip shut with a sigh, breathing through all the pain of his injuries.

Too much. This was all too much.

But it was quiet here among the boxes and envelopes, tucked with his back against the shelf grounding him, taking away some of that awful wooziness, the feeling of vertigo he hadn’t quite gotten rid of after his encounter with Mike Crew. He was safe here underground; underground was the opposite of up, the opposite of falling endlessly and he breathed in, out, slow, measured. Until his physical self seemed to drop away with everything else.

Plucked like a weed, Jon was lifted into the air, hauled up by his collar and set clumsily on his feet, pressed forcefully into the shelving. If it wasn’t for the hand at his throat (his throat, she was going to slice him open, bleed him like a game animal) he would have fallen and he was so scared of falling, no air in his lungs, just the deafening rush of it in his ears, so he scrabbled desperately, the statement fluttering away somewhere in favor of holding onto wrists attached to arms attached to shoulders attached to Tim. The world tilted on its axis, rolling like a ship at sea and he was desperately afraid of being released into that endless void.

“--Hiding down here?” How long had he been speaking? His face, features so twisted in revulsion of him he almost didn’t look like Tim, was close enough that he could feel his breath on his face. “Martin’s been worried sick looking for you!” Why was he yelling at him? He’d, he’d been here, not hiding, not doing anything. Just trying to, to, stay on the ground. Everything blacked out when Tim shook him roughly, shouting something else, and Jon didn’t know what he wanted, what would make him leave him alone, stop being so angry with him. He was going to be ill, too dizzy even when mercifully held still again and he was torn between letting go and taking his chances with Crew and sticking to Tim like a burr. But Tim made the decision for him, shaking him off, dropping him to his feet and shoving him forward and Jon knew he shrieked, shameful, loud, but he was falling, falling, falling and he hurt where he’d been pushed, like his bones were trying to make room by doing their level best to yank themselves free.

But he was plunging down, straight down, unmoored, unanchored, too much space, infinite space and nothing to grab to slow himself and he was going to fall forever and ever and ever and--

“Jon!”

No. He’d. How.

“Martin…” Whimpering, voice choked with tears, more of them streaming, pouring down his face, and he clung to Martin, solid, strong, holding him.

“Tim, what did you do?”

“M’falling...m’falling, Martin.” Clutching, clawing, he was going to hurt him if he wasn’t careful but he was too frightened, he had to be hurting him. Sobbing, selfish, stupid, and he couldn’t stop.

“You’re not, I’ve got you, Jon, I won’t let you fall.” Murmuring gently, embracing him tightly and it hurt, but he’d rather hurt than fall forever. “You’ve got to take a breath, Jon.” But all the air was rushing past him, too quickly to drink up even a sip, let alone breathe any into his seizing chest. “I’ve got you, try for me.” And he did, he would swear it, he’d try anything for Martin but he’d always failed in the most important tasks. He’d always failed the most important people.

At least he wasn’t falling anymore.

“Tim, what did you do?” Martin shifted Jon, passed out over his shoulder with bandaged fingers still tangled in his jumper and he was surprised he hadn’t torn it in his panic. Gently he pulled him into his lap, boiling with heat beneath his hands and heaving hard-won, gasping breaths.

“I--” He swallowed, shock naked in his expression. “I found him here, on the floor. Uh, pulled him up?” Tim raked his hair back. “I was rough, but. I didn’t mean.” Martin could only hope he looked as angry as he felt and Tim stopped speaking, following him to document storage like a lost puppy.

“Mm…” he held Jon tight, secure, relieved that he’d come around as quickly as he did even if he was groggy, setting him firmly on the cot, exerting pressure on his shoulders, an unspoken ‘I’m here, you’re here, no one is falling.’ He ducked his head, hiding from the light and groaning low.

“Jon, look at me.” He hadn’t noticed before, the black of his dilated pupils swallowed up by deep brown irises, but with the light, and his sensitivity to it, Martin suspected a head injury. “Jon?” Gently he tilted his face up with the tips of his fingers under his chin, trying to catch his dazed stare as it slipped over him like water over a stone.

“Hey! Stop ignoring him!” Jon flinched, hands clapping over his ears and curling even farther into himself while Martin glared. “Sorry.” Tim mumbled, arms crossed, leaning against the wall to give them some space.

“S’okay, Jon.” He inched closer. “Did you hit your head? Does your head hurt? Can I check?”

“Check?” Before Tim could do much more than scoff, Martin shushed him. If he wasn’t going to help, then it would be better for him to leave.

“Yep.” He didn’t wait for much more confirmation, just carefully reached forward under Jon’s wary gaze and buried his fingers in thick, unkempt curls, smiling softly when he leaned into the touch. Bolder, he cupped his face with his other hand, stroking along his cheek and watching his eyes drift closed with a hum. “Ah, oh, Jon.” Right at the back of his skull there was a large swelling, painful to the touch if Jon’s reaction was anything to go on. “Were you hit?”

“Hit?” Jon’s wrapped, burned fingers brushed against his own when he went to check for himself. “Daisy hit me.” Just a stated fact that chilled Martin to the bone and he watched his other hand come up to touch the column of his bandaged neck. “Daisy cut me.” He glanced back at Tim, trying to gauge his reaction, relieved to see horror blossoming in his expression and when he turned to Jon again, it was as if he was seeing Martin for the first time. “Martin?” He let his weight fall into his palm, and when his dark, damp eyes slipped shut, tears ran down his face. “Don’, don’think m’well.”

“Okay, it’s okay. I’ve--” his eyes flicked towards Tim. “We’ve got you.” Jon swallowed and Martin could feel it against his palm, literally holding his cut throat in his hands. "Can you tell us what's wrong?"

“Hur’s. Spin...falling, m’falling.” He paled, clutched at the linens, his breath shallow and fast and even Tim came forward in concern.

“I’ve got you, won’t let you go anywhere, Jon.” To Tim, “Don’t think he can tell which way is up. Vertigo? Concussion? We’ve got ice packs in the freezer yeah?”

“Anything else?”

“Ginger tea? If we have it.”

“M’tin…” He brushed stray curls back away from his forehead. “Stay? Please?”

“Of course I will.” Gentle and soft and Tim returned with tea and cold compresses quickly, passing off the mug to Martin, going so far as to sit beside Jon. “I’ve got to let go of you now.” And the look of panic and sorrow and resignation told him more about his state of mind than anything else.

Martin promised he would stay.

Martin was letting him go.

Jon was not surprised.

Just sad, so, so sad.

Prepared to be tossed aside.

“‘Course...s’sorry.” Another swallow, another and another, swallowing it down, how frightened he was, how lonely. Tears slipped over Jon’s skin, over Martin’s. “M’sorry, sorry.”

Too many.

Too much.

He watched Jon pull away, swaying, woozy, grip tightening on the sheets such that his knuckles were bone white. Alone again. Alone always. How dare he think or hope or dream otherwise.

“Got’chu, boss.” Martin waited until Tim had him ‘round the shoulders, pressing him into his sturdy side, before removing his hand and holding the mug to his lips.

“Drink this down and then some sleep, I think.” Together, they tipped him carefully sideways, grabbing his hands when they flew out to the side in an attempt to break a nonexistent fall, and Tim pressed a cold pack to the back of his neck, a shadow of a smile crossing his face when Jon relaxed into the pillow.

“You’re alright, boss. Won’t let you fall.”

#TMA #The magnus archives #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #strained relationships #sickfic #concussion #vertigo #Bad mental health #vomiting #Hurt/comfort

[stones-x-bones]

We’re Only Liars (Day 2, Night 2) || Mina and Bex

TIMING: Current (the day after this) PARTIES: @drowningisinevitable and @inbextween SUMMARY: The storm continues and desperation is eaten by fever. CONTENT: Head injury, Domestic abuse mentions, NSFW-ish (Kissing)

Mina didn’t remember falling asleep. She’d tried to stay awake as long as possible, but, at some point, her head had slipped from the side of the tub to the water, and the next thing she knew there was dim light coming in through the window. Closing her eyes again and keeping her head underwater, Mina took stock of her surroundings without moving. She was still in pain. That was fine. That’s what she’d expected. Nothing had gotten worse in the night. It was still raining; she could hear droplets splattering against the window. She could hear someone breathing near her. Bex. She would know Bex anywhere. She could relax, just a bit. Bex’s breathing sounded even. She was asleep. She needed sleep, probably even more than Mina did. Mina didn’t want to go back to sleep. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the first place. There was this fear that she wasn’t going to wake up, even if she’d proven it wrong already. It hurt, and she knew, of course she knew, that it was better to hurt than be dead. But she was still worried. She’d never been hurt with so much cold iron, and she didn’t properly know how to treat it. Not that she’d be able to with what they had here. They couldn’t stay here. Mina didn’t know how they were going to be able to leave. 

Bex had fallen into sleep and then fallen into a dream that felt almost feverish in how strangely real it was. It was raining sometimes, and sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes she had shoes on as she ran, and sometimes she was barefoot. Sometimes she felt so heavy she couldn’t go on, and sometimes she felt as if she were going to fly away, or fall down into the nothingness just beside her. Sometimes her legs hurt so much she thought they might actually be burning with fire. Sometimes her head hurt so much she thought it might be being crushed. Under what, she wasn’t sure. She was only acutely aware of the several times her eyes had jerked open during the night, searching for the body in the tub beside her before they fell back closed again. At some point, she must’ve gone to get a blanket, because when she opened her eyes next, there was one wrapped around her, and she was no longer sleeping against the tub, but on the floor, shivering. She didn’t feel cold, she felt warm. Too warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She was so thirsty. She abandoned the blanket and crawled her way out of the bathroom to the pot she’d left on the table, drinking greedily from it. It tasted coppery but she didn’t care. It was still raining outside. She needed to put the pots back out to refill, but she stood up and the world came out from under her feet.

When she woke up again, she was on the floor staring into the ashen fireplace. She didn’t remember coming out here. She needed to check on Mina. She stumbled her way back to the bathroom and found her submerged. At first, panic gripped her throat. People drowned under water. Her hands went to reach for her when she caught sight of silver scales and remembered that oh, yeah-- Mina wasn’t human. She slid back down to the floor and threw the cushion she’d somehow picked up under her before wrapping herself in the blanket again. She was so cold now, sweat clinging to every part of her body. She shivered uncontrollably again, even after her mind had fallen back into a sleep.

When her eyes opened next, daylight was streaming through the window in the bathroom. She squinted up at it. She was so thirsty again. She sat herself up, glancing into the tub. Was Mina awake? She couldn’t tell. She should let her rest. Bex pushed herself back to her feet and over to the sink, turning the faucet without a second thought and drinking from it as if it were a lifeline. It was. It was still raining outside when she looked in the mirror and saw blood caked on her face and a bruise that covered more of her face than not, and her hair was a mess. She went to turn back to the tub and the world spun around with her. Dazed, she stumbled, fell next to the tub, grappling with it until she could set herself down. She was so dizzy and the world kept spinning, it wouldn’t stop. She collapsed to the floor, clutching her head. And even when she shut her eyes, it wouldn’t stop. 

It was the sound of running water and then a thud that caused Mina to sit up in the tub in a state of panic. “Bex?” She looked to find Bex on the floor, clutching at her head and clearly not doing well. That was an understatement. “Bex!” Mina managed to pull herself out of the water, the slightly pink tint to it sloshing around as she got out, moving to crouch next to Bex. “Hey, hey.” Bex was clutching at her head. Mina kept her voice soft, quiet. “You need-- We need to get you to the bed. You need to actually lay down.” Bex was covered in sweat and blood, and she was trembling. She needed more than to just lie down. Mina looked over and saw the cushion beside the tub, the blanket, and her heart ached. Bex had chosen to sleep next to her. It couldn’t have been comfortable. She couldn’t have been comfortable. But she’d done it anyway. Mina thought about long nights staying outside near Bex’s door. That made her heart ache, too.

Mina had to find a way to maneuver them both out of the bathroom and to the bed. Bex couldn’t stay in there. She couldn’t stay in this building, period. From what she’d seen Bex gather, there was very little medical supplies, no treated drinking water, and no food. There was nothing that would be able to allow them to stay there for an extended period of time. But Bex wasn’t really in any condition to move. Mina wasn’t in any condition to move. For all the healing she’d done in the night, she was still badly injured. She was still going to have a hard time moving. Still, she moved herself next to Bex and gripped the tub as leverage. She said, “We need to get you to the bed. Come on.”

Someone was calling her name and it echoed in Bex’s head like a siren. She had to focus, had to remember who it was. She knew who it was. It was Mina. Her voice was hushed but worried, she could hear it. She opened her eyes but the room tilted and she shut them again, putting her hands over her eyes. Mina was next to her, she could feel her hands on her. “No,” she argued weakly, “you shouldn’t be up. You need to-- the tub-- water-- I can, if you need more--” She wasn’t sure what she was saying anymore. She was so tired, so thirsty. So cold, so hot. She was getting sick and she knew it. She couldn’t afford to get sick right now, she was the only one here to help Mina. She couldn’t let Mina do this alone, she would just hurt herself more and then she’d never heal. “I can stay here,” she said, “I want to stay here.” She needed to make sure Mina healed. They couldn’t leave until she was healed enough. They were trapped here. By the rain, by their injuries, by Frank. She tried to lift her head to look up at Mina but her eyes rolled into the back of head as the world went black for a moment and her head hit the ground again. She curled up on the floor. “I’m fine here,” she insisted, not wanting to get up anymore. She didn’t want to move, the world would shift again and she’d probably just pass out again and then what? Then what would Mina do? “You shouldn’t be...up.”

“I’m not getting back in the tub right now,” Mina said, and it was the only truth that she could really say. She did need the water, but she wasn’t going to get back in it until she was sure Bex was comfortable, and that wasn’t about to happen on the ground beside a tub. She certainly wasn’t about to ask Bex to get more water. She wasn’t about to ask her to go back out in the rain. She put her hand on Bex’s head. Warm. So warm. It practically burned. She had a fever. “We’re moving to the bed. I’d appreciate if you helped me move you because of my legs, but I understand if you can’t.” They couldn’t stay there. Mina needed to find a way for both of them to leave. She needed to find a way to be okay. She needed… Mina put an arm under Bex’s and began to shoulder her weight, spots forming in her eyes. She could do this. She could do this. She’d walked to her car with broken ribs. She’d crawled out of a lake back to her dad’s campsite with a broken leg. She’d swam in salt water as the waves tried to drown her. She could carry the girl she loved a few feet to a bloody bed. Then she’d need to go to the faucet, and she’d need to get them both water. She needed to find a way to help break Bex’s fever. She wished there was something in the cabin for her head; that seemed to be bothering her as well. “Come on. We’re moving now. I’ll get hurt a lot less if you move with me.”

“Mina, no. Mina sto--” Bex tried to protest, but she was being sat up and her body felt limp and the world spun again. Her head sagged as she blacked out, every time she tried to get vertical, she blacked out. Everything was spinning too fast. She couldn’t concentrate long enough to get words out. “No,” she protested again, “stop. You--” But Mina was already trying to lift her, to get her to stand. “Wait-- wait!” she called, feeling her body seize up as they tried to stand. Her breath felt heavy in her chest, wheezing its way out. Spots blotted out most of her vision. She took in a breath. “I can-- I’ll w-walk,” she slurred. She knew she couldn’t, but she could try. Mina was still in vastly more danger than her. Her wounds were still raw, it’d only been a day. That wasn’t long enough for anything to heal, super healing or not. She could tell because she could still see the open, raw wounds on her body. The way her bad foot looked slightly deformed. The way her side was getting darker with burnt flesh. Bex didn’t know if Mina could get infections. Did fae get infections like humans? She didn’t know. She wished she knew. She should’ve asked more questions about fae, but she was scared. What if Mina found out she was asking around and it scared her off? She’d been a coward, too. Her body sagged against Mina’s and she tried to pull away. “I can walk,” she stated again, but she couldn’t even hold her own head up, so of course when she tried to stand, the world toppled out from under her once again. 

“You can’t walk, actually,” Mina said, just a little frustrated. Was this how everyone else felt when they dealt with her and her constant need to take care of herself? The only difference was that Mina was designed to take care of herself. She was made to. It had practically been programmed into her like she was some sort of machine. Some sort of weapon. She was a person. She was a person. “The sooner you accept that we’re doing this, the sooner we can both be in just a bit less pain.” Maybe, if she mentioned that this would be helping her as well, Bex would respond more positively. Mina was going to help her. The less of a struggle that Bex put up, the less likely Mina would get more injured. She caught Bex as the younger girl slumped forward, and Mina saw stars and tasted blood, but she didn’t black out. She was impressed that she didn’t black out. “Come on, love. Bex. Bex, please. This really will go a lot easier if we work together.” She wrapped her arm around Bex again, holding on a little tighter in case Bex tried to pull away again. Mina could feel the fever in her as their skin touched. She could feel the way that Bex was trembling. They needed to move. They needed to get out of this room. They really needed to get out of the cabin, but getting out of the room would have to do. 

