#this is intended to be a comfort fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nico-di-genova · 1 month

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Post Jeddah Strollonso Snippet

There are scars on Lance’s wrists, faint and hardly noticeable. Two even cuts along the bone where the metal pins were put in and taken back out that have healed into pale lines. Fernando catches Lance running his thumb along the scars sometimes, absentmindedly, like a twinge of phantom pain can be felt there anytime he fails. He clips the wall in Saudi, just brushes the corner at turn twenty-two and send it into the barriers on twenty-three. When Fernando gets him alone afterward, he’s running a fingernail along the line on his right wrist.

“Lance, stop,” he berates, sliding off his shoes and kicking them in the general direction of his suitcase that lies open on the hotel floor. They land beside Lance’s slides and a green Aston Martin hoodie that started in Lance’s ownership but has since been rehomed into Fernando’s growing collection of stolen loungewear.

Lance blinks, slow and lethargic, but doesn’t indicate he’s heard Fernando otherwise.

“Lance.”

Perched on the edge of their bed, leaning on one arm and looking at the man sprawled out across the mattress behind him, he waits. Lance’s hands are resting on his stomach, rising and falling with each of his breaths in a steady rhythm. He’s still wearing his shoes, and jacket and the blank expression he’s worn since they left the circuit and wound up back here.

“Lance,” Fernando presses, not surprised when he doesn’t receive a coherent answer. Instead, Lance hums in something that is maybe meant to be acknowledgement but could easily be dismissed for the sound of the air conditioning kicking on.

Not for the first time, Fernando finds himself wishing he could follow Lance wherever it is he goes when he’s like this. Back in the car, trying to figure out how he could have salvaged the broken Aston, or back in front of the cameras where he wonders what he could have said to make them see him any differently. Usually, Fernando knows he thinks about the damage, the toll that it’s taking to his father’s credit. It is one of the rare times where Lance thinks about money, the true cost of it, and how much it’s piling up each time he ends up buried in the tires.

Sometimes it’s good to give Lance his space, let him come back on his own terms. Other times the silence scares Fernando, makes him wonder if there will ever be a point where the man won’t come back at all.

It scares him more to realize that he actually cares – that at some point the bosses son had become something more than an obstacle in his way.

Lance breaths, presses his fingernail harder against the scar. Fernando watches as the skin turns white with the pressure before leaning over and pulling the assaulting hand away from where it’s injuring it’s twin. Lance lets him, limp and pliable.

“It was small,” Fernando tries, “an easy fix. You will come back stronger next time.”

Keeping Lance’s wrist in his grasp, he shifts until he’s lying beside the man, his head resting on Lance’s chest.

“It will be okay,” He soothes, bringing Lance’s wrist to his lips and kissing the scar there, warm breath ghosting over marred skin.

“I crashed,” Lance states, empty. “Again.”

Fernando is not good with feelings, not good with lingering in his mistakes. His motto has always been to keep the past in the past. Lance, no matter how much he tries to make the public think otherwise, does not share this belief. He internalizes, he stews, he lashes out at the cameras, the team, Fernando and then he gets quiet. It is like a cycle, dependable but self-destructive, nonetheless.

Fernando thinks he should try partying, or maybe alcohol, but that probably wouldn’t solve much either, even if it would be more fun.

The quiet is oppressive, broken only by the chatter of passerby in the hall and Lance sighing intermittently. Fernando listens to the beat of his heart from where his ear is pressed against the Canadian’s chest, if only to give himself something to focus on. He keeps Lance’s wrist against his lips. They both smell of sweat and rubber, the stench of the track sticking to them along with Lance’s fog of disappointment.

“One-hundred twenty-six,” Lance mumbles, seemingly to himself.

Fernando yawns, “What?”

“A front wing.”

“The cost?”

“Yeah. Thousand."

“Small. Cheaper than the whole car.”

What he wants to say is ‘cheaper than a hospital bill’ but he’s not ready for the argument those flood gates would open. Because it’s not about the car, not really, and it’s not about the bruises that Fernando knows he will find forming when he finally gets Lance to remove his clothes and step under the warm spray of a shower. It’s not about Lance at all, but the man who always seems to find a way into their relationship – Lawrence and his checkbook and the expectation that Lance has taken from the man and placed onto his own shoulders.