Bex breathed in a deep, trembling breath. Her mind was slowly being drawn back into the fever, even as she fought to stay conscious. She at least needed to stay conscious long enough to move somewhere. Mina was begging her now, pleading with her. She just nodded, slowly, the action making her head pound some more. The world was still tilting back and forth, but with Mina holding onto her, she managed to stand. She tried not to lean too much of her weight on Mina, but she wasn’t sure how successful she was when she couldn’t even feel her own body. She felt both heavy and weightless, legs dragging like chains under her, her head barely able to stay upright. She leaned her head against Mina’s shoulder at one point, she knew this was hurting her. Mina was the one who had almost died, it was supposed to be Bex taking care of her, not the other way around. Not this. How could she have let herself catch a fever? Why couldn’t her stupid magic do anything about it? 

One step after the other, and it was really just their luck that the bedroom was literally right next door to the bathroom, tucked away next to the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a bedroom-- a fold out bed with a dusty mattress and a single shelf, but they weren’t here to stay. Just rest. Bex sank onto the bed, bringing Mina with her and tried not to pass out right away. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to concentrate on her and in the afternoon light, she noticed something she hadn’t before. “You dyed your hair,” she muttered, her words strung together. In her feverish state, she didn’t even notice the blood on either of them. She reached up to stroke it but her hand fell short. “Will you stay with me?” she asked, “Just for...just for a bit.” 

It was almost unbearable with how long it took them to get to the bedroom, the way that both of them were dragging their feet. Bex reminded Mina of one of those floppy cloth dolls that couldn’t quite stay up on their own. Any other time, and this wouldn’t have been a problem; Mina would have been able to get them to the bed with no problem. But she was weak. Her body was healing, but it was also moving itself into a stage where it was trying to dig her off infection, which was a lot harder to do out of the water than in it. It probably wouldn’t be long before her own fever managed to work it’s way into her body. She just needed to make sure Bex was alright before that happened. She managed to get Bex laying down, though she’d been halfway dragged down with her. It hurt. Her shoulder was being tugged on and it hurt. Bex’s grip wasn’t strong, but it was more than Mina was willing to fight against. 

“Hmm?” Mina put a hand up to her hair; she’d forgotten it was blonde. “Oh. Yes, I did. I suppose most of the blood and dirt has washed out.” It was a simple thing to notice, an easy thing, something that didn’t do with blood and near death and sickness. Mina almost appreciated it. She laid down as gently as she could next to Bex, taking the hand that had been reaching for her. “I’ll stay. Rest. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“I like it,” Bex said quietly. She squeezed Mina’s hand when she took it-- or, at least, she tried to. She couldn’t, really, she was too weak-- and settled on the small bed, her eyes already drooping. “No, no…” she muttered, “just for a bit. You need to go...back in the tub. I just want...for a bit…” She was losing herself quickly to the fever as chills ran through her again, despite how suddenly hot she felt. But she needed to make sure Mina didn’t stay. She wasn’t sure when her fevered brain would wake her up again, and if it was any longer than a few hours, then Mina needed to leave her. She needed to make sure Mina took care of herself while she rested because she needed her to get better. They couldn’t leave until Mina got better. They were trapped here and Bex didn’t know how much longer either of them would last. Her mind swallowed every thought before it even began. 

When Mina laid next to her, she scooted herself closer, despite how warm Mina felt and how hot her body was. She trembled as she burrowed her head next to Mina’s, wishing she could lay against her and not just next to her. Wishing she could hold her and not just her hand. “Please go back in the t-tub. If you need c-cleaner w-water, the basin should be f-full again.” She wished she still had enough of herself to take care of Mina. If they didn’t figure out how to be okay enough to leave this place, then it didn’t matter how much either of them healed-- they were both going to die here. She couldn’t let that happen.

“I appreciate that,” Mina said. “Sleep, please. Hopefully you’ll be able to break your fever.” She wouldn’t say that she’d go back to the tub because she couldn’t. She would stay and make sure that Bex was okay as long as she could. If she got up, it’d be to get them both water, to possibly see about taking care of herself the old-fashioned way, the human way. She could take a catalogue of what they had and what they didn’t. Once she got up. If she got up. She’d need to get up. She needed to take care of her leg before it started healing wrong. Again. She needed to stitch up Bex’s side. She needed to find a way for both of them to not die in this place. It was still raining. She wished it would stop raining. They needed it to stop raining. “It’s okay,” she murmured, running a hand through Bex’s hair, feeling her forehead. She was so warm. She was too warm. “Just get some rest. I’ll be alright until you wake up.”

Bex wanted to fight it, but she couldn’t. Not anymore. She’d exhausted her body far beyond its capabilities yesterday and today she was paying the price. She was only human, after all. “Please don’t...make yourself...worse…” Her eyes finally closed as sleep claimed her, her body too weak to go on. Yes, all she needed was some rest, and she’d be okay. Just a few hours. Just a bit. Even as she plummeted into a forest again, bare feet racing against the ground as a weight pressed heavier on her back. She was racing against time from something. Someone. Something bad was going to happen if she didn’t get there in time. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to get there soon. She had to get there before--

Bex’s eyes snapped open. The room was dark. It was night. How long had she been out? Was Mina still there? She couldn’t see in the dark yet, but there was a weight next to her. She shifted, stiffly. Her body ached but she wasn’t trembling anymore. Breathing was rough and her side ached in a way she knew was bad. She tried to sit up, but then realized she didn’t want to disturb Mina. Instead, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against Mina’s softly. “Mina…?” she croaked. Her throat was burning. She needed water. Her body was still coated in sweat, but the chills had stopped. And, hopefully, her fever was gone.

Staying until she was sure that Bex was sleeping, even if it seemed somewhat restless, Mina reluctantly got up, her body protesting the entire time. She moved slowly (so, so slowly) to the fireplace, first, sparking a fire back to life. It was really too hot. Mina felt warm, but they needed the fire so that Bex could have water that wouldn’t make her sick. So, fire. She managed to drag herself to the couch, looking at the supplies that Bex had left on the table. Their ruined clothes were in a pile. The knife was on the table. The knife. Mina zeroed in on it, focusing on it. Frank. She was going to kill him. She was going to use that knife, and she was going to kill him. The thought was all-encompassing. It was comforting. She looked down at her mangled leg, torn muscle and healing bone showing through healing skin, despite the soak in the water. She sat herself heavily on the couch, grabbed a blanket and used her claws to rip it into several pieces. She balled part of it up, stuck in her mouth, and used it to muffle her sounds of pain as she attempted to fix her leg and wrap it up. She stood. She went outside. She got fresh water in a pot. She put it on the fire. She tried not to pass out; she didn’t, barely. She watched the water until it boiled. She took it back to the bed. She went in the bathroom and soaked a few more torn shreds of the blanket, wrapped them around her wounds, and then headed back to the bed. She could rest. Mina needed to rest. She just meant to close her eyes, but she opened them to mostly darkness, to the sound of Bex’s voice. “‘M awake. Hey. You need-- Hold on.” She reached over and grabbed the pot of clean water. “Here.”

Mina was still here. Bex hoped she hadn’t stayed there the whole time. She could tell by the dryness of her throat and the stiffness of her muscles she’d been out for a long time. Mina was moving to grab something and Bex wanted to tell her to stop, stop moving, she was moving too much, her injuries were too big, too grievous, she needed more rest. More care than Bex did. More care than Bex could give. They needed to get out of here. But it was still raining and it was night and that was going to be impossible right now. So, she sat herself up slowly and took the pot from Mina. Had she gone and gotten more water? She left the question on her tongue while she drank. God, she was so thirsty. She needed to see a real doctor before her fever came back or her wound got more infected. “You...shouldn’t have been up…” she murmured, reaching out to stroke Mina’s cheek. “We…” she looked around the room. It was hard for her to see much in the dark. “We can’t stay here much longer.” They needed to somehow find the strength to leave this place. It wouldn’t be tonight, but it had to be soon. Her eyes sank to Mina’s wrapped wounds. “Do you still...need stitches?” She hoped she hadn’t done it herself, she hoped Mina hadn’t tried to do too much on her own. She was always doing too much on her own. She leaned her forehead against Mina’s. “I think I’ll...be okay.”

“I thought I was supposed to get up to get in the tub,” Mina said. Not that she’d done that. She’d come back to Bex as quick as she could, her mind focused on making sure she was okay after she’d semi-taken care of herself and contemplated murder. No, not contemplated. There was no contemplation. She was doing it. She just had to get better. They both had to get better. They had to get out of there. “No, we can’t. It’s still raining, though. You don’t need to get out in this anymore.” Mina thought that it might have been the rain that made Bex sick in the first place. Along with using magic. The last time she’d used so much magic, she’d coughed up blood. Mina was grateful that it didn’t look like she’d coughed up blood yet. “We can try when it’s not raining, if we can both walk.” She needed to resist the blankets around her, needed to see about the place on her side. “I didn’t do any stitches, no,” she said. She didn’t think she would, either. It’d take too much time and effort, and, more likely than not, she’d probably just end up having to remove them anyway. “I’ll just wait until we leave here to see about that.” Bex wasn’t okay. Her forehead wasn’t burning against Mina’s, but it was still slightly damp with sweat. Mina was just glad that her fever had broken, though. “You’ll be okay,” she repeated, trying to will it, believe it into existence. She said it. It had to be true. She couldn’t say things that weren’t true. 

“You were,” Bex frowned, “you were supposed to get in and not get back out.” Yet she was here. Bex wanted to tell her to get back in the water, but she also didn’t want her to leave. “But there’s still...so much to do. I need to go look in the shed again, and m-maybe the boathouse has some more supplies. I didn’t check very thoroughly. And we need--” antibiotics, food, heat, a clean place to sleep. They had none of that here. She shivered again and tucked herself into Mina. If she didn’t stay warm tonight, her fever would return. She could already feel it trying to push its way back to her. “I think...my cut is infected,” she murmured. She didn’t want Mina to worry but she needed to know. If Bex got too sick and passed out again, she needed to know. She tentatively reached down to touch the bandages she’d wrapped around herself and they felt wet. She couldn’t be sure if it was from her sweat or the wound leaking. “We can’t stay here. Even if it’s s-still raining tomorrow. You need more help than what I can do.” And she hated saying it, she hated that Mina’s condition was beyond her help. She hated that she hadn’t had enough energy to find a real trail and get back to the town and find a real place for Mina to heal. All she’d found was this lake and this abandoned cabin with no food and no heat and tub full of bloody water. She tried not to cry again. “Go back into the tub. You need to heal as much as possible before…” before what? “We need to leave tomorrow.” Or they were both going to die out here. No magic, no water, was going to be enough to save them.

“I didn’t, though.” Clearly, Mina hadn’t. She had chosen to stay with Bex. Personally, she thought that staying with Bex was better. She hadn’t wanted to leave her. She still didn’t. “ No. You don’t need to do anything. Except stay here and not let yourself get any worse.” Because she could. Bex could get so much worse. And, as she mentioned that her cut was probably infected, Mina could only nod. She moved in closer to Bex, even though it hurt. She didn’t mind. “I thought it might be. You’re-- you’re probably also getting sick, from not getting dry after walking around in the rain.” Bex needed to be warm. Mina was warm. She could just stay. “I know we can’t. I know. We can worry about that tomorrow, though.” There was a lot they’d need to worry about tomorrow. They needed food. They had water, but they’d need food. They needed medical attention. Both of them. Desperately. Mina wanted to look at Bex’s side. She needed to. She needed to help stitch it up, but she was worried that she’d just cause more damage. They both needed a medic, at the least. “I’m staying. I wrapped everything. That’s helping. I’m staying.”

Mina was right and Bex knew it. Neither of them could help each other anymore. They could only lay around in their misery and hope that tomorrow was somehow better. Bex could still feel the fringes of her fever trying to come back, could still feel the weakness of her muscles, the emptiness inside of her chest that told her her magic was still struggling to come back as well. She hadn’t rested enough. She didn’t feel like she’d be able to rest enough. They just needed to be well enough to walk tomorrow. But if they got lost again, if they couldn’t find a road or a trail or another person, then they would die. And if they stayed here, they’d die before they could heal. Fishing in the lake was a possibility, food wise. But they had no medication, no more bandages, no clothes. Problems kept piling up and they made Bex more and more tired as she thought of them. “If you’re going to be able to walk at all tomorrow, you have to go back in at some point,” she mumbled. There was nothing to be done about Bex. There were no supplies here to help her. At least Mina had the water. At least one of them needed to be coherent and able to walk. But Mina insisted, and Bex couldn’t argue. So she just stayed laying next to Mina. “I think I have a concussion.” Another important thing to know. “I remember hitting my head.” She tried to look over Mina. “How is your foot? And-- your side? Your shoulder looks--” bad, but the best out of the other injuries. “I’m sorry,” she found herself muttering. “I wish I could help more. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll walk tomorrow, regardless,” Mina said, and it was true. She’d walk whether she went back to the tub or not. Soaking for a few more hours would do little to help her, really, in the long run. Not as much as they needed. She knew her body; at the very least, she knew what it took to heal it. Soaking for a few hours in a bloodied tub wasn’t going to cut it. Mina decided against mentioning that, though. The concussion was concerning but not surprising. Still, Mina nodded her head. “The best thing to do for that is to just monitor how you feel since we don’t have any pain medication.” This was just another worry on top of a long list of worries. Just another thing. Mina reached and ran a hand through Bex’s hair. “Everything’s a little better than it was yesterday,” she said.” Not a lie. It was very much not a lie, just a carefully worded truth. She had to bite down the need, the desire, to overshare. She didn’t want to worry Bex anymore than she already had. Still, she said, “I reset the bone in my leg earlier, while you were asleep. And the pain in my side isn’t as bad. And my shoulder… the wound got sort of cauterized on it, so it’s-- It’s probably doing the best, of everything major.” Of everything that looked like it would last. The bruising on her face was going down, though it was making the cuts and burns grazing her skin a bit more prominent. She didn’t want to look in a mirror. Mina didn’t think she was particularly vain, but there were some things that she didn’t want to see. “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve done so much, Bex, really. So much.”

“You’ll hurt yourself more if you do that,” Bex said, but there was no tone of argument in her voice. Just resignation. Mina was going to have to break herself all over again just so they could get out of here. She hated that idea. She didn’t want to think about it. If she hadn’t gotten sick today, would she have been able to take care of Mina more? Better? Would she be in better shape if Bex hadn’t let a fever stop her. They couldn’t afford to think like that right now. They just couldn’t. They’d go in circles wondering what they could’ve done or should’ve done and not focus on what they needed to do right now, which was surviving. Mina’s hand felt nice in her hair and she sighed, closing her eyes. Taking a mental note of all the things Mina said about herself. Bex would have to support her bad leg tomorrow, since she could only support one. Luckily it was on the same side as her stab wound. There’d be no point in stitching them up, now, if they were going to try and walk tomorrow. For either of them. They would just pull out and make things worse. They’d have to make do with bandages and makeshift compresses. There was more to take stock of, but she was growing so tired again. “I wanted to do more. I wanted to...make up for everything.” She shimmied herself closer to Mina, wincing only a little. “You haven’t been very good to yourself while I’ve been gone, have you?” she asked quietly, close enough to feel the warmth of Mina’s breath on her face.

“I’m counting on it working itself out,” Mina said. She couldn’t be certain, couldn’t say that she was certain that things would work out. She just had to hope that they wouldn’t be permanently damaging themselves in an attempt to not die. The goal was to make sure they both didn’t die, now. Mina wasn’t going to let something as trivial as blood loss or fever or infection do either of them in when they’d survived so much worse. This wasn’t going to kill them. “You don’t have to do anything more.” Didn’t Bex realize just how much she’d done already? The chances of Mina still being alive with all the rain was pretty high, but she’d have been dying slowly, painfully. Bex had saved her. “You have nothing to make up for. Nothing. I don’t blame you for anything. I don’t hate you.” She’d say it however many times she needed to for Bex to get it. Loosely, she draped an arm over Bex. “I tend to all of my injuries well enough.” The whole truth was that she hadn’t been too worried about being good to herself. She’d been busy with doing her duty and going to class and trying desperately not to fall asleep. She was covered in bruises and scrapes uber everything that had happened with Frank. Scratches from mermaids and nicks from knives and bruises from everything she’d been doing in the woods on her own. She wasn’t worried about being good to herself. She was just worried about being good. 

"That's not how it works," Bex mumbled back. Mina was always pushing herself too hard, too far, Bex could only imagine it was worse now. Because here was she, still recovering from dying and trying to tell Bex it would work itself out. But that wasn't how things worked in Bex's world, and it wasn't worth risking Mina to try and prove it wrong. "I want to, though," she murmured, "I want to take care of you. That's all I want. I want you to know you don't have to do all this alone, even if you can. You don't have to do any of it alone. I'm sorry i-- didn't know how to say it before." She hadn't seen Mina before she'd seen her covered in blood, and cuts, and burns, but she knew-- she knew Mina had bruises and nicks and whatever else first. Frank wouldn't have so easily taken her if she hadn't. She was pushing herself too much again. And it was Bex's fault. Her eyes teared up again, even as she tried to fight it. She needed to stay hydrated. "Well enough isn't good enough," she whispered, "you're going to die if you keep going like this. I don't know if I'll get there in time next time. I can't-- I can't lose you more than I already have. Please…" she leaned forward, pressing her still warm forehead to Mina's, "if you won't take care of yourself, let me-- someone-- do it for you." She put a gentle hand on Mina's chest and let the beating of her heart remind her she was alive. They were both still alive. They would both fight to stay alive as long as the other was.