Fernando is tired, too tired for a fight, so he stays quiet.

Lance loves his father, and Fernando loves Lance and so there’s no use in fighting over the boulder that has planted itself firmly between them. They work around it, or they sometimes kick against it when they’re feeling particularly bold, but it’s too heavy to move and so neither of them tries.

#wrote this in a rush #so if there's inaccuracies...#no there isn't #anyway we'll see if this gets finished #I have to go to bed now before I regret life tomorrow #strollonso #fernando alonso #lance stroll #strollonso fic #my fic #this also was supposed to be hurt comfort #but it became slightly mort hurtful than intended #the comfort theoretically is on the way

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littlemissfix-itfic · 2 months

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The Bad Days

Dean Winchester, who holds the weight of the world on his shoulders, who is self-sacrificial, who hides his anguish between snarky sarcastic jokes and a flirty, I-know-I'm-hot smirk, who is protective and loyal to those he loves to a fault, is not immune to bad days. In fact, Dean has them frequently, but the bad days, and I mean the really bad days, where the weight he holds and tries to shoulder alone finally comes crashing down on him, and all he can think about are the people he couldn't save, and the people he thinks he's failed all flash through his mind, and all the ways he's let down the people that matter most to him are all that he can see when he takes in his desolate reflection, are the days that he falters, and the days where he needs you the most. Those days that he pushes everyone away the most, those are the bad days I'm talking about.

Sometimes they'll start off ordinarily, or as ordinarily as a day in the life of a Winchester, or of a hunter, can. Those are the days when the angish sneaks below his feet, circling in the shadows and ensnaring him on Sam's pointed jab, or a flash of deja-vu as he catches a glimpse of a face that looks like someone he couldn't save. The days that start off mundane for Dean are the ones where the hair trigger could be anything from a misinterpreted joke, to a hunt gone sour, could send him into a spiral that would take even the strongest archangel out of commission for months at a time. Other times, the days will start with a heart-stopping jolt, with a cold sweat drenching the back of his shirt. On days when his morning starts with a anxiety-riddled, gasp as he stretches his arm across the bed, desperate to find the grounding comfort of your sleeping form beside him, he is surly and mean, and does everything in his power to isolate himself and push everyone away. Not out of a vindictive anger, but out of a deep-rooted self-loathing that makes him believe that he deserves this pain, that he deserves to be forgotten, abandoned, and hated by the people he holds dearest.

These are the days where he needs you most. Don't get me wrong, he wants you, and needs you every day, but when he's in a spiral, on the days where even basic kindness seems like something he doesn't even deserve to dream about, these are the days that he needs all of your love and concern. All of the worry that he teasingly tells you is wasted on a strong man like him, that he gets into shouting matches with Sam and Castiel over because damnit he is not an incapable child!

So on days like that, hold him a little tighter. Dote on him a little more. Tell him that you love him, and that he deserves kindness and love and he is not evil, hell he's not even bad. Remind him that for every mistake he's made, he's fixed a hundred others, and for every person he feels he's failed, he's save a thousand more.

On days when Dean Winchester feels like the world would be better off had he never been born, remind him how glad you are that he was. Remind him of how loved he is, and cuddle a little closer to him, and pretend not to notice the way your shirt grows damp when he buries his head in your shoulder and finally, finally lets himself feel, lets himself cry.

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kawaii-kushami · 8 months

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i might as well post it here bc as is its just rotting in my notes app. doesn't feel finished/ polished but it never will be so i might as well set it free

t/sukishima applying ointment to fet!k/oito's wounds but he's sensitive to the smell of it. pre-confession/dating/whatever. disclaimer idk ANYTHING about wound care i am making all this up!!! also mess warning i guess

"Alright, sit up, please." Tsukishima's voice comes calm and steady as ever as he takes a seat at Koito's bedside. Koito begins to slowly prop himself up but falters, and Tsukishima rushes to reach out and steady him. Koito doesn't look him in the eyes. His head is pounding against his skull as his blood begins to move for the first time in hours, and the skin around the fresh wound on his back stings as it's stretched and pulled with his movements. After he settles into his new position, he bunches the fallen blanket around his waist and unbuttons his shirt while Tsukishima sets down the medical supplies neatly around him within arm's reach.