“It’s kind of the best I can do right now. I’m not leaving you,” Mina said. Even if it might be better for her in the long run, she wasn’t leaving. And she was walking out of this shack tomorrow, whether her body was ready for it or not. They were leaving. They were getting help. She blinked, different emotions warring as she thought about what to say. Mina was frustrated at the thought of needing help. She was scared of it, of the thought of relying on others. But she was also endlessly tired, and she wanted to want that. She wanted stability, she wanted people to lean on. She knew she had it, if she’d let herself. “I-- I know you want to. I don’t…” the words were thick on her tongue but forced their way out. “I don’t know how to let you. I’m not good at this.” She rubbed patterns on Bex’s back. She didn’t know what else to say. The truth was that what she did was dangerous. It always had been. It always would be. She was doing her duty, though. She’d never been guaranteed a long life, even with what she was. Instead of saying anything, Mina gave Bex a soft kiss before resting their foreheads back together. “Don’t worry about that right now. It’s no use to worry about it right now.”

"What if we just stayed one more day?" Bex asked, pleaded. "I know it's not ideal, we don't have enough supplies, but--" what if they just stayed here forever? What if they just didn't go back? Maybe they could find supplies elsewhere. She kind of liked it here. There wasn't anyone to take her away, there wasn't anyone to threaten or punish her. No one even knew they were here. "--if you just get worse trying to leave, then what's the point? Then-- then all this happened for nothing " All the pain they'd gone through was for nothing. Bex was quiet. She didn't know how to do that, either. How to let someone help her, take care of her. Love her. She'd been hoping they'd figure it out together, but that wasn't possible if she trapped with her parents, or if Mina was always off doing her hunter thing. The kiss was brief-- too brief-- but it brought her back from spiraling thoughts. "I'm always worried about that," she responded, noting the distinct lack of response from Mina. "I'm always worried about you. Every time you left Morgan's I worried about whether or not I'd see you again. I wondered if maybe my mother would come take me home, away from you. Or if something out there would get you, or someone. Or if you'd just decide you liked it better without me around. I never knew if you were coming home or not. So I worried anyways and now I worry more, because I'm not there. I can't see you walk in the door and know you're safe, even if you're hurt. I can't talk to you and know that you're still alive, or just at the store, or finishing up at school. So I always worry, I'm always worried. I don't want to… Not worry. Because that means I don't love you, but I do. I do love you. And I want you, and I want to be yours. And I should've told you before. I wanted to be yours. Your girlfriend, or partner, or whatever you wanted to call it. I wanted that but I was so scared. I'm still scared. And I'm with a boy but I don't love him. Not in the same way. And I don't know-- I don't know how to love you and not have you. Morgan said it's possible but it hurts too much and I don't want you to hurt. I don't want to hurt you." And then rambling could've gone on, Bex had so much more to say. But her body was tired and she was tired and neither of them were going anywhere the rest of the night anyway, so she just leaned forward again, and kissed Mina again, because she didn't know what else to do, stuck here on this bed, in this cabin, in these woods. She didn't know what else to do.

“I’m scared your fever is going to get worse, the longer we stay,” Mina said quietly. “And your side… If it gets infected, I can’t-- You’ll need help that I can’t give.” She didn’t particularly want to leave, either. Being around Bex made any of the pain she felt worth it. But if the younger girl got too sick, there’d be nothing Mina could do to help her, and Mina refused to allow that to happen. She refused. “I’ll probably be able to heal better away from here, anyway. My body heals better in water sources that it gets attached to, that I spend a lot of time in. That’s why I spent a lot of time in the pool.” As frustrating as it was, Mina knew she’d heal a lot better there. She’d be going home. She wanted to go home. When she’d been in the hell dimension with Adam, one of the main things Mina had been thinking about was staying. She hadn’t known if she’d wanted to come back. Now, all Mina wanted was to go home with Bex, even if that was impossible. “I-- I worry about you, too. Nonstop, really, especially since I don’t see you or talk to you everyday. You--” She laughed breathlessly, incredulously, painfully. “You thought I wouldn’t want you around? That’s-- No. No, that’s impossible. That’s actually impossible. I would have spent every minute with you, but I was so scared you’d get tired of me, or you’d figure out that I’m really not worth being around, or that-- that-- you didn’t want me at all. Because no one has. Not like that. Not for long.” It was easier and harder to say this than Mina had imagined. “I just want whatever you’ll give me. We don’t have to call it anything. We don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to. It’s just you. I just want you, and I love you, and I’ll do that as quietly or as loudly as you want me to.” Mina knew how to love Bex without having her. She hadn’t been able to have her the entire time she knew what to call what she was feeling. She’d take whatever Bex allowed her to have, even if it was nothing at all. But this was something, this kiss, and she returned it softly, slowly. She meant it. She meant all of it. After all, she couldn’t lie.

“Oh,” Bex said quietly, her fingers curling against Mina’s chest, feeling the warmth of her skin. “I didn’t know that.” She hadn’t known that. Mina hadn’t told her anything about how to help her, she’d been grappling at straws. She thought she’d been helping. Water seemed so easy a thing to give her. They couldn’t stay here. The lake Bex had found wasn’t enough to save her. She swallowed. “What do we do if I still have a fever tomorrow?” she asked into the space between them. “Or you can’t walk on your leg? Or your side gets worse?” There were too many what if questions, and they were all begging to be let out first. She tried not to let them consume her. They needed to rest. None of the what ifs would matter if they didn’t rest. Her heart stammered the more Mina spoke. They wanted the same thing the whole time but had never dared say anything to the other. Bex had been so afraid Mina would reject her, that maybe she’d never really wanted her, maybe she wasn’t enough because she couldn’t understand Mina’s life, or how the supernatural worked. She tried to hold back more tears, bubbling with pained laughter when Mina did. “We’re stupid,” she said through a smile, “we’re so stupid. Of course I wanted you around. I’d never wanted anything more. How could I not want you? You were so perfectly unperfect, your hands fit so well with mine…” Her voice trailed off, grew quiet. “I always wanted you. Always. There was never a point I didn’t. So...lock that away. You don’t have to wonder anymore.” 

Her chest hurt again and for a moment she thought it might be the fever, but then she realized the ache was inside. “Mina…” she didn’t know how to say it, “I-- I can’t ask you to do that. I can’t. You-- deserve to be loud with someone. To be with someone who can...be loud with you. Someone who can love you anywhere.” She pulled away slightly, searching her eyes. “How could I ask you to be anything less? I--” want this, right now-- “I want this, too. I missed you so much. But this is-- this is all I can give you right now. It’s not fair.” Just like when she’d fallen into Mina’s dream, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to hurt Mina with offers of only something, not when she wanted to give her everything.

“You still saved me, bringing me here,” Mina added quickly. “I can heal in any water that isn’t salt water, and I haven’t always had places I've considered home. It just helps more.” Any water would help; she hadn’t specified for a reason, when Bex was dragging her through the forest. But being somewhere that she knew would be even better. “If there’s a problem… we’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll figure it out.” She didn’t know how, but they would. They would. She blinked against Bex’s words. “I don’t think you’re stupid.” Mina was stupid. She didn’t think that Bex was stupid, though. She took one of Bex’s hands, laced their fingers together. They did fit well together. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Just know I feel the same.” And she did. She did. She did. “You don’t have to ask. You don’t. I don’t mind. Really. I never thought I’d get this kind of love in the first place, especially not from someone like you.” And she might’ve been embarrassed that she kept saying all of these things if she wasn’t so damned tired. She had a loose tongue, recently, a truthful one. It spilled all of her secrets. It wouldn’t stop. “This is enough for me. Anything is enough. Which is desperate of me, and I know that, but I don’t particularly care, I’ve found. I just want you. To be with me, to not, to love me or to tell me to fuck off. I don’t care.”

Bex didn’t reply. Her mind was fading from itself pretty quickly, but the thoughts kept reverberating in her head. She hadn’t known. She’d never told her. She had known, she’d never asked. Bex reached up a hand to wipe her eyes, looking at Mina. “What if-- what if we don’t?” she asked. “What if you--” she didn’t want to say the words. Couldn’t. “I’m very stupid.” She nodded slowly, as if that proved her point. “I let go of you.” She looked down at their hands intertwined. They fit so perfectly. She squeezed and felt weak and felt tired. “Okay,” she agreed, “I believe you.” And she did. She’d believe anything Mina told her. They needed to get out of here alive. They had to. “Someone like me?” Bex shook her head. “I didn’t think I’d get to love, either, you know.” She played idly with Mina’s fingers. “I’m nothing special, really. I just-- I just found you and suddenly it was like I was. Like I could be.” She drew in close again, kissed her softly again. “Of course I love you. Of course I want you. To be with you. But we don’t--” sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s what she should’ve said. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. “I can-- okay.” She kissed her again. “I can give you this.” She wanted to give her this.

“Thinking about what ifs,” Mina said slowly, “is something to worry about after. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what we can. And if we don’t… we’ll worry about that then.” And Mina was going to worry about it regardless, too, and she knew all about dwelling on what ifs, but that wasn’t something for them to focus on tonight, and that wasn’t something for them to focus on tomorrow, in the moment. In the moment, there would only be doing whatever it took to get them both out. Nothing more. There couldn’t be anything more. She moved in closer, and her eyes felt heavy. If she fell asleep again, it might be on purpose for the first time in weeks. “Not stupid. You’re not.” She sighed, a small smile on her face. “You’re so special. And amazing. And just-- I know three languages fluently, and I just don’t have the words.” She kissed Bex back, eyes closed, moving in close and wrapping the blankets around both of them. “I’ll take whatever. Whatever you give, really.”

“That’s too many things,” Bex mumbled, “too many things to think about.” Too many possibilities. She sniffled a little and sighed contentedly as Mina moved in close and they were nearly tangled up how they usually were. As much as they could be with all of Mina’s injuries and Bex being sick. But it was more than she’d had in weeks and it was more than enough. “If I’m not, then neither are you,” she said. She let out a soft chuckle, finally smiling for the first time in what felt like days. Maybe even weeks. Maybe even more. “Are you bragging? It’s very impressive, that you can speak three languages, and still be so baffled by me that you can’t speak straight in any of them.” She hadn’t teased Mina like this in so long. It felt so natural, so good. She had just enough energy left in herself to lift her head off the pillow and lean over Mina and kiss her, a little more this time, a little more intent behind her lips. “I can give you this,” she murmured against Mina’s lips. And she could. It wasn’t a matter of should anymore, it really never had been. It was that she could and wanted to, and so she would. And she leaned back down to kiss her, despite the weariness in her bones, and the pain throbbing in her muscles.

“I know.” Mina was more than aware that there were too many things. It was too much to think about. But if they started worrying about it now, she doubted they’d ever stop. They both got like that, stuck in their head and worried. They needed to worry about resting and then getting home. Nothing else. “No, I’m quite stupid. This isn’t up for debate.” She tried to frown but ended up smiling. “I’m not bragging! I don’t brag. It’s just a fact. And it’s not… befuddlement.” It was awe. She was in awe of Bex, all the time, every time she saw her. Mina put a hand on Bex’s cheek, deepening the kiss. Not as much as she wanted to, though. They were both injured, horribly injured, and, if Bex was getting sick, then making out was a truly terrible idea. As it was, there was still the risk of one of them hurting the other more. Not just physically. This would go away soon. Mina knew it wouldn’t last. They’d leave this shack, and everything would be over again. They shouldn’t add to the hurt. But it was hard to remind herself that when it felt so good, in the moment.

“It is up for debate, actually,” Bex said between breaths, “you’re not stupid. You’re not.” She repeated it, too, with each kiss. Neither of them were stupid, and yet they were both so profoundly stupid. They needed to rest, they needed to focus on getting better so they could leave tomorrow. They needed to sleep. Mina needed to make sure her injuries were healing okay, she needed to rewrap them with more damp pieces of blanket, probably. Bex needed to drink water. She needed to wash her face and her side. But instead she just kept kissing her, because this was something she could give her right now. She couldn’t give her the care she needed, but she could give her this. And Mina had said she wanted it. And Bex wanted it, too, despite herself. She wanted this and so much more. Once they left, this would just be over again. They’d be stuck on opposite sides of the tub again. Doing this would make her heart hurt again. But she didn’t care, she just didn’t care. She could never quite think straight when she kissed Mina, and now she had a fever, too, so all the odds were against her and all she wanted to do was kiss her and curl up in her arms when they finally had to sleep. “I love you so much,” she whispered against her lips, “you make my head spin.”

“Agree to disagree,” Mina said, smiling against Bex’s lips. It was just like before, except they were in a dingy shack in the middle of nowhere, and Bex was sick, and Mina was badly injured, and both of them were probably dying, and Mina couldn’t try to hide the scales on her body if she wanted to. They needed to rest. They needed to heal. They needed to get out of this place. But Mina had always thought that the sound of rain was soothing, even when it was a terrible storm. It was cleansing, it was healing, and it washed away everything, good and bad. She couldn’t hate being trapped with the rain pounding outside, not with Bex beside her, teasing her. “You’re-- I-- I love you, too. So much. So much.” They needed to rest. At the very least, they needed to get still and settled for the evening. Mina was already trying hard not to fall asleep. She didn’t want to fall asleep. She wanted to be aware for as much of this as possible. But they both needed to rest. “We-- You should-- We both need to lay down.” They were laying down. “Rest. We need to do that.”

“I’m always right, though,” Bex mumbled, “remember?” She’d missed this. It was pouring rain outside and they were trapped in a cabin with no food and dirty water and minimal medical supplies, but all Bex could think about was how much she missed this. Missed her. Missed being held by Mina. Missed kissing her. She didn’t want to stop. She needed to stop. She pulled away, staying close, breathing in deeply. “Mmmhmm,” she hummed, not really hearing what Mina was saying. It echoed on the fringes of her mind. They needed rest. Yes, that was what she was saying. They needed rest. Bex opened her eyes to look down into Mina’s brown ones. They didn’t match her hair anymore, but she still loved them. She ran a hand through Mina’s now blonde hair. She still loved it. “Rest, yes,” she answered, but didn’t quite move yet. “Do you need--” she looked down at her, noticed they were wrapped up in the blanket now. When had that happened? Bex couldn’t assess her injuries. She laid her head on the pillow next to Mina’s. She wanted to kiss her again. She didn’t know if she’d be able to kiss her in the morning. “Are you injuries okay? I can-- if you need something-- I can--” but what could she do? She deflated, curling an arm as gently as possible around Mina. “Are you staying with me?” she asked instead.

“Of course I remember,” Mina said. How could she forget? She remembered everything that Bex told her, she believed. Everything. The way she ordered her drinks at coffee shops, what she was studying, what she wished she was studying, the places she wanted to go. Of course she remembered. How could she not? When her brain wasn’t quiet, like it was with Bex’s hand in her hair, her lips ghosting against hers, almost all of her thoughts were of Bex, and she wished she could be better, and she wished she wasn’t so consumed, but she was also okay with it. She didn’t mind it. She didn’t want it to go away. The weight of Bex’s arm was comforting, even if her words weren’t. Mina didn’t respond to most of it, instead mumbling, “I’m not going anywhere tonight. And she wasn’t. She wasn’t. Her eyes were drifting closed. She didn’t want to sleep. She just wanted to rest them, just for a moment.

It wasn’t necessarily reassuring that Mina didn’t answer Bex’s questions about how she was doing, if she’d be alright for the night, but she was tired of arguing about it. Of going back and forth between them, deciding who was less hurt and less susceptible to succumbing to death, deciding who should be taking care of who. Maybe the answer was neither. Maybe it was both. Maybe that was what being in love meant, taking care of someone who also took care of you. Maybe they both needed that. Bex drew in a breath and closed her eyes when Mina did. They just needed to rest, that was all. They just needed to rest a bit.

#chatzy #wickedswriting #chatzy: mina #we're only liars #mina #Domestic abuse tw #head injury tw

[grapefruitsketches]

Tell Me What’s Wrong

For fytheuntamed’s Untamed Fall Fest Day 22: Warmth

Rated T, 1,960 Words. Pre-Nielan, Mild Language, During timeskip, Lan Xichen worries about anyone and anything before himself, Sickfic, Light Hurt/Comfort

Also available on AO3

It started simply as just something less than sharp focus in the morning. Started as a sneeze, presumably at some irritant he hadn’t identified.

But it had become more of a persistent headache. The use of a constant flow of spiritual energy through his body to ease muscle aches, clear sinuses. Just sustain his body well enough to be unnoticeable in public.

It was the last day. The last day of the cultivation conference. He had thought he had made it. Thought he had successfully pushed through without having to excuse himself.

Because if he missed anything, then he’d have to ask someone else to step in. And if that person had to step in, both he and the Lan disciple would have to write a report. And if they had to write a report, that would not only be more work Lan Xichen didn’t want to contemplate doing right now, and also meant that Lan Qiren would know about it. Then the currently shell-shocked Cloud Recesses would have to deal with his shortcomings, even while trying to recover from his brother’s actions.

His brother, who might not even trust him right now, no matter if he’d carried him on his back, bleeding, hardly conscious back to his room, with Lan Xichen only sometimes catching the most heartwrenching cries: Wei Ying. Come back. His brother, who needed Lan Xichen – whether he knew it or not. Lan Xichen knew he hadn’t been able to save his brother from harm. But he could push to mitigate its effects – to let his brother heal in solitude, to grieve without disturbance. Lan Xichen would behind the scenes to make it so, even if, as sect leader, as a brother, he felt he should have been able to do more. But couldn’t do that if he was sick.

But Lan Xichen had made it here. To the last day of the conference. He would be heading back to Cloud Recesses a week from now, after the last few celebratory banquets once today’s discussions were done.

He was tired, but he was so close. Had pushed through days of quiet suppression of headaches, of sniffling, muscles aching. Nothing too severe. Nothing a bit of spiritual energy couldn’t quiet.

But this morning, as he’d awoken, after barely being able to stay asleep the previous night, he’d let out a quiet moan.

His head had been pounding. His bedsheets soaked with sweat. His breath coming in short pants.

No no no. He’d shaken his head, throwing the sheets off of himself and stumbling, shivering to his feet. No no no. This wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. These were signs of fever. Full-blown fever. But he couldn’t be sick. Couldn’t. Not for so many reasons. So he decided he wouldn’t be.

He made the bed, using a spare set of sheets he had been provided, thanking the Lan reputation for pristine, routine habits, for the expectation that the disciples deal with their own bedding, especially as guests.

He allowed himself the luxury to sweat, to shiver, to pant until it was time to dress. Until it was time to show his face.

Once he had washed, he started to let the energy flow. Force the symptoms to subside, at least the noticeable ones, as he put himself together for the day. With a smile and a nod to the veneer he had constructed for himself in the mirror, he had left for the day.

He had forced himself to eat his ordinary breakfast. To smile at his fellow cultivators, greet Nie Mingjue, let the man talk about all the things he would rather listen to besides Jin Guangshan going on about all the artisans, the staff, the preparation that would go into the next banquet.

But all this was only through a dense fog.

Nie Mingjue whispered to him, and he answered. Barely following the conversation, not knowing what he had said, what had been said, even moments later.

The fog was only truly interrupted when he noticed Nie Mingjue’s signs of not just restlessness but agitation beside him. These were signs he knew well, from their shared time on the battlefield.

He cleared his throat. If there was something wrong, he needed the other man to know he was fine. Could be trusted to help.

“Da-ge. What’s wrong?”

--

Nie Mingjue wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t been looking.

Wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know the man’s face so well.

Wouldn’t have said anything if his worry hadn’t far outpaced any mild embarrassment at having been caught staring.

“What’s wrong, Xichen?” Nie Mingjue whispered out the corner of his mouth.

And instantly the small fold between his friend’s eyebrows, the frown so small it would be a neutral expression on anyone else, the slight narrowing to his eyes, smoothed away. The smile was back, “Nothing, da-ge, just a bit cold in here is all.”

Then Xichen turned back to face the front of the room, where Jin Guangshan was lecturing the visiting sect leaders about something other. A clear signal that Xichen meant for the conversation to be over. For now at least.

The lecture seemed to drag on. The Chief Cultivator’s priorities were hard to care about at the best of times, but now that Nie Mingjue knew what to look for, he didn’t fail to notice the almost, but not quite perfectly, repressed shivering next to him.

Mingjue fidgeted. Lans weren’t supposed to react this way. They shouldn’t so much as tense at a room that was “just a bit cold.” They spent all that time in that unbearable cold spring, after all. And Nie Mingjue had been invited, coerced into it one too many times to believe that the sunny banquet hall anywhere near approached the frigid force – soothing, according to Zewu-jun – of the springs.

The midday break finally rolled around and it was all Mingjue could do to not leap up and grab Xichen by his wrist, drag him outside and demand to know what was wrong.

Fortunately, then deeply worryingly, that was not necessary. Before he had even turned to Xichen, the man had already reached out, grasped Mingjue by the shoulder, “Come with me?” The man said quietly, a slight pleading look in his eyes.

Mingjue nodded numbly, heart beating rapidly. He had been ready for a fight – albeit a silent battle of wills, simply needing to brush off an unending barrage of “I’m fines” – but a fight nonetheless. It was unsettling that Xichen too admitted the situation merited attention.

Or so he thought.

A clearing of a throat, “Da-ge. What’s wrong?” Lan Xichen asked, looking up at him with a tone dripping in genuine concern once they stood alone on one of the Jinlintai balconies.

Oh. Typical. Mingjue sighed deeply, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at the other man, “You think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Isn’t there?” he frowned, “I-I thought… I worried…” his stuttering might have been funny (even cute a voice in Mingjue’s head whispered) in any other circumstance, but for now, all Nie Mingjue saw was further evidence that Zewu-jun was losing control of his perfectly sculpted mask.

“You’re worried. About me.” Nie Mingjue summarized bluntly, needing to get to the root of this before the session was called back in.

Lan Xichen smiled, nodding, not seeming to notice he was rubbing his own arms – unusual for him, whether it was to sooth nerves or for heat, “Of course I am, da-ge. I can always tell when there is something on your mind and just now…”

Now Nie Mingjue can only groan, “Yes, Xichen, of course I was worried.” Xichen blinked, Mingjue taking the pause to notice the glassiness to them. He continued, “But about you.”

Xichen relaxed, “Me? Why?” He seemed to chuckle at the thought.

This man.

“Xichen, give me your wrist,” Nie Mingjue held out a palm impatiently.

The Lan sect leader furrowed his brow, now frowning in earnest as he pulled back his sleeve, inspected his bare wrist as though some answer lay in its soft skin, “I don’t know what you think is…”

“Xichen. Don’t bullshit me on this,” Nie Mingjue caught his eyes, which had startled wide at Mingjue’s sudden stern tone. No longer impatient, but frustrated, “Don’t think you can… that you should,” he flinched at how wounded his voice sounded at this last bit, “that you have to hide when you’re not feeling well. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Lan Xichen’s shoulders slumped. Not dramatically, but noticeably enough.

--

The demand had hit him hard. The precariously upheld illusion seemed to fall apart and he felt his posture slide, felt his face fall.

“Mingjue, please.” He hated the way his voice caught, but he needed to do this. Needed to finish this. Just this afternoon at least. But nonetheless, he reached his arm over, placed his wrist in Mingjue’s palm, “Wait until after the discussions.”

“You’re using way too much spiritual energy,” Mingjue answered matter-of-factly, taking Xichen’s wrist, “Even if you can make it through this afternoon, you could cause serious damage if you over strain it like this.” He pursed his lips, “I won’t stop you from doing… whatever you’re going to do. I wouldn’t interfere in what you think is right, especially not with…” He seemed to think twice about finishing that sentence. They both knew how it would end. And Lan Xichen, for one, was happy not to hear it aloud.

Lan Xichen smiled as his body screamed in frustration, “Thank you, da-ge, for understanding-”

“But,” Nie Mingjue ploughed forward, “No more spiritual energy use.”

Lan Xichen straightened, affronted, “Then how will I…?”

Nie Mingjue averted his gaze, looking down to the floor, “Not yours anyway.”

Xichen wasn’t sure why, but he flushed. The offer shouldn’t mean anything. Nothing more than a practical solution to Xichen’s dilemma. Nothing different from the times, during the war, where Xichen, where Mingjue, where any other number of cultivators had shared their spiritual energy with another – to help them heal, to live. What was different now?

Xichen gulped, trying not to be alarmed at the soreness once again building in his throat, “Ok.” His whispered, quietly enough that the rasp his voice threatened wouldn’t be obvious.

“Ok,” Mingjue agreed, “It’s on you until we get back to the tables and then…”

Xichen nodded, trying not to let tears slip out in relief, “Thank you.”

“Thank me by getting a good night’s rest tonight,” Mingjue answered flippantly, but even through the haze of his mild fever, Xichen saw the colour to Mingjue’s cheeks, which seemed to match his own.

--

Under the table, through the long, dense afternoon lectures, two hands touched.

Lan Xichen was able to stay awake, alert enough to draw no unwanted attention. He made it through the afternoon, then, switching back to his own spiritual energy, broke from Mingjue long enough to say the appropriate formalities before the two of them went back to Xichen’s rooms.

As soon as the door slid shut, he sank. Still graceful. Still controlled. But suddenly, inevitably, pulled to the ground.

Or he would have been, if Nie Mingjue hadn’t been there, ready, as the carefully constructed façade finally, finally melted away.

“Thank you, Mingjue,” Xichen whispered as he closed his eyes and drifted off, right by the door in Mingjue’s arms.

Mingjue rolled his eyes. How had Xichen let it get this bad? But he lifted the man, carried him to the bed.

“Sleep well, Xichen,” he whispered as he smoothed the hair back, removed the headpiece, peeled off the finely crafted outer robes, left the forehead ribbon untouched. He lay the sleeping man down, tucked the sheets neatly around him, hoping to warm him, stop the shivering, “It’s the least you deserve.”

#untamed fall fest #nielan #nie mingjue #lan xichen #the untamed #cql #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #my writing

[justanother-unluckysoul]

Healer Of Souls

Characters: Killian Jones, Emma Swan

Word count: 1352

Summary: Killian gets sick and Emma won’t leave him alone. Some Captain Swan hurt/comfort circa season 4.

A/N: This was supposed to be another Whumptober fill but as I wrote it, the plot slowly strayed further and further from the original prompt, and eventually diverged too much to be considered a fill at all lol Title is from a Switchfoot song of the same name.

Read on AO3

Healer Of Souls

It starts with a headache. Just a minor one, an ache somewhere behind Killian’s left eye, making him lethargic and irritable. He brushes it off. He’s had headaches before, some far worse than this, and tolerated them fine. But by noon, around the same time his skin starts to feel tight and raw, it’s blossomed into a full migraine. Killian’s carefully constructed façade is moments from shattering to pieces and he quickly excuses himself. He just needs to sleep, he’s sure.

Thankfully none of the people he passes on his way to Granny’s seemed to notice his discomfort. By the time he slips into his room, Killian’s ears are ringing and his head is spinning. His clothes feel too rough against his heated skin and he strips down to his underwear. The straps of his brace seem to bite into his arm in a way they haven’t since the last time he’d had to replace the worn out thing, before the new leather became soft and supple once more from so much use. His fingers tremble as they work to unlatch the buckles and he almost whines with desperation, before it finally releases him and he can collapse into bed. But unfortunately, despite how drained he feels, sleep doesn’t seem to be something he can do right now. He can’t get comfortable. Too hot, too cold, and his head won’t stop pounding. Killian drifts in and out of a restless doze, his mind clouded, feverish thoughts running rampant. He ends up on his back, blanket drawn up to his chest, and he can’t bring himself to move again even though he’s broken out in a sweat now and his bare skin prickles where the blanket rests on it. He’s panting softly, an involuntary reaction to his distress, but he dares not make a sound beyond that, lest he draw attention to his pathetic state.

“Killian?”

The voice draws him back from torturous visions twisted from pain and fever. There’s a knocking sound at the door.

“Killian, are you in there?”                                  

Emma. The door isn’t locked. He’d been too focused on throwing off his clothes and collapsing into bed to even think of locking it behind him; an oversight he’s severely regretting now. A cough rattles up through his chest and he can’t stifle it. Bloody hell. Now she’s definitely going to come in and see him, all sweaty and trembling and weak and there’s nothing he can do about it. He slips his left arm under the blanket.

“I’m coming in,” Emma warns, and the door swings open slowly.

So predictable, his Swan. She peeks around the door, like she’s worried about what she’ll find. But somewhere between her glance at the garments on the floor (lingering just a little too long on his discarded brace, sending a chill of anxiety down his spine) and then at him lying in bed, the caution drops from her demeanour and morphs into concern. Pity. He hates to see it. Emma slips inside the room and the door latches closed behind her.

“Killian? Belle said you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m alright,” Killian tries, but his quiet voice rasps painfully in his dry throat and does not convince Emma at all.

She is next to him now, the back of her knuckles dragging lightly over his forehead. He detests how soothing the touch is. How long has it been since he’s been treated with such affection on his sickbed? Not since Milah. And he doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he’s done.

“You’re burning up,” she says, her voice sharp with accusation.

The noise reverberates through his aching head, but Killian can’t bring himself to complain. This is what he’s earned. Her anger. Her hate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.

Emma moves away, like she’s leaving, and Killian feels both relief and a terrible sense of loss at the thought. But either she didn’t hear him, or she’s chosen to ignore him, because she doesn’t leave the room, and momentarily, she returns to his side with a damp cloth. The bed dips as she sits beside him, and the motion seems to rattle all his bones. Killian grits his teeth to keep from giving away how much it hurt, but when Emma rests the cloth across his forehead, the cool feeling of comfort is too much and draws a soft moan of relief from Killian against his will. He feels his already fever-flushed face heat even more with embarrassment.

“Feels good, huh?” Emma asks with an amused smile.

He doesn’t want her here. He just wants to be left alone. Her touch is more than he can bear but at the same time, he craves it more than anything else. He doesn’t answer her.

“Is your head hurting?”

Her voice is soft now. Her hand rests gently against his chest and it burns his sensitive skin. He fights the instinct to recoil from it.

“A little,” he lies.

It has subsided from what it was, Killian justifies as his conscience rails against him.

“I’ll get you something for it,” Emma says.

And jostles him again by standing up. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, tries to hold down the cough tickling somewhere in his lungs.

“You’ve probably got the flu,” Emma says distantly, and he hears a cupboard open, something rattling, water running, “It’s been going around.”

And then she is back again, and she takes the cloth off his forehead.

“Sit up.”

Killian’s honestly not sure if sitting up is something he’s capable of doing. Or something he should be doing. But he can’t refuse her. As expected, when he pushes himself up, his head throbs mercilessly, dark spots dancing across his vision. The blanket falls to his waist. The room slides away. Emma catches him, stopping the motion. It was him sliding away. Not the room, of course.

“Whoa, easy,” she says, a little bit of alarm in her tone, her hands holding him too tightly.

The pain drags a pathetic whimper from his throat as he slumps helplessly into Emma’s arms. His blunted wrist is exposed to her for the first time, and he feels more naked right now that if he truly was naked. I should have left the bloody brace on. Humiliation coils in his chest, but he’s too weak to move. His pulse is too quick, pulling fire through his veins.

“It’s okay, Killian,” Emma’s murmuring, soothing him, her voice tethering him to reality as he fights for control, “I’ve got you. It’s okay. Is it your head?”

She isn’t paying any mind to his scarred wrist. And he’s too far gone to hide anything anymore. He’s both finding and losing himself in her scent, her arms, her voice. His hand trembles where it rests on her forearm. His forehead catches itself on her shoulder.

“Yes,” Killian admits miserably, “And my… everything else.”

“Okay,” she says, “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s take a minute.”

He wants to take much more than a minute. He wants an hour. A day. An eternity in Emma’s embrace. If only he didn’t feel so unwell and he could fully appreciate this moment, how he’s pressed against her like this, instead of just seeking comfort from it like a child. And then Emma’s shifting, her body close against his side, her arm across his back.

“Swallow these,” she says, pressing some pills into his hand, “Don’t chew them. And I’ve got some water here to wash them down.”

He swallows them quickly, but his hand shakes quite badly when he picks up the glass. Another wave of shame washes over him when Emma has to help him bring the cup to his lips. And more when she assists him to lay down again. He hasn’t felt so vulnerable in a long time and he curses his body for its fragility.

“Get some sleep, Killian,” Emma says, pulling the blanket back over him.

When she steps away, he closes his eyes and thinks that’s the end of it. She’ll walk through that door and finally leave him alone, which is nothing less than what he deserves. But instead she returns with the cloth again, freshly soaked in cold water, and lays it across his forehead once more. His body slowly melts into the mattress, pain pulled away on the tide of medication and comfort.

“Thank you,” Killian whispers.

END

#once upon a time #captain swan #hurt/comfort #killian whump #sickfic #my fanfics #cs ff

[ohkiyo]

pairing: Sugawara Koshi x Reader

warnings: none

word count: 1.6k

a/n: was feeling a bit under the weather lately, so here’s a sick fic, with no other than the pretty boy himself. Also, here is Sugawara singing under the sea to bless your ears. hehehe

(f/b)-favorite bread

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      karasuno navigation || main navigation

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When you woke up that morning, you did not expect to be greeted by a pounding headache, partnered with an itchy throat, a sore body and your ears ringing. Aside from that, your eyes hurt as well to the point that just by opening them for a few seconds causes it to sting resulting in tears building up, so you had no choice but to close them again. 