"How are you feeling?" The shorter man's voice comes from behind him as he begins to unwrap the old bandages. The air is chilly on Koito's bare back, and he feels goosebumps prickling his skin as his weakened body tries to adjust to the temperature change. Tsukishima's fingers in contrast are warm when they brush up against his tan skin, which might have soothed the bumps if those fingers had belonged to anyone else. The contact from his Sergeant only has him shivering further.

"I'm fine." The short reply leaves his lips more sharply than he intends for, and he takes the second chance granted by Tsukishima's patient silence before trying again. "I'm sore. I'm thirsty. I feel dirty." This time he sounds more whiny, but Koito is okay with that. It'd hardly be the first time Tsukishima heard him whine, and he'd rather come off as pitiful rather than just nastily snapping at Tsukishima.

Tsukishima hums in response, concentrating as he dips a rag into a bowl of hot water. "Let's get you cleaned up first. Don't let me forget to bring you some water afterwards." Koito hears him wring the cloth out before holding it out to him. "Here, sir, go ahead and clean your face." He brushes Koito's hair back with his fingers, ignoring the damp greasiness of it, and holds it out of the way until Koito finishes scrubbing the oil and grime from his face. The warm steam and water feel good, as if starting to wipe away a layer of grogginess. When he's done he wordlessly passes the rag back to Tsukishima.

He's not in the mood to talk, Tsukishima mentally notes. Understandable. Koito's mind is hazy from the pain and restless sleep he's been getting on and off as he tries to heal, and the whole ordeal has put him in a rather sour mood. Tsukishima is more than okay with giving him space, allowing a comfortable quietness to settle around them.

Tsukishima continues wordlessly, only the soft swishing and trickling sounds of the rag in the water bowl filling the quiet room around them. The warm scrubbing along his torso could've nearly put Koito to sleep if it weren't for the adrenaline shooting through him every time Tsukishima passed over the angry skin surrounding the deep gashes, causing him to suck air through gritted teeth and groan in pain.

"I know, sir. I'm trying to be gentle." Tsukishima reassures despite Koito never actually verbally reprimanding his actions. Koito groans again in response, pressing his face hard into his hands. The way Tsukishima treats him so patiently makes something other than his wounds ache.

The Sergeant wrings the cloth out into the bowl one last time before Koito hears a container open and the strong smell of disinfectant hits his nostrils.

Tsukishima gives a short muffled cough behind him. "Are you ready, sir?" He knows Koito knows what's about to happen; he won't belittle him with any more of a warning.

"Mhmm." Koito nods and grips the blanket with both fists. He's mentally prepared but still can't help but hiss as the cool disinfectant stings his wounds, pain and the subsequent adrenaline shooting through his veins once more. He digs his nails into the blanket harder, slowing his breathing to deep inhales and exhales as the initial shock subsides. Tsukishima works quickly and efficiently, getting his superior through the worst of the wound cleaning process as fast as he can. "There."

Koito lets out a deep sigh, trying to relax a bit before they move on to the next step. Hearing yet another container open, he sits up straight once more. This time he hears a wet sniffle from his subordinate as he smells what he assumes is an ointment, a pungent herbal sort of smell. He tries not to overthink what the sniffle might imply.

Tsukishima only gets a moment to begin applying the medicine before the strong scent of it overwhelms his nose suddenly, tingling in the far depths of his nostrils, strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. He can tell what's coming, his breath already beginning to hitch. "Fuck," he breathes a quick warning, "that's going to make me sneeze."

Koito's heart jumps in his chest.

The hitching man only has time to quickly pull back his ointment-covered hands and turn his head away before the urgent need to sneeze takes over.

"Heh-NKXHSHHhhh! H-heh–!! EH'ISSHHHHHooh!! Snff!"

Koito startles despite just having played this exact scenario out in his head, despite the distraction of his aching injury. The feeling of Tsukishima's sudden sneezes wetly misting the bare skin of his arm and lower back opposite to his wound distracts from the pain, his focus now entirely on the plight of his caretaker. Somewhat shamefully he feels the groggy grumpiness fading, replaced by kink-fueled excitement.

Tsukishima can hardly think, the stinging in his sinuses is so strong, but still he notices Koito jump at the sudden outburst and attempts an apology. "S-Sorrhh…! Heh! H-Hold on…" Bringing his hands away once more, he gasps, then sneezes openly to the side again, but louder and more harshly this time.

"HEH'EISCHHHHHHuh!!" He's given up on stifling these; the irritation in his nose is too much, too overwhelming to repress.

"God, bless you, Tsukishima… Is it the ointment bothering you?" Koito cranes his neck to peek over his shoulder and steal an indulgent glance at the older man, watching as he hurriedly sniffles back loose liquid and he grinds his wrist firmly back and forth against his itchy nose with a damp squelch. Tsukishima's watery eyes meet Koito's from behind his furrowed brow and he seems to almost jolt, hurriedly gesturing for Koito to turn back around.

"Sir! Don't move please, you'll h-hurt yoursehhlf!"

Koito scoffs. "I'm fine. I'm being careful." He straightens his back and shoulders as if to make absolute sure he wasn't stretching the damaged skin too much, then looks back down at his caretaker.

Tsukishima doesn't notice. His eyes are now closed in concentration, pinched shut between his scrunched up nose and eyebrows. His nostrils flare wide and stay like that as his mouth hangs open, pink tongue pressed up against the inside of his bottom lip, breathing in shakily as he gears up for yet another sneeze. There's no doubt he's breathing in even more of that sharp scent through those widened nostrils, each inhale making the tickle stronger and stronger until–

"HAH-EIHH'SSHHHHHHHoo!!" The sneeze tears out of him as his head snaps downward and he sprays Koito's side once again, sending another wave of goosebumps across his smooth skin. The Lieutenant thinks a moan might've escaped him this time but if it did, it was quiet enough to be drowned out by the Sergeant's loud sneeze echoing inside the small space.

"Bless you," Koito begins, but his voice trails off as a desperate gasp and a second powerful sneeze interrupt his blessing.

"HEH-EHH'TSSCHHHHHHHH!!"

The duo of overwhelming sneezes leaves Tsukishima nearly panting behind him, and Koito has to hold his breath to keep himself from mirroring the other for completely different reasons. He looks down at his lap. He's glad for the heavy folds of the blanket and his back blocking the shorter man's view of his lower body after all of that.

"Excuse me," Tsukishima grumbles between a series of thick sniffles, and Koito can tell from just the sound that he's violently rubbing his flat, narrow nose against his wrist again, the ointment coating his fingers still keeping him from properly pinching and pulling at the appendage to squash that itch into submission.

"Are you alright?" Koito asks. He thinks to suggest Tsukishima to fetch Tanigaki and trade places with him, but he's hesitant to give up this rare opportunity to see his subordinate struggle through fits in such close quarters. He also truthfully does not trust Tanigaki nearly as much; he'd be rather uncomfortable and on edge with the man's large hands in direct contact with his open wounds.

Tsukishima gives a final sniff and hums an affirmative "mmhm", and Koito's perceptive ears pick up on the light congestion now weighing down the nasal consonants. "I'm just going to breathe through my mouth and try to finish up quickly."

Koito nods, his dark hair brushing the back of his neck, and readies himself once more. Tsukishima's touch is so light, careful and precise, but still the contact has him clenching his teeth and breathing deeply through the pain. He tries his best to stay still despite it all, his back rigid against his heaving chest.

After a minute Tsukishima pauses, pulling his hands back, making sure to not hurt his superior as he prepares to inevitably jolt through a sneeze, drawing air through parted lips before his head snaps downward with the force of an impressively stifled double.