Even the tiniest sounds, dorks barking, doors closing, causes your headache to worsen, basically everything hurts and you can’t even do anything about it.

“(Y/n)! wake up or you’ll be late!” your mother called from downstairs, preparing your breakfast. You groaned, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself as the wind from the air conditioner blew past you, your body hurts so much, you can’t even stand up to turn it off.

Minutes past and your mother haven’t called you again, that was until you heard your door opening. Soft footsteps padding over the carpeted floor as your mom walks towards your miserable form “(Y/n)?”

“Y-yes?” you croaked out, your voice scratchy, you felt the side of your bed dip a little. Your mother’s cold hand presses your forehead to check your temperature. She frowned, your body temperature too high for her liking.

“You might be having a fever sweetheart” she stood up, walking into your bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet. Taking out a thermometer, she went back out, urging you to open your mouth and place it inside. While waiting, she grabs the remote and turns off your AC, adjusting your curtains to fully cover your window. 

Hearing the device beep, she took it out and checked. “40.1 degrees celsius” Her existing frown deepened “I’m taking you to the hospital” 

You shook your head, slowly opening your eyes to meet your mother’s concerned ones “No…hospitals please” 

She knelt down, brushing the hair out of your eyes, your body visibly relaxing at your mother’s soft touches. “(Y/n), your temperature’s at 40. That’s considered high already” 

“N-no” you sink lower into your bed, covering your head with your blanket once again. You never liked hospitals, the smell of antiseptics, the trays of medicines, the needles from the injections, and the patients you see roaming the hallways, it never sits right with you. Whenever you step foot inside a hospital, it just smells like death you found it disturbing, so unless you’re dying, you will not agree to your mother’s decision to take you there. 

You heard her sigh, before she gently patted your form from over your blanket “Alright, no hospital. But you’re drinking all the medicines I’m giving you. Is that a deal?”

You nodded your head, you’re fine with anything as long as hospitals aren’t involved. 

“I’ll call your school to inform them of your absence and cook you something light to eat” 

With that, she left your room and you fell back asleep.

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“(Y/n)’s not answering her phone” Sugawara had been trying to contact you since break started. He didn’t see you during your shared class in the morning, and when he asked your friends, none of them know where you were or what happened to you. He assumed you were running late, so he decided to call you again during lunch, unfortunately you weren’t answering his calls.

“Maybe she didn’t go to school today” Daichi offered, walking beside him with Asahi following right after. Making their way towards the cafeteria, maneuvering through the rest of the students wandering the hallways as they go about their lunch break.

“Sugawara-kun!” he paused in his tracks, watching as your friend walked towards the door of the classroom she’s currently in “(Y/n)’s absent today because of a fever. Her mom called to inform our homeroom teacher this morning”

If Sugawara wasn’t worried then, he sure is now. Sick? But you were just fine yesterday, he saw no symptoms of possible illness. You look perfectly healthy. “I’ll visit her later after school, thank you for telling me”

“I’ll give to you later the notes and school works the teacher’s gave”

Then she went back inside to rejoin her lunch companions as Sugawara jogs to catch up to Asahi and Daichi, who didn’t even notice he wasn’t with them anymore, too engrossed in their conversation.

The day went by fast, faster than any other days, mainly because after Sugawara was told of your absence, all he could think of was your well being. You rarely get sick, probably like once or twice a year, and when you do, it was severe, it’s not just some light fever that would go away the next day. No, yours would last for days before it would completely disappear, and if you’re lucky, sometimes it will only last for a day.

Questions were already running through his head, how are you doing? Are you taking your medicines? Are you eating? Who’s taking care of you? His mind was filled with nothing but endless questions, those thoughts stayed throughout the day that during practice he was distracted, nearly receiving a ball to the face after Tanaka tried to do a jump serve.

Once practice was over, he informed the others he would be going ahead. Promising them to explain later and hurriedly exited the school campus, the notes your friend promised to give to him already in his bag.

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“Ah Sugawara-kun, are you here you visit (Y/n)?” your mother opened the door wider, stepping aside as Sugawara removed his shoes.

“Yes (L/n)-san, how is she?” he trailed behind her, his hand filled with snacks he bought from the convenience store and the paper bag filled with your favorite bread that he bought from the bakery you two frequent near Karasuno, it was still hot, just recently been out of the oven.

“She’s doing a lot better than she did this morning” your mother answered, opening your door as they stood beside your bed. Your position is still the same from this morning, your muscles ache so bad that just by turning around hurts like hell. “I was just about to go buy her so more medicine, thankfully you arrived just in time Sugawara-kun”

“I’ll watch over her (L/n)-san”

“Thank you so much, stay over for dinner alright?”

Your mother exited the room to go run her errands while Sugawara took a seat on one of your chairs. Placing the snack on your nightstand and his bag on the floor just beside it, he took the basin that was placed on the floor beside your bed and changed the water, dipping in the towel and placing it on your forehead to help lower your temperature. He saw your body stirred in your sleep, your face scrunching up in discomfort.

“Mom?”

Sugawara chuckled, adjusting the towel on your forehead to avoid it from slipping “Your mom went out to buy you more medicine (Y/n)-chan”

The familiar sound of your boyfriend’s voice answered, it was soothing, gentle to the ears unlike the ones you have heard from right outside your window. “Koshi?”

“Mhmm” He dip the towel into the basin again before putting it back on your forehead “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible” you let out a sneeze, slowly sitting up on your bed then taking the tissue Sugawara offered you as you blow your nose “It hurts everywhere”

“It will go away soon once you drink your painkillers” He took the bag from the nightstand and placed it on his lap, opening the paper bag as the delightful smell of freshly baked bread wafted through your nose.

“Is that (f/b)?” he nodded his head, giving you a piece just in time to hear your stomach grumble from hunger. Sugawara opened the other bag and pulled out an orange juice, giving to you the bottle as he too takes a bite from his own snack. 

You never realized just how hungry you were until your stomach was begging for more food, you’ve been throwing up most of the food you ate earlier and when you do eat, two spoonfuls are already enough before you feel nauseated again.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up” Sugawara tucks you in, giving you a kiss on the forehead, humming a tune from under his breath as your eyes slowly closes, the side effect of the painkiller you drank finally kicking in.

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The next time you woke up it was already 9pm, and you felt much better than you did that morning. Your headache was gone, the body pain subsided and you throat doesn't hurt anymore, your cold was still there but at least your nose wasn’t runny anymore. Overall, you were slowly healing and it’s all thanks to your mom and your ever loving boyfriend.

“Feeling better?” you turn your head, Sugawara still seated beside you, already changed into the spare clothes he left in your closet for him to use whenever you two had a sleepover, notebook in hand as he reviews his notes. He leaned forward, feeling your forehead.

“Much better, thank you” you took hold on his hand, kissing his knuckles. Grinning at the blush forming on his cheeks, the words he had in his mind coming out of his mouth in nothing but stutters. You chuckled, lifted up your arm scooting over to create some space “Come lay here with me”

He closed his notebook and went under the covers with you, tucking your head under his chin as he pulls you closer to him, snuggling your small body, his scent calming you into another round of sleep. “Goodnight (Y/n), I love you”

You smiled, burying your face on his shirt “Goodnight, love you too”

#haikyuu fluff #sugawara fluff #haikyuu x reader #sugawara x reader #sugawara koshi x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu oneshot #sugawara scenarios #sugawara imagines

[null-whump]

Whumptober Day 7

I need to stop cutting this so close to the deadline wow. Anyway this is technically a continuation of a section I posted a while ago, found here, but it can also be read stand alone.

Warnings: Sickness? Nothing else really

Word Count: 946

Whumptober Prompt 7 – Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

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I was cold, so cold, and my head pounded in a rhythm with my heart. My breathing was shallow, and my chest hurt whenever it expanded. I was shivering violently, but my clothing and hair was drenched with sweat. My mouth was horribly dry, and my throat felt like I had swallowed knives. I knew, distantly, that I must be sick.

I heard something, a voice, far above me, but everything sounded like it was underwater and I couldn’t focus. Something pushed against my ribs and I groaned weakly. I felt a hand, brushing through my hair, then my head was lifted off the ground. I cracked my eyes open and saw, blearily, the figure in front of me, before I let my eyes slide shut again. I heard angry muttering, like a buzzing in my ears. I whimpered and curled in on myself further.

“….Can’t believe you’re sick…” I heard, then more buzzing.

I felt more movement, and made a weak noise of protest, then felt the ground disappear from under me. I gasped at the sudden sense of vertigo, clutching weakly at the arms that I realized were carrying me.

“Don’t get used to this,” I heard, and had just enough presence of mind to be afraid of the icy voice.

But being held was warm, and I was so cold, that I found myself relaxing into his grip. Then I was being lowered, and the warmth was moving away, and I tried to protest but couldn’t get the words past my raw throat. The bond in the back of my mind tingled with worry, and for a moment all I could see was Sam, her eyebrows pinched together in concern, sitting beside me while I was sick. Without thinking, I reached out, desperate.

“Don’t leave, please…Sam, please.”

I felt more movement, then a voice again. “…Fever must be higher than I thought.”

The warmth retreated completely, but then I felt something being pulled over me, something warm and heavy and comforting. As I began to drift off into sleep, lulled by the sense of comfort, I felt a hand brush against my forehead.

When I awoke again, I had only a little more awareness; enough to recognize the scent of warm broth in the bowl that was being held to my lips. Drinking it soothed my aching throat, and I felt it warm me from the inside. Then the bowl disappeared and was replaced by the cold rim of a glass bottle. The contents slid into my mouth, and I recoiled at the taste, horribly bitter. I tried to turn my head away, but a firm hand was keeping me in place.

“Stop resisting,” a low voice ordered. “Drink it, pet.”

I managed to force down the awful liquid, then eagerly drank the water that was offered after. I slept again, and when I woke again, I was given more of the terrible potion before sleep pulled me back under. I awoke several more times, sometimes greeted with water, or more broth, or nothing at all.

Finally, I woke and found that I could think clearly. The first thing I noticed was the softness of whatever I was laying on. I twitched my fingers, coaxing my hand into movement, and stretched out my arm, feeling the surface. I froze.

A bed. A blanket – more than one blanket. A pillow. My eyes flew open and I pushed myself onto my elbows, wincing at the surge of dizziness caused by the sudden movement. I hadn’t been imagining it. I slowly looked around the room, almost afraid of what I might find. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I recognized the room, a spare bedroom that had only been used one time that I could remember.

The door opened, and I flinched, then my fear mounted when Varren stepped into the room. Surely he would be angry – I wasn’t supposed to be here, not in a bed – I somehow managed to pull myself off the bed and land on the floor, too scared to register the pain in my knees.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t – I didn’t –”

Varren cut me off with an exasperated sigh. “Really, pet? How do you expect to get back up now, in your state?”

I froze, unsure of how to react. My initial panic had faded, and now I realized that I was horribly tired, and I didn’t think I could move my limbs at all. Varren stepped forward and placed something on the low table next to the bed, then reached down. I flinched, expecting him to pull me roughly to my feet at best, and was surprised when he moved slowly, then gently pushed me back into the impossible comfort of the bed.

I swallowed nervously, afraid to speak. Varren picked up what he had set on the table, which I now saw was a bowl – soup – and held it out.

“Go on,” he said when I didn’t move. “You’re not much use to me when you can barely move.”

I carefully reached to take the bowl, trying to keep my hands from shaking. It was with monumental effort that I was able to eat, my hand shaking whenever I raised the spoon. Varren watched me the entire time, his face expressionless. He took the bowl when I had finished and turned to leave.

“Sleep,” he ordered, and I barely registered hitting the pillow.

It was another day before Varren ordered me out of bed, and I could walk and function properly again. I didn’t have to be told what to do. I lowered myself to my knees, slowly, my body still protesting the movement.

“Thank you, sir.”

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Tag list! Let me know if you want to be added or removed, or if I somehow missed your name.

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog @shameless-whumper @whumpity--whump--whump @whumpitywhumpwhump @nervous-writer @this-zombie-will-eat-you @abyssshifter @whumpersworld @whatwasmyprevioususername @scared-and-crying @whatwhumpcomments @blackrosesandrhyme @amethystpath

#whumptober2020 #no.7 #carrying #enemy to caretaker #sickness tw #whump #nonhuman whumpee #my ocs: felix #my ocs: varren #my ocs: sam (mentioned)

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 17

Adva woke to the birds singing cheerfully outside. It was far later then she would normally wake, the sun now perched high in the sky and a few rays broke through the chinks in the heavy blue curtains that shielded the room from the offending brightness. She was one her side, but behind her, there was a heavy heat blanketing back and legs with a welcoming warmth. Groggily she turned her head to find the sleeping Witcher contently slumbering behind her. As impossible as it was, he looked even more gorgeous, silver hair fanned out across his pillow as lightly he snored. The events of last night came hurtling back to her, causing to bite her lip and cast her eye over the man beside her. Never did she think the night would end with Geralt confessing his feelings or the dry humping, her face redded as she moved to squeeze together her thighs and felt the sticky wetness that dripped from her core. Turning slightly she gazed at the mans sleeping face, he looks peaceful and happy, the corners of lips tugged slightly upwards, the dark circles under his eyes were nearly gone and the fever mostly absent, just the gentle warmth that cocoons him.

Hissing slightly, she felt the strap of her bodice dig further into the dress. Sliding quietly off the bed, she slipped from Geralt grasp and to the little chamber off from his room. The room was illuminated by a wall rectangle window at the top of the room, just enough light to allow someone to care for their daily ablutions but not big enough that anyone could look in. Adva could barely face her reflection in the mirror without a giggle; her lips were red and slightly bruised, hair a wild nest of bed head which she managed to smooth into something a little more presentable, she was sure her eyes look bluer. Her dress was ruined, totally unsalvageable. The netting of the skirts had been ripped and pulled from the bodice; the bodice has been mauled by Geralt explore hands, but she could bring herself to care that much.

Moving behind the screen, careful hands peeled off the tight bodice, sighing in relief. Pouring the water into the washbasin, she dapped the damp cloth across her skin the best she could. Washing the mess from her thighs was the most laborious task, but it gave her time to contemplate what she should do. Should she quietly return to her room? Or slip back into bed with him? Or breezily announce she was leaving. Having limited experience of this left her at a loss, the whole ettiquict was not something she understood. The woman mind cast back over the confession. Geralt seemed genuine hurt when he thought he disgusted her.

‘I. Adore. You.’ The word repeated again and again in her head. What did they even mean? Did he just want a light and casual thing, or was it serious?

Her head hurt, rolling her eye she slipped on her dress, pulling a face as the bodice refused to do up, she pulled one of the Geralt shirts from on top of the dressing screen and pulled it over the top of the running dress. With a deafening, screech jostled her from her thought to reveal a frowning Witcher.

‘Arghhhh Geralt doesn’t do that you frightened me.’ Adva squealed, pulling her cloth tighter around her.

‘You left the bed.’ Scowled the Witcher

‘Is that a question or a statement? Generally, its what people do at some point in their life.’ Adva laughed awkwardly, franticly attempting to fastener borrowed shirt around her while keeping her eyes trained on the man in front of her

‘I mean you left the bed before I woke up.... that not very becoming for a young lady to leave her lover in bed….’ Geralt pulled away and sniffed the air. ‘have you washed’ he growled stepping forward and encircling his arms around  her, burying his face in her neck ‘hmmm I don’t like that you washed the scent of us off.’

‘Well maybe we could do it again….’ Adva shyly offered to pull back to.  Geralt smirked and leaned forward. ‘After I have a bath.’

‘Woman, you tease.’

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God bless Triss. The bath had been already prepared. The fact that Triss knew she would need a bath and did not make it back to her room was not something she wanted to entirely think about, but it was welcome. Tossing a handful of baths salts, she pulled a pile of clean clothes from the closet and set them on a chair. Looking at the marks on her skin, a small blush flushed against her cheek, and her heart swelled, this was the happiest she had felt in a long time, hell the happiest she had ever been. Pulling the various oils onto the counter, she sorted through them. The oils where a collection that Triss had presented her with when she first arrived, along with several dresses and perfumes. Laying out the rest of her provision on the counters, she caught sight of a pair of violet eyes staring murderously at her in the mirror.

‘Well, well well, you are not what I expected. So, you are the Witcher Wife. Aren’t you a pretty thing? But not pretty enough. I don’t have all day; tell me the enchantment you use.’ A bronzed skin woman spat at her.

‘What enchantment? Who are you? Get out!’ Adva span around, eyes are running over the woman in front of her.

The strange woman was dressed elegantly. The finely embroidered dress clung to her slim, willowy figure, a clash of black and white was woven into a stunning dress fit for a queen. Yet for all her beauty, they were a murderous look etched on her face, make her look bird-like, with her gaze unmoving and unwavering.

‘Don’t give me that you little bitch’ The woman snarled, and a blast of energy burst from her sending her crashing through the floor.

The flesh of her back slammed with use force she though he had been split in two. Blood rushed through her ears like the sound of a ranging ocean.

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Jaskier curses the Witch with all his being. He has awoken with a feeling of great relief that the plan had worked, that Adva and Geralt were together. Jaskier was not proud, but he had slipped into the house a while after Geralt had left to hear the soft moans of pleasure drifting through the house. Now he was having to carefully peel a dazed Adva off a pile of rubble all because of that demented Harpy. Pale blues eyes watched as bruised has started to bloom against her pale skin and cuts wept a crimson that smeared across her skin.

‘What happened? Adva blinked up, ‘If Geralt alright?’  

Jaskier stared down her with sadness, with Yennefer around he knew Geralt would not be able to withstand her predatory charms and Adva would be cast out. A bubble of anger gripped down in the pit of his stomach. It honestly he had thought Adva would be different, but it hadn't been, it was the same as it would always be, Yennefer would whistle, and he would come chasing after her, he was a fool for believing it would be different.  At that minute he hated Geralt, he should just whisk Adva away and pray their paths never cross again.

‘Yennefer blasted you through two stories of the house.’ Ciri broke in as came to stand in the doorway, looking down as the tattered women laying on a pile of stones and splintered wood.

‘Yennefer?...Why?…Help me up.’ Adva coughed, a trickled of blood escaping from her mouth. Jaskier looked worriedly over at Ciri who hung back, undecided whether to interfere.

The small was not what Ciri was expecting, not at all. She expected some tall slinking femme fatal. Instead, she was presented with the plump curvy figured woman with deep blue eyes. She also thought that she would have Geralt tied in some dungeon in a stupor, but he wasn’t. He was with Triss Merigold, in her home while both of them tried to calm a very aggressive mage down. Ciri’s light blue eyes run over the woman again in curiosity, never had she seen Geralt use any signs on Yennefer. He usually let her rage and rant till she stopped, but now he was throwing every spell he knew to calm the rampant mage from a second attack on the dazed girl.

Limping slowly, she was relied heavily on Jaskier to support her as she moved. Her whole body ached as she moved. The house was messy; walls where broken, furniture shattered and the marble of the tiled floor drug up in giant patches. Had she lost consciousness? Adva brain was foggy, and she could focus on anything for more then a couple of seconds, she would have remembered this happening surely? The noise alone at least.

‘Yennefer stop! Stop your going to kill her. She his soulmate’ Triss screamed at the top of her voice.

Lifting a very heavy head, she glanced the scene in front of her. The violet eyes woman was pinned against the chimney stack, the mage and the Witcher either side, crowding her submission, for the moment at least. The sound of Triss’s voice ricocheted around the inside of her head with such force she thought she might shoot out again through her ears. Wincing, her tentatively touched her head, bright red blood smear across her fingers. Sucking in a breath, she recoiled with sickness as she forced her misty eyes to focus on the conversation ahead of her

‘You can’t be serious! That creature? She has enchanted you!’ Yennefer chortled her beautiful face twisted in disgust.

‘Yennefer. Listen to me she had not enchanted Geralt. They are soulmates; I checked their bond myself. I used the blood trace Yen; there is no way she could create something that powerful to connect them in that way.’ Triss countered.

‘It not possible.’ Yennefer gritted out, a burst of wind crashed through the window sending papers Triss was holding flying across the room. It was such a force that it pushed her and Jaskier back, papers getting struct to their bodies.

‘We don’t know how or why but Cersi brought these two together. We think it about something to do with her book. Adva is important. She has an Arcana to protect her…we know that Adva is not human just don’t know what. We have spent the last Goddess knows how many weeks trying to find that out. We think that it has intensified the bond somehow. I know your hurt but stop; you kill her you kill Geralt.’ Triss pleaded to throw Adva red bound journal to the mage.

Geralt had her book all this time, and she was his soulmate. Soulmates were partnered souls, Adva brain hurt but she could vaguely recall something in a book Triss had made her read. If Geralt was her soulmate if such a thing truly existed, why not be with her a less he didn’t want to be because he wanted to be with Yennefer. Then why keep her around. Was everything just an attempt to sleep with her even though he clearly had feelings for Yennefer. A thousand thoughts passed through her head, and it made her feel weak, her leg slackened at the feeling and Jaskier grunt under the extra weight.

‘Yen I tried but I can’t… you have to understand…. Just stop.’ Geralt grunted.

The pain in his voice was evident. It was broken and tired. A surge of nausea washed over her; she was stupid and foolish; she should have gone with her first instinct. Of course, he didn’t want her. Of course, he couldn’t when he had someone like Yennefer. He was being forced. A pang of raw guilt knarred at her, he had tried to fight it. He probably resented her. Adva both hated and pitied him at the same time. For making her think that he could want her, for lying to her and for wanting to be with someone else. For bring her to Triss to be taught when she was really just being kept amused. Sheer panic rose in the pit of her stomach; bile rose in her throat.

‘You are really picking her over me. Someone you are forced to be with.’ Yennefer sniffed.

‘It’s not like that Yen, and you know it.’ Geralt spoke calmly but clearly.

‘It doesn’t have to be’ the willowy women whipped across the short distance between them and planted her lips on his.

It was short and passionate. For a brief second, Adva thought he would pull away in disgust, but he didn’t. From where she was standing, she could only see the back of Geralt, but it was enough. It was enough that he didn’t move away. It only lasted seconds, but to Adva it said everything that she wanted to know. Yennefer pulled back; her face was pinched and dejected as she backed away her violet eyes coming to focus on Adva.

‘You little bitch.’ Yennefer bite out lowly as she fingered the red book, looking over at the woman in defiance.

‘Adva…’ Geralt grunted out as he pushed his way passed Triss, his face was a swirl of emotion, which seemed so strange against the usual blank expression.

‘Adva wait’ cooed Triss.

But Adva ignored them, pulling her body away from Jaskier and back out the doorway they had been standing in. Tears weald up ran down her face before she turned and limped away, Jaskier shot a scathing look at the trio as he rushed off in chase of her, Ciri gave the three a lingering look before following.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Adva fingering a fading cut on her palm, she knew it had been to clean to be from that night by the fire, but from a knife to draw blood for whatever spell they need to cast. She should have questioned it along with several other things, but she was too caught up in the sheer thrill of learning proper magic that she hadn’t wanted to. Signing, she squared her shoulder and glanced around her room. It was in chaos. The very little she had was destroyed, it broke her heart to see all the clothes she had accumulated in the last couple of month in tatters. Even the leather under corset was ruined. Torn in half by some stray fragment of wood.

‘Are you okay?’ Jaskier asked, cuddling his lute to his chest.

Both Jaskier and Ciri watched as Adva picked through the ruins of her belonging

‘Yeah, I am fine.’

‘Are you sure as I think if I had just found out, I was not human, Geralt was my soulmate, and Yennefer had tried to murder me, I think I would be freaking out. I mean when Yennefer tried to kill me, I think freaking out was an understatement.’ Jaskier pondered.

‘I am just an idiot…foolish girl.’ Adva wavered and gave a watery smile. ‘I will be fine….just a little banged up.’

Ciri shared a look with the bard; it was a knowing look. If she had been Adva walking in at the precise moment, she would have been upset too. She had been there the exact moment Yennefer felt their bond break, she was enraged calling Geralt every name under the sun but as they travelled word of the Witcher Wife spread which fuelled Yennefer to find out what sort of enchantment could break a Jinn’s magic. Love was a very strange thing. But Ciri gave the girl a sorrowful smile as the woman held a ruined bundle of clothes to small cut at the side of her head.

‘I haven’t introduced you to Adva of Brightwater this is Princess Ciri….’ Jaskier merriness died on his lips as Adva blankly blinked at them still pressing the tattered scraps of her material to the side of her head.

‘You're not going to blast me through the wall, are you?’ Adva slowly asked, wincing at the pressure she applied the cut.

‘No…I am sorry about Yennefer; she can be a little bit of a…’ Ciri hesitated, unsure what to say or do, glancing for support at her friend.

‘Harpy? Bitch? Murderous Hag?’ Jaskier offered causing Ciri to laugh, eyeing the other girl in the hope of a reaction but nothing, but return to her searching.

Ciri watched the woman shift through her belonging. She was very pretty, with a very satisfying body, different from Yennefer but she had seen Geralt go through all types. However, in her long relationship with the man, his women always seemed to be…outspoken and forthcoming. The Witcher was not one for teases and disliked the chase. Adva seemed innocent and untouched, very much the virginal type that Geralt didn’t normally go for. Maybe there was something in this whole soulmate thing she pondered.

‘I need to have a bath.’ The curly hair women winced as she bent down to gather the little pile underwear. ‘Could I use you bathroom Jaskier? Mine is a bit…destroyed.’ Adva gestured to the collapsed floor as a door swang clumsily on one hinge.

Jaskier nodded silently, and two pairs of eyes followed her as she scurried away.

‘Right Jaskier explain everything.’ Ciri snapped.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The marks on her skin were still visible, she remembered the tenderness of his touches, and the painstaking sweetest that he lavished on her was excruciating beautiful, but now looking at them made her feel hollow and empty. Slipping off her clothes was harder than anticipated, the dried blood coated her skin and pulled as she attempted to rid herself of the clothing. If the dress hadn’t been ruined by activity last night, it was now. Glancing at the mirror she was reminded of what had happened, the feelings she felt, the way Geralt had felt. The way he acted towards the morning after made her feel wanted, to think it was all fake burnt her. Why didn’t he tell her? Was she really that bad he did not want to tell her? Adva knew the answer, and she refused to dwell on it a moment longer.

Removing the last of her clothes she pulled a stray page that had stuck to her from the pages that the had been in Triss’s hand from the shirt she had borrowed from Geralt, Cersi messy scrawled smeared across the page.  It detailed placing her it ‘suitable accommodation’ and how she reacted to her placement in a brothel. Her whole life had been an endly string of manipulation, of being prodded and poked and used. Bitterly she thought she had gotten away from that with Geralt and Jaskier, escaped to a place where she was just Adva, but she was wrong. Her sole purpose was because she was Geralt’s mate or soulmate whatever that meant when he clearly would have preferred Yennefer, the honeyed skin siren. Her mind replayed the scene in front of her, his tone when he talked to the other mage and the kiss. The kiss broke her. She didn’t know who she was the angriest at, Geralt for lying to her or herself for falling for it. Geralt hadn’t really wanted to be with her. They even looked good together, both tall and statuesque; she didn’t fit in with that.

Climbing into the cold water, she was too exhausted to heat it and scrubbed her skin raw till she could no longer smell any of his scent on her skin she wanted to erase any reminder of their night. But the scent still lingered, throwing the cloth against the wall Adva screamed into her hand. It was the kind of silent scream; an angry scream as invisible sobs wracked her body. A sadness waged within her, along with an undercurrent of repulsion. It was quite clear that Geralt preferred Yennefer to her. For a while she allowed herself to wallow in self-pity. The whole revelation that she was not human was a surprise but not something unexpected that was always something different about her something that Tradi took great joy in exploring, her mind went to Cersi notes she most probably knew something about her she was the reason she was placed in the brothel, the reason Geralt took her. A swirl of resentment toward Cersi swelled. Why should she been controlled and manipulated for the whim of mages who didn’t care for her, she was worth more than that. If she could survive Tradi, she could survive anything. Yes, it hurt and would hurt for a long time, but why should she be the one wallowing in self-pity. If Geralt wanted to be with Yennefer he could, she would be okay whatever happened she knew that. That what she thought as she curled up to on the side of the tub and buried her head into her knees.

Sorry this chapter was late! Very busy week with birthdays and work.

So what do we think? I know I am a horrible person but blame Yennefer! 

Some interesting chapters coming up so please stay tuned- I promise that Adva will be kicking ass soon.

@ayamenimthiriel​ @uncoolcloudyhead​ @multixwolf​ @shesthelastjedi​ -Your comments made me so happy  

Please let me know what you think!

@sageandberries-png @wastingmypotential @luxyash @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @broco8 @introvertedmouse @threepupsinapuddle

I hope everyone is safe and well. With all the terrible things that are going on the world seem terrifying and uncertain place but please remember. Three things Faith, Hope and Love. But the greatest of these is love.

#the witcher #witcher netflix #thewitcher #netflix the witcher #witcher 3 #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt smut #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt oc

[sukurarose92]

Happy Birthday Celosiaa

@celosiaa Based off your favorite troupes ask, here’s a birthday gift for you. Sorry it’s a little late but i hope you like it. this is my first sic fic so please be gentle with me. 

Martin could hear Jon coughing from the bullpen, and he felt himself flinch with each sound. He knew that Jon wouldn’t accept his help, certainly not now that he was considering all of them prime suspects of murder. There was really nothing he could do but it didn’t stop him from feeling horrid each time that awful raucous sound came through the door.  

Tim looked up from his desk a couple times only to glower and look back down before turning up his earbuds to aggressively focus on his work. Martin had no such luxury. After a while it was too much. He quickly got up and retreated to the breakroom, intent on making Jon some hot tea with honey to soothe his likely horribly aching throat.  

Martin returned to an empty bullpen, Tim seemed to have packed up and went home, which wasn’t a rare occurrence these days, Martin tried not to let it bother him. He knocked quietly on the door receiving no response which only worried him more. He gathered his courage and knocked louder.  

“Jon, it’s martin... Oh yes, I mean of course it’s martin, you likely know my voice by now. But I... I uhm... I... I brought you some tea. May I come in?” He stumbled gracelessly over his words, swallowing down how much he felt like a fool. There was a weak response, but it was too quiet for martin to truly make out so after a moment of hesitation he entered the room.  

Jon was sitting at his desk, pale as death. the only color to him was in his ruddy cheeks that spoke of fever raging in his frail and shaking body. Martin set the tea down and rushed to Jon's side, checking his forehead with the back of a large hand.

“Jon, you’re burning up. You should be home!” Martin exclaimed, wiping the cold sweat off on the side of his pant leg as he fretted over the clearly ill man. Jon blinked up at him blearily and pulled away, swatting at Martin’s hand like a particularly irate kitten.  

“ ‘m fine. Go away” He slurred, eyes hazed and unfocused as his body slumped forward. Martin barely caught him in time before he fell from the chair and cracked his head on the concrete floor. He cradled the other as gently as he could and eased him down from the chair onto the stone floor.

“Jon you need to rest. Your fever is through the roof. You need to go to an A&E”  

Jon grumbled softly in response, barely coherent enough to try and push Martin away. Martin laid him down on the floor, pulling his hands from the other out of respect for his wishes but he worried that the other would only get worse if he left him alone like he was asked to.  

“Jon, I know you don’t want to be touched right now but I would like to take you to the bed in the record storage. Is that alright?”  

It took a moment before clarity seemed to bloom across Jon’s face and he gave a weak nod. Martin was as careful as he could be when he lifted Jon like a princess and carried him toward the record storage room. It felt like he weighed next to nothing and Martin found himself distressed as he wondered when the last time Jon had eaten a decent meal was. He wished, not for the first time, that he was a better cook and could offer him something nutritious to eat... although he was also painfully aware that Jon wouldn’t accept anything from him right now out of fear of poison or other means of foul play.  

Martin gently set him down on the bed and knelt beside him to remove his shoes one at a time, unlacing and sliding them from his socked feet. He eased the man down onto the mattress and covered him with the blanket, taking in with trepidation the way Jon wheezed for each breath now that he was laying down.  

Martin headed back to the break room, hoping to find some fever reducers in the first aid kit. What he found was low grade and there were only two left in the bottle. He would need to make a run to get him some supplies to take care of Jon. He decided then and there that he would not be leaving the archives tonight. He would stay and take care of Jon.  

Martin made his trip to the nearest convenience store as quick as he possibly could. he purchased a variety of gear meant to take of someone during a high fever and headed back to the archives, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. When he returned Jon was curled onto his side nearly hyperventilating. Martin worked quickly, pulling off the blanket and filling the thick silicone water bag with ice water. He relaxed Jon and placed it on his forehead, hoping it would help to lower his burning temperature.  

He ached with the wish that he could share Jon’s pain just to make it so the other hurt less, but he knew life never worked that way. He would have to suffer through seeing Jon in pain and do the best he could to relieve it. He managed to get Jon to sit up enough to take a dose of medicine.  

After that, all Martin could do was wait. He sat beside Jon, holding onto his closest hand as the man shivered and burned in the bed, soaking it with sweat over the next couple hours as he tried to burn through his fever only to heat back up and resume his heaving breaths.  

Martin watched over him as the hours ticked by, terrified to look away, afraid that something terrible would happen if he took his eyes off him for even a moment. Exhaustion tugged at Martin mind as the hours blurred and early morning began to sweep through.  

Martin passed out at Jon’s bedside around six in the morning, the last time he had checked, Jon’s fever had just broken.  

When Jon woke up, he was dizzy and sore but feeling better than he had when he last recalled being lucid. He looked around the room slowly, taking in the spinning scenery that made up record storage... and then focused in on the patch of soft curly blonde hair at the side of his bed. Martin was fast asleep, still holding Jon’s hand in both of his as if letting go would mean certain death.  