The older man exhales through his mouth, applying ointment to the last section of injury. Using just his facial muscles he scrunches and stretches his reddened nose as warm runny fluid starts to drip from it, nearing his upper lip and tickling the area further, but he knows better than to sniffle and invite more of that itchy, stinging scent back in. Even without doing so, he's fighting off another sneeze, the pressure building slowly in the back of his nose. It's still subtle enough that he's able to postpone the action through carefully controlled breathing and frequently wriggling his nose in just the right way, and finally he's able to quickly finish up.

While Tsukishima hurriedly wipes and rinses the excess medicine from his hands Koito steals another glance at him. He's not expecting the sight that his eyes lay on: Tsukishima's eyebrows creased and raised, eyes fluttering shut, the amount of mess dripping down between the man's still parted lips, pink nostrils flaring open wider and wider as his chest shakily fills with air…

"HEH! HH-HEHH-IHHDZSSHHHOOH!!"

Tsukishima grabs the damp cloth from the rim of the water bowl and sneezes down at it, not even having time to bring it fully up to his face. Koito gets a full view of the clear strings of fluid growing heavier, finally dripping down from his nose and lips into the rag. He swallows. The older man wipes his face roughly before pinching the folded fabric around just his nose and unleashing another ragged sneeze into the already soaked cloth, catching the mess but his uncovered mouth still sprays the air below him.

"Bless you, Tsukishima!"

His face burns beneath the cloth, embarrassed by the filthy spectacle he's just caused right beside his superior, helpless and at the mercy of his sensitive nose when he's supposed to be the one taking care of Koito. He doesn't respond, preoccupied with blowing his clogged nose noisily. He feels Koito's eyes remain on him despite his silence and internally sighs.

"Excuse me. I didn't expect the medicine to cause something like that." Tsukishima sniffles as he closes the ointment container, feeling drained by the sudden and strong fit. He takes the ointment and ointment-contaminated medical supplies and stands to his feet. "I'm going to bring these to the other hut, and then I'll come back to rewrap your bandages, sir."

Koito can only nod. Tsukishima leaves, the scent of herbal ointment still lingering heavily in the air, feeling sticky and cold on his aching back. He shivers, the room suddenly feeling much colder without the Sergeant beside him. Luckily, the memory of what just transpired keeps his core burning hot, and the contrast sends his head spinning. None of that had felt real; it was simply too good to be true.

His reality is reconfirmed when Tsukishima re-enters the hut, encountering the trapped scent causing him to stifle a sneeze immediately upon arrival. He walks over, takes his seat again, and hands Koito a cup of water, which the younger man takes and drinks from gratefully.

Having learned his lesson, Tsukishima breathes through only his mouth while his face is so close to the ointment-slathered skin. Quickly and skillfully he ties fresh bandages around Koito's torso, completing the task that took far longer than it initially should've.

Koito lets his shoulders fall, chin tucking down into his collarbone as he relaxes. The pain and excitement have both drained him of his already depleted stores of energy, his body using everything available to work on healing his wound.

"Do you need anything else while I'm here, sir?"

Koito startles, his eyes (that he didn't realize he'd closed) opening wide as he feels Tsukishima's rough palm press against his forehead.

"Excuse me. Just wanted to make sure you weren't developing a fever." Tsukishima sniffles, drawing his hand back to rub at the base of his nose. Koito can't tell if he's imagining the hint of nervousness on his Sergeant's face. He's not sure what to make of it.

He shakes his head, messy bangs falling into his face. "I'm just sleepy, Tsukishima," he mumbles. "Tired and sore."

Tsukishima rises to his feet with another sniffle. "I'll let you go back to sleep then." He pauses for a moment, his gaze briefly scanning over Koito's face, and then turns to leave.

#kk fic #see i had originally intended this to be more hurt/comfort but i got carried away having fun w the snz 💀

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fights4users · 6 months

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Sending him away

How would Yori react to Tron getting transferred? (For the sake of the fic he wasn’t copied)

Tron regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, but she had to hear it from him. He has made a choice he’s come to regret once realizing it will mean leaving her.

Touchy, angsty but they ultimately have great communication skills.