Jon felt something soft and warm blossom inside of his chest, there were medicines and other paraphernalia spread on a small file cabinet nearby that spoke volumes of what Martin had been doing all night. A small clock nearby read seven thirty. The archives would be opening soon, Martin had stayed all night taking care of him. There was a half full mug of water with a bendy straw that must’ve been purchased just for him considering there were several more poking out of a plastic shopping sack on the floor. He saw a package of baby wipes with several used ones wadded up nearby, a quick sniff of his skin told him that martin had taken the time to wipe the sweat from him when his fever was breaking.  

Jon had accused this man of murder, of plotting to kill him and yet when he had a perfect chance, he didn’t take it. Jon had been so vulnerable last night, he didn’t even recall any of it, Martin could’ve done anything to him in that state but instead he took care of him, he spent hours at his bedside nursing him to health and he was still there.  

Jon felt guilt settle into his stomach, how had he been so wrong about Martin, thinking all of his kind gestures was simply to throw him off the trail of his true intentions. He owed him an apology... and his gratitude. Jon took his time sitting up, sure that if he moved too fast, he would hurl, or worse, pass out. He reached out and gently shook Martin awake.  

Martin’s head lifted and he immediately jolted, checking Jon over and only relaxing when he seemed to realize he was alright.  

“Your fever broke. Thank god. You really had me worried.”  

Jon felt his own comments dry up on his tongue. Martin sounded so genuinely happy that he was alright.  

“y-yes. I seem to be doing better. I can’t say I'm in perfect health, but I shouldn’t need to be looked after anymore. I will be able to get some work done. You should go hom--”  

“now wait one minute!”  

Martin cut him off. Jon jumped slightly; he had never heard Martin use that tone.  

“Like hell you’re going to work right now. If you’re well enough to move, then you’re going home and resting until you’ve been fever free for twenty-four hours and you’re not setting a foot back in this archive until then or I'll escort you back home personally”  

He crossed his arms, staring Jon down with more backbone than Jon thought he had. Jon, for his part, was utterly flabbergasted. Martin had never spoken up to him like that and it was certainly something to behold.  

“Really Martin, I'm just fine. I can--”  

“not another word, Jon. You're going home. There is no argument to be had. I can and will keep you in this bed if you refuse.”  

Jon wasn’t sure what that would entail but he didn’t want to find out. He tossed his hands up and sighed.  

“alright. I'll go home and rest until tomorrow. Fine?”  

“Until you’re healthy again”  

“Martin, I haven’t been healthy since I was twelve. I'm coming back tomorrow.”  

Martin let out a soft sigh and accepted that this was the best he would get. He gave a nod and stood up, offering his hand to Jon. Jon accepted the help to get to his feet, only wobbling slightly.  

Martin gathered up the items and insisted on escorting Jon home to make sure he made it safely. Jon found himself thinking for a split second that Martin knowing where he lived wouldn’t be safe before he silenced that thought and agreed.  

The train ride felt like forever and Martin was kind enough to hail a taxi for the quick ride to the apartment complex. He took Jon up to his room and left him at the door with the supplies to look after himself.  

Martin didn’t realize until the next day when Jon didn’t show up how bad of an idea that was.  

Martin didn’t wait or think things through, the moment he realized Jon wasn’t coming he clocked out and headed right for his apartment. He managed to find the spare key and let himself in after calling for Jon several times with no luck. He found Jon passed out on the bathroom floor and called for an ambulance.  

Martin sat in the waiting room for a couple hours before he could see Jon. He headed back into the emergency room and entered the small curtained area.  

“Hello Martin, it seems I owe you once again” Jon said, his tone slightly miserable.  

Martin didn’t respond but instead held out a bag.  

“Whenever I'm feeling particularly bare, I wear something comfortable and baggy and I don’t feel so bad anymore.”  

Jon looked into the bag and found one of martin’s warm looking soft jumpers that would likely swallow him whole.  

“It helps when I can’t wear my binder”  

Jon bit his lip, fighting back the starts of stress sobs. Martin stepped outside of the curtain to give Jon some privacy and when the other called for him to return he was wearing the soft sea foam green sweater. Martin couldn’t help but think it looked better on Jon than it ever had on him.  

There was the barest of smiles on Jon’s face when he looked at him.  

“thank you, Martin. This means a lot to me... and thank you for sharing that with me. It's nice to know I'm not alone”  

He motioned quietly to Martin’s bound chest and then to his own unbound one. He was breathing far easier without the binder on, but he also felt so bare and vulnerable, something the jumper was fixing.  

Martin sat down next to Jon on the corner of the bed, his back ached from sitting up in a chair two nights back and he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep from worrying over Jon but the other would be alright now. His fever was gone and with some fluids pumping into him he would soon be getting released from the hospital with orders to rest.  

Jon looked Martin over.  

“You look exhausted.”  

“i feel pretty exhausted but I'm sure you’re feeling worse”  

Jon smiled a little.  

“I feel quite a bit better actually, I had two very lovely nurses looking after me, one in the hospital and another at my job. They took good care of me.”  

Martin’s cheeks flushed pink with color, and he grinned bright and happy. He stayed with Jon until he was released from the hospital before they parted ways and went to their separate homes.  

Jon was going to be alright. Martin had looked after him and now things were almost relaxed between them. They had shared such an important secret with each other and grown closer for it. Martin was almost giddy. When he got home, he collapsed face down on his bed with an exhausted smile.  

He never slept better.  

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 10

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

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-

The fog of your heat finally lifts, leaving you sore and utterly exhausted. Coherent for the first time in days, you find yourself an utter and complete mess, still in bed with Sam sleeping soundly beside you. Even if you couldn’t feel the ache between your legs, you’d know full well what happened by the mess left on your skin and proof left all over the bed. 

The shame is immediate and lasting. Over the next several days forgotten moments of your heat comes back to you. The way his cock felt in your cunt, the taste of his cum on your tongue or the desperate sound of your own voice begging for more. 

The bite on your arm heals quickly, but if you push on it hard enough it evokes the sensation of when he first bit you. Not that you would admit that to anyone, especially yourself. You’d never admit that you press on it, eyes fluttering closed, imagining what his teeth would feel like sunk into your neck. At this point in life even your own fantasies betray you. Dark, shameful thoughts creeping in when you least expect them. 

While your logical mind wants nothing more than to run away and never see any of the Winchesters again, your body is making connections that cause you to pine for him by the end of each day. 

Several Days Later

You only had a bite of the carrots. They’ve never been a favorite and they were undercooked, crunchy and hard to chew. But Sam loves them and ate almost the entire bowl before moving on to a giant turkey leg. It would be several hours before you knew for sure it was poison, but you put two and two together fairly quickly. Not long after dinner later there was an unsettled feeling in your stomach. Enough that you retched over the side of the chamber pot and threw up your dinner. 

Sam’s reaction was markedly more intense. It started as stomach cramps and a fever. By the time he began to vomit up blood, you knew it was more serious than even he realized. 

“Alpha,” you look down at him. He’s a puddle of sweat, skin pallid and clammy. There’s still bright red on his lips and a thin line of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. He gazes up with glazed eyes, half looking at you, half floating somewhere darker. You swipe with soft fingers, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know what to do for you. You have to let me call someone. You need help.”

“I’ll be fine in the morning.” His eyes flutter closed, jaw clenching as his stomach tightens. 

You could run, but you wouldn’t get very far. The second you absconded into the night, they would all think you’re the one who tried to kill him. Retribution would be swift and painful. No, there’s so running away. You find yourself in an impossible circumstance where the only option is to stay and try to help. 

“I don’t think you will. There’s more blood than you realize.” You watch as he writhes in pain, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. You do what you can, wetting a cool rag and laying it over his back, then his neck and chest. 

“If someone has tried to kill me I can’t trust any of the men.” He shivers, his body transitions quickly from hot to cold. 

“You can trust me,” you promise. “Let me try to help you. If I don’t do something you’re going to die.” 

“Don’t act as if you care.”

“But I do.” 

Without Sam, you’d surely be passed from man to man. Lord only knows what heinous acts would be perpetrated on your body. There is a smaller part of you, the part you suppress at all costs, the part of you that’s begun to think of him as your Alpha. Somewhere along the way, your inner Omega has grabbed onto his Alpha and it doesn’t want to let go, despite everything you know to be true. 

Sam and his family have killed half of your country. He’s responsible for murder, torture, rape, and slavery, many of which he’s inflicted on you himself. 

You should kill him. It would be easy. He’s weak like this. You could hold a pillow over his head and smother him in his sleep. It would be a victory for your family and your countrymen. It would be redemption. There is almost nothing you could do to come back from lying with a Winchester, but ending Sam’s life would suffice to get back into your family’s good graces. 

You should kill him. 

You can’t. You don’t want to. Watching him choke to death on his own blood would take a part of you with him. No one would understand, but you’re bound to him in this inexplicable way. 

“I’m going to break a rule,” you explain looking around the room. 

His eyes pop up, looking up at you as he begins to shiver. 

“Which one?”

“I lied to you,” you whisper softly, directly into his ear. “I can read. I’m going to find a way to help you. With all these books there must be something that can help us.” 

You sit up to get off the bed and he catches your hand. 

“Don’t let anyone see you, Omega.” 

“I won’t.” You nod and then make your way to the stacks of books and papers. 

It’s nearing dawn when you come across a compendium of common ways to poison a man. There are entries for everything from Castor Bean to White Snakeroot. It’s when you come across the entry for Black Leaf that his symptoms match. 

“I think I found it!” You look up to find him on his back, eyes closed and still as a corpse. Holding your breath you approach the bed, reaching out to shake him. “Sam?”

“Hmmm,” he hums in response. 

“Thank God,” you gasp. Opening a trunk you sort through the vials of herbs and tonics. If it’s not too late, all he’ll need is a large dose of Bay Root to counteract the toxin. You find what you’re looking for, crushing the herbs into a tea and kneeing your way onto the bed to wake him. 

“You need to sit up and drink for me.” You struggle to get him upright, using every ounce of strength to manhandle him into a position where he can swallow without choking. He floats in and out of consciousness, moaning in pain. 

Once he has most of it down, you lie next to him watching him sleep and pray he doesn’t stop breathing. If you found the antidote in time, you’ll have saved his life. And if not, it’s likely a death sentence for both of you. 

-

He’s still sleeping when you prepare another round of the Bay Root to give him. You’re just pouring the hot water into the mug when there’s a rustling behind you. You turn to find Dean hurrying toward you. 

“What have you done to my brother?” Dean twists your wrists upward and away from your body with such force you think he’ll break both arms. 

“Nothing,” you cry out. “I am trying to keep him alive!” 

“Don’t lie to me you little bitch!” he hisses, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. “I’ll have you skinned alive.”

“I’m not lying! Someone poisoned him. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who the assailant was, so I told the men to stay away. I was afraid the culprit would come to finish the job. I swear to you, I didn’t hurt him.”

“Let her go.” Sam’s voice shines like a beacon from the other side of the tent. He’s standing up bare chested and hunched over as if it’s taken every last vestige of energy to get to his feet. “I would have died without her.”

Dean waits a moment and releases your arms. You go directly to Sam, wedging yourself under his arm to help him keep his balance. If nothing else it gives you a reason to stay close. 

“Someone tried to kill him and nearly did. I think the poison was in the carrots. They smelled faintly of bitter almonds.” You look up to find Sam staring down at you with an unreadable expression. “You should not be out of bed. I know you’re strong but you’re still experiencing the effects. You were feverish up until a few hours ago. Please, lay back down.” 

Sam’s hand curls over your shoulder, resting his weight as he and Dean exchange a look that might well be an entire conversation. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Sam barks, moving to lay back on the bed as he protests. “Get me water.”

“Of course.” You keep your head down, finding a mug and filling it as Dean looks around the tent. He spies the open book on the table. Sam sees it too, eyes darting to you before laying back on the pillow. 

“I’m lucky I was coherent enough to find a remedy.” 

Dean stares at you with unwavering intensity. While he doesn’t know for sure, he suspects there’s more to this story than he will ever be privy to. 

-

It’s when Sam leaves the tent for a bit of fresh air that Dean confronts you a second time. 

“Playing nursemaid won’t save you, Omega,” he hisses, eyes narrowing. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I see what you’re up to, the way you’re caring for him. It’s smart. But Sam and I have an agreement.” Dean snorts and you try to swallow the fear. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, belly churning with dread. 

“Once my brother has had his fill, you’ll be mine.” He grins, enjoying your reaction. His eyes scan your body, lingering at your breasts. “And when we get home, my father will decide who you’ll go to. Someone important no doubt. You’re a beauty, and you’ll make a handsome prize.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” you whisper. 

“Because you need to know your place. We’re traditionalists in Gilead. The new order went out when my father cut off the king’s head and we are upholding the old ways. Omegas are good for two things. Satisfying your Alpha and bearing children. You are nothing more than what’s between your legs. You are not special to Sam. The sooner you come to terms with your value, the better off you’ll be.’ 

 -

You think of your family and the shame you would bring on them if they ever knew what has become of you. Taken by an Alpha, a Winchester. Your father might kill you himself. 

Sam is tolerable. You can endure the rape because his demands are simple and your body reacts to his whether you want it to or not. But he’s not a sentimental man, he’ll keep you around until he grows bored and then you’ll be passed around like Tilda. A commodity, an item to be owned instead of a living, breathing woman. You can’t stand the thought of being tortured like the men who first tried to assault you. 

No, that’s no life. It’s simply breathing instead of living. It’s not worth the agony. 

Holding the knife up to your throat you go through the process in your mind. Sinking the knife in and cutting fast before you lose your nerve. The wine helps, you’re still scared but not as terrified as you were earlier. You believe in a God, an afterlife. There is something better after this. 

Summoning all your courage you press the the blade into the skin over your throat as Sam’s voice booms from behind. 

“What are you doing?” 

#soulless!sam x reader #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester Fanfic #sam winchester smut

[trillian-anders]

chambers - ii

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Angst

Word Count: 4429

Description: Post-Endgame. Steve Rogers has passed away from old age. The one remarkable thing is that no one knew his heart would be in the condition it was. He was able to save one more life. After receiving his heart, strange things start happening. Including something that would change your life forever. (Very loosely based on the Netflix series of the same name.)

Frequent colds, high blood pressure, heart palpitations, asthma, anxiety, prior suffering of scarlet fever and rheumatic fever, and a family history of stroke, diabetes, cancer, and heart disease. Thanks Dad. 

The enlistment office was cold. The plastic chair they had him in was sticking against the backs of his thin thighs. You’ve never been this thin in your entire life. Your breathing--Steve’s breathing--was fine for now, but you could feel a rattling beginning in your chest. Just trying to get through this enlistment examination and then we can go home, light a fire, and eat the last tin of beans. 

“Rogers.” The man examined you, took a deep sigh and stamped your papers. 4F. Denied. 

This was the first one, in Brooklyn. The war has just started. Steve was trying to jump into the wagon early, trying against all odds to get his feet on the ground overseas. Do what he can, just like Dad did in the War to End All Wars. It’s too bad the war didn’t live up to its name. These memories came to you as you sat in a similar situation.

You were in grey shorts and a matching t shirt, Avengers logo in black on each in a lab, waiting for the man you had an appointment with. You jokingly thought to yourself about what it would have been like to fight in a war, lay your life on the line for a good noble cause, and you had to remind yourself that you truly hoped those memories never came to surface. 

You swallowed roughly, shifting on the sterile paper beneath you, waiting. There was a two way mirror here, you remembered. As you looked at it you wondered who would be watching on the other side. Coming to see the freak who possesses the heart of Captain America. You hadn’t seen Sam or Bucky yet, thank god. Two hours ago a car showed up in front of your building and brought you to a jet bringing you to the compound, no sign of the super soldier or his winged friend in sight. You supposed you couldn’t blame them. This is a really strange situation to say the least. 

It also didn’t hurt that you knew them in a severely intimate way whereas you were a complete stranger to them. It was also strange that you missed them, terribly. Your heart ached for them. Steve’s heart ached for them. 

“Miss Y/L/N?” Two people entered the room, Bruce and Wanda. Your heart ached a little more. It was almost like reuniting with an old friend, you wonder if things will be the same, pick up right where you left off, the closeness you felt. But that’s Steve talking, not you. “I’m Bruce Banner and this is Wanda Maximoff,” the gentle giant offered with a soft smile, “but I’m sure you already knew that.” 

“It’s so strange,” You expressed, “Feeling like I know all of you so well, but being a complete stranger.” You laughed nervously and wrapped your arms around your middle, swinging your feet slightly as they hung off the edge of the examining table. 

“I couldn’t imagine honestly,” Bruce moved closest to you, Wanda opting to stay by the door. “Okay so first I’m going to take some blood if that’s okay with you?” He pulled a tray out from a medical drawer, setting it up beside you. 

“Of course,” You smiled softly. The trust in Bruce was intense. You knew Steve fought beside him. You have distinct memories from the Battle of New York, but more than that the nights of eating take out at the kitchen counter and listening to him babble about isolating samples of Caps blood to synthesize cures for disease, but also how he couldn’t imagine creating a world of super soldiers so the idea was nixed as soon as he spat it out. Bruce Banner had a good moral compass. He can be trusted. 

He quickly worked, wrapping a medical tourniquet onto your arm and finding a vein, filling six vials of blood. He bandaged you and removed the tourniquet just as quickly. 

“So you have these flashbacks right?” Bruce asked as he labeled the vials, “You have seizures during?”

“Not always, but it always involves some sort of passing out.” He nods, scribbling notes on his notepad. 

“And the agents in the alley?”

“No clue,” You admitted honestly. “My body,” Looking down at your hands, “It moved on its own, I had no control.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Okay, well today is going to be strictly medical, but I would like to talk to you about some of the tests we would like to run, if you consent to them.” It was hard. The decision seemed so easy. Let them test so that you can figure out what the hell is going on and hopefully put a stop to it, but also you’d been poked and prodded your whole life. 

You were born with the heart condition. You’ve literally been having surgeries since the day you were born. What if it never ends? What if they never find out why you and Steve are so connected? What if they do and you can’t keep the heart? 

“Whatever outcome, we will not put your life at risk.” This was the first time Wanda has spoken during this entire visit. Your eyes flicked over to hers. A maternal instinct bloomed in your chest. Steve had a fond love for her, when she was parted from Ultron and her brother died she had leaned hard into Clint, but when Clint retired, Steve took his place. Making sure she was okay, making sure she practiced wielding her powers, making sure she ate everyday. That same affection could be found in you now, your eyes teared at the thought. “We will figure this out and keep you alive, even if it means getting you a new heart.” 

It was what you needed to hear and she knew it. Part of her powers, but also she knew you would trust her. You nodded your head, looking back to Bruce. “Let's do it.” 

You knew this memory. You HATED this memory. 

Bucky Barnes. The handsome, charismatic, Bucky Barnes. James the dames would sigh as he nibbled their ears. He was screaming and there was nothing you could do to stop it. These videos you were obsessed with looking for clues. Where would he go? How could you find him? Sam was looking, but every day that Bucky was gone was a day his trail grew colder and colder. 

He was strapped into a metal chair, skin damp, ice still trapped in his hair. They had just woken him up, strapping him into the chair, electrodes coming to lay over his face and he fucking screamed. It was horrifying, why were you torturing yourself like this. You should have gone back to that ravine and retrieved his body. You weren’t even sure where he fell, but you should have searched that whole fucking mountain to find him. He would have for you. 

You let him down.

You fucking let him down. 

A gasp and you were awake. Damp with sweat you swung your legs over the side of your bed, panting. The guilt. So consuming. Your stomach churned and you quickly found your way to the bathroom, dropping to your knees in order to wretch into the toilet. Body shivering from the cold. You placed a hand over your now racing heart, crying against the porcelain. You missed Bucky.

You didn’t even know Bucky. 

Your heart was aching for him. Fuck. It had been a week since your initial visit with Bruce other than taking your blood and giving you a normal checkup not much else was done. He wanted to go easy on you, give you a little time to adjust and come to terms with your newfound anomaly. And for whatever reason right now you really wanted to run. Like… for stress relief. When has that thought ever crossed your mind? Who even were you? 

Oh right, Steve was a runner. You could remember him lapping Sam Wilson on multiple occasions as they took their morning runs together. Your body burned with energy and you checked the time, it was 5 am. You had closed the bar last night and didn’t get home until one. 

“Four hours of sleep.” You groaned. “Fucking great.” This itch wouldn’t give up so you dusted off your old gym shoes and strapped yourself into a sports bra, jacket, and sweats and you were out the door. 

Running. At 5 am. Who would have fucking thought. 

Old City was close, and you found yourself finding it. Not many cars out this early, but they’d grow in number to gridlock during rush hour. As you pounded the pavement, passing building after building, block after block you found yourself not even close to being out of breath, the energy not even close to being diminished. If you couldn’t get rid of this massive rush of energy you had been feeling then a mid morning nap was out of the question, and you had to be back at work at four. 

You picked up the pace, passing Independence Hall, running the museum mile, before running back towards the direction of your apartment. You were flying. You’ve never run so fast in your life. You were running faster than the cars were driving on the still mildly empty streets. This was wild. 

You weren’t a runner, but Steve Rogers was. It was almost like in the alley, where your body just sorta went and your brain followed. It was Steve’s body right now, you were just along for the ride. 

Your legs felt like jelly as you walked up the steps, adrenaline wearing off. You just barely made it inside your door before you collapsed on the ground in extreme pain. It felt like you tore every muscle in your legs, you let out a silent scream trying not to wake your neighbors, fumbling for your phone. You couldn’t move your legs. 

So you did the only thing you knew to do, you called Bruce. 

Since Steve’s death Bucky Barnes liked doing one thing and one thing only. Staying busy. Anything that crossed Fury’s desk, big or small, he wanted it and he would fight every other agent in the compound in order to get it. You need some simple recon on a businessman you think might have connections to old Hydra sympathizers? He’s on it. You need someone to go in a diffuse a bomb? He’s on it. You need someone to come get your cat out of a tree, please stop him on the side of the road. He’s begging you. 

It hurt bad enough when Steve said he was going to stay with Peggy. He resigned to the fact that his very selfless friend deserves to do a very selfish thing. He wanted Steve to be happy, and when you love someone you’ll let them be happy no matter the personal cost. But when Steve returned as an old man, and he had to physically watch him waste and die. That was probably something he could never forgive Steve for. He just couldn’t.

The coffee in his cup was basically water. The cheap motel Sam got them a room in was a fucking joke. Two single beds, a coffee maker from the 70s, and he didn’t even want to think about what was embedded in the shag carpet. Shit thing was they were leaving today, mission was over, recon was successful, information on a new budding cartel trafficking humans overseas was obtained. Procedure had them going back to report to Fury, getting a stat on how many people they should bring and what approach and then they’ll be back on the field. 

He can’t wait. 

Sam threw the now full duffel on the floor by the front door, turning to his friend. “I need a fucking break Bucky.” He groaned, stretching out his back. Bucky scoffed, 

“Then take a fucking break Sam.” He finished off his coffee, tossing the cup in the trash and picking up his own duffel. Sam looked at him wearily. 

“You need a break too.” Sam told Bucky as they left the motel room. The small plane they had taken over here sat for them 2 km into the woods behind this dingy motel, and that’s where they were headed, ready to take a quick flight home. 

“I don’t need a break,” Bucky protested, “I know when I need to take a break.” 

Sam looked at Bucky incredulously, “You literally got stabbed last week and hours later went back out on another mission. You’re taking a break.” Two duffels thrown into chairs on the plane, Bucky sitting himself in the pilot’s seat. A red, silver, and blue shield sat between them as Sam took his own seat in copilot. 

“I don’t need a break, not yet.” Sam rolled his eyes, beginning take off procedure. 

“You’re gonna have to deal with it sometime my man.” Bucky rolled his eyes at that, “Holding things in-”

“Don’t go all VA on me right now birdbrain.” Sam stared at Bucky a moment longer, trying to pick his next words out carefully. 

“Buck-” Saved by the bell. A phone ringing in Sam’s pocket. He pulled the cell out looking at Bruce’s name flashing across the screen. “Bruce? What’s-” Bucky stared him down, heart jumping at the prospect of flying somewhere else, anywhere but home. Sam quickly hung up, buckling his seat belt. “We gotta go to Philly, pick Y/N up.” Bucky’s heart dropped. He didn’t want that. 

“You’ve torn every muscle in your legs.”  Bruce plainly stated. You were currently in the cradle created by Helen Cho. “Just by running?” Your mouth opened and quickly shut again, shrugging. 

“Fast, I was running so fast.” Your eyes scanned the ceiling as you felt the machine slowly repairing the muscles of your legs. Bucky Barnes scoffed beside you, grunting when Sam elbowed him in his ribs. 

“Like-”

“Like….,” You looked over to Sam and Bucky before turning your eyes back to Bruce, “Steve fast.” Bruce stared at you a moment before looking away. He walked over to the large glass windows on the opposite side of the room. Not speaking. Thinking. 

“How is that possible? Muscle memory sure, but your body shouldn’t be able to move that way. Steve’s top speed is 60 mph.” You looked at him wide eyed. 

“Maybe that’s why her legs are shredded.” Bucky said with some humor. He was being a dick. Why was he being a dick? Sam glared at him. 

“Go file the report Buck, I’ll catch you up later.” Bucky turned to his friend with a glare, 

“Why do I have to-”

“I’ll catch you up later.” He said sternly. Bucky called it his Captain’s voice. Like the one Steve would use when he knew something you didn’t and you just needed to follow him. Into battle or just to leave the room. Bucky acquiesced, but not before casting one more glance at you in the cradle, hands clasped over your belly, looking at him with wet eyes. 

“So your body has this muscle memory of the activities Steve used to do,” Bruce began to pace. “Running and fighting-”

“Steve was really good at art too.” Sam offered. He took a seat in a chair by Bruce’s pacing, between you and the green giant. “That would be a safe activity to see if you’d be just as good.” You nodded in agreement. 

“But for the more dangerous activities, your mind seems to think you’re able to do them. So the real issue are instances like this, where your mind goes and your body follows no matter the cost.” Bruce was looking at you now, thinking about how to proceed next. 

“And this is a pretty high cost.” You said. Both men agreed.

…

The report was on Fury’s desk an hour later. Bucky’s hands gripping the leather chair across from him as his eye scanned the pages. “So what’s next?” Bucky asked. Like an addict asking for a fix. Fury studied him for a moment. “I can be ready to go back in with a task force in four hours, quick nap, time to clean my guns-”

“You’re suspended from missions until further notice.” Fury threw the folder onto his desk, waiting for the backlash. 

“What?” Bucky’s heart started racing. Fucking Sam. 

“Sam recommended it, but I was already going to suspend you until you can get your head on straight. I just needed a second person to sign off.” Bucky studied him for a moment. Trying to detect the lie. 

“I’m fine, I need to be back out on the field.” Bucky gestured to the window behind him where recruits were running drills. “Who else are you going to use?” 

“We have agents other than you Barnes.” He sounds tired, “You haven’t been out of the field since Steve died and we have an issue that came up that I know you don’t want anything to do with. It’s not good for you.” 

“So this is about her?” Bucky thought back to your wet eyes, he felt guilty for being such an ass. It just sorta came out without thinking. He had a hard time doing that when he was in front of you, thinking. 

When they went to pick you up, Sam hadn’t given him any warning in what they were about to walk into. They found you where you had fallen, sobbing in pain, body going into shock. He felt himself stunned. Your legs were black and blue, every inch of skin bruised. Sam yelled something at him he couldn’t hear and he watched Sam pick you up from the floor, clearly hearing the whimpering of pain you were steadily released from your body.  

His heart fell to the floor as your half lidded eyes met his, unfocused. 

It was terrifying. At first he felt some anger well up, who had done this to you? How did this happen? But when it was revealed that you had done it to yourself, that your muddled mind and heart caused you to run 60 mph into complete muscle destruction he found himself angry at you. It’s not her fault, he tried to remind himself, how could it be her fault?

He found himself, not for the first time, angry with Steve. It left him confused and broken. Steve on his deathbed. In a hospital, doctors ready to take his heart as soon as he took his last breath. It was planned. Steve had been in the hospital for a month before he died, no one knew why he was getting EKG’s almost daily and why he was moved so closely to the operating wing. He didn’t tell anyone. He was leaving his heart to her. Without even knowing her. What a good fucking guy. Bucky hated him for it. Barely getting to mourn before they carted him out into the OR to cut him open and shift his bloody, healthy heart into a woman who had a weak and dying one. 

It was hard. This was hard. 

“This is about you Barnes.” Fury leaned over his desk, folding his hands in front of him. “You continue doing this and you’ll be liable for a mistake. We can’t afford mistakes. Not when we are finally gaining ground back. You’re suspended from field work effective immediately, if you want to make yourself useful around here train some recruits, organize some files, or maybe help Bruce in the lab. His hands are pretty full.” With that he was dismissed. Fists meeting a punching bag not soon after. 

“What am I going to do?” You cried softly. “I can’t keep my job if I have to take a month off.” Bruce looked up at her from his microscope, the cradle still working on the muscles in her legs. 

“You’re on your feet for 12 hours a day,” Bruce explained, “You’re basically getting a new pair of legs right now, you’re gonna have to take it easy for a while.” 

“I’m sure we can pick up your bills.” Sam offered, “If that’s what you’re worried about.” You shake your head, hands coming up to wipe the tears from your eyes. 

“I won’t have a job to go back to,” You explained, “They’ll replace me.” Sam sighed and put down the Sudoku book he had been working on. 

“I’m saying this because it’s what Steve would have wanted Y/N.” He looked at you, but you couldn’t meet his eyes. “We will do whatever it takes to make sure you are taken care of.” You knew Sam was a good guy. You knew he worked at the VA not because he needed the money but because he genuinely cared about the people there. And you knew he helped Steve when the whole world was against him. Twice. 

“I don’t want you to feel-” you started, being cut off by Bruce,

“This is not an obligation. We want to help you, all of us do.” Bruce offered, “Not just because it’s what Steve would have wanted but also because this is a terrifying situation and we want you to be able to live a long, healthy life with or without these life altering issues.” He stood from his chair, bringing papers over and adjusting his glasses. “You’ll need to rest. For a while. I’m still examining your blood and tomorrow I’d like to get a look at your heart for myself, would that be okay?” 

You sighed heavily before replying, “Yeah, that would be okay.” 

Your legs were still sore, even after spending 12 hours in the cradle. You weren’t able to walk yet. Wanda was kind enough to help you use the restroom and helped you into the room they were going to have you staying in temporarily. “Do you want to make a list of items and their locations in your apartment you’d like me to bring here?” She asked. 

“Am I not going home?” She turned to look at you like she was caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. 

“Well…” She had given you half chicken, 2 sweet potatoes, and  a bowl broccoli with a large pat of butter. Bruce said you needed nutrients and a lot of them. “We can’t risk you doing something to your body that we won't be able to repair. Just until the testing is done. I’m sorry.” She played with the ends of her hair. “I thought they already told you. I’m sure they’re going to ask you tomorrow.” You sighed, rubbing the scar on your chest gently before looking up at Wanda.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” You were starving. “I understand.” She gave you a soft look you couldn’t really read before turning the tv on, working with you to find something to watch as you ate your dinner. You were the hungriest you’d ever been in your life. While in the cradle you were given snacks, but it was hard to eat completely laying down. The work your body was put through by the cradle repairing your muscles caused a major calorie deficit, and the fatigue you’ve been feeling all day was the price you’d been paying. 

You almost choked halfway through eating, looking up from your plate to the television screen and seeing Steve Rogers staring back at you. He looked so real, the young Captain America, the person he was before the battle for the infinity stones. The Steve Rogers he was on every poster and war movie. What is happening?

Wanda’s hand began to pat your back as you tried to clear your airways, “Breathe, c’mon breathe.”

“Breathe, c’mon breathe.” Bucky’s hand was hard against your back, you couldn’t get air. “C’mon pal, that’s it.” It was a wet feeling in your throat, coughing the lard wad of mucus into the handkerchief held in Bucky’s palm. Gasping for breath Bucky was quick to toss the soiled napkin to the side, bringing your inhaler up to your mouth, thin weak hands coming up to grasp it as you inhaled the medicine, feeling your lungs expand and relax. “You okay?”

You could feel a rattle still in your chest. “Yeah I’m fine.” Steve was sick, which wasn’t anything new. You could feel the embarrassment. 

“I hate you being here alone.” Bucky stood from his chair next to the bed, getting up to turn the radio down a few decibels. “You could come move in with us? Ma loves you.” You could feel yourself shake your head. 

“I’ve lived in this apartment my whole life Buck.” 

“Then I’ll move in here! You can move into your Ma’s room and I’ll take your old room Stevie.” You sighed, resting your back against the pillows Bucky had so carefully propped against your back. “You won’t be able to afford this place forever doing sketches for funnies. You’ve barely got any food in the icebox.” 

“If you want to move in here Buck I’m not against it, but I’m staying right where I am.” Bucky nodded, hands on his hips turning to face his frail friend. 

“I make enough money at the canary that we should be just fine here Stevie.” This was a year before Bucky was sent off for war. A year and a half before Steve became Captain America. You wondered if either of them could sense what was coming. 

The piece of chicken that had been lodged in your throat was soon popped out and floated midair with a red energy surrounding it. Wanda had pulled it from your throat. Steve was gone. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, worry evident in her voice. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, losing your appetite. “I think I should go to bed.” You pushed the tray away from you and leaned back against your pillows. In that moment you could feel the Steve. Like a layer on top of your own body. His frail one, shivering with a chill he couldn’t shake, lungs rattling, weak. 

“If you need anything at all just alert FRIDAY.” You nodded, ignoring her worried eyes as she left the room. You needed to sleep.

You were exhausted and this day felt three days long. You just needed to sleep. So far away from everything that was going on here. And you were praying against all odds that Steve wouldn’t follow you there either. 

Those prayers went unanswered. 

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@albinotigerpython​ @nutellakirb​ @witch-of-letters​ @torntaltos​

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