-Comments encouraged-

#tron #tronblr #tron 1982 #post title and fic title both song references 👀#tron legacy #tron x yori #tron/yori #Tron fic #hurt/comfort #bad news #absolutely took WAY longer than intended but I still like how it turned out but oh my god #touchy but really good at working out feelings #short fic

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lovelyfoolish · 4 months

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dans mes yeux ça se voit

nat x f!detective (shivani gupta) / 1.4K / M

⇢ summary: natalie sewell fears nothing.

⇢ notes: happy holidays, @sunshineandviolets! i'm your match for @wayhavensecretsanta ♡ all of your detectives are beautifully constructed and would be a pleasure to write about, but i knew i wanted to write about shivani after i read about her love of bugs (adding to my insects and wayhaven canon? you love to see it) and desire for a fairytale romance. (and as a part-time woman in stem, i couldn't resist sneaking in some of my own interests with all the bug facts.)

i hope it's very cozy where you are and that you have a lovely holiday season and get to go on a nature walk with a pretty girl someday soon ♡

🐞 ‎

set the mood

🦋 ‎

In her memories, the sea glitters like a diamond, waves that wear white foam shrouds catching the light as they dance, rolling towards an unseen shore. She could never see the bottom. She never wanted to.

For a moment, Nat tastes salt instead of the heady, smokey flavour of the Lapsang Souchong she drinks while Shivani eats her breakfast in the back of her throat.

Then, iron.

If she still thinks of the sea as a precious gem, even after all this time, even though she knows what it can do, then the lake that stretches out before them, placid and unmoving, so still it’s unnerving, must be glass, crawling towards the horizon. The treeline frames its edges, the mountains cast shadows over it, it reflects the grey of the winter morning sky like a mirror —

In this light, the lake is a gleaming pearl at the centre of an oyster dulled by the dark of the ocean.

They’ve come here before. A few times. She can map it in her mind. In a few minutes, they’ll pass a makeshift dock that Shivani once told her was crowded with reckless swimmers in the summer. There’s a fallen pine to the north, half-submerged and rising from the water like the rib of something ancient, right at the shore’s edge. Ribbons of smoke curl from the chimneys of the houses in the distance, mist rising off the surface of the water. It’s quiet, the only sound their footsteps on the path, and she is restless in a way that feels both unfamiliar and innate, swallowing down a feeling she has no name for.

Not — déjà vu, exactly. Not melancholy. Something else. Something implacable, that feels like something trembling inside her chest, straining against her skin, what a chrysalis on the verge of metamorphosis must feel like.

As she walks, her long strides shortened to match her girlfriend’s, Nat’s fingers brush against Shivani’s. They touch only momentarily, but it makes her stand straighter, exhaling softly. How many times did Shivani do this alone before she met her? How many times had she walked alone by the edge of the water before she met Shivani?

“Nat.”

She turns towards the sound of her name, finding Shivani staring up at her, the sky reflected in her expression, the gold ring in her nose glinting. It makes Nat smile reflexively, her lips unfurling like a bow being untied as she reaches for her hand. Her fingers wrap around her wrist, a bracelet of adoration, before she hooks their smallest fingers together as though making a promise, stroking her palm with her thumb. She wants to touch her more, in a way that is rapidly becoming more impractical the further they get down the path, deeper into the trees.

Shivani’s skin, with its down of dark hair, is soft as velvet — it is treacherous to liken her human (so human, entirely human, much too human — and yet, she has chosen her) girlfriend to something inhuman, but with her dark eyes opened wide and that constant, unchanging air of caution, she thinks first of a doe.

“Yes,” Nat says in answer, head tilted, fixated on her girlfriend, that smile she only smiles for Shivani on her lips again.

“It’s a widow skimmer,” she says, the pitch of her voice betraying her excitement, and Nat follows the point of her gaze — a dragonfly is flitting down by the water, so fast she would have missed it if Shivani hadn’t spoken. “Libellula luctuosa. Male. You can tell by the white band on its midwings and its blue body. Can you see it? If it was a female it would have yellow stripes on its body instead of blue, and there wouldn’t be any white patches between its nodus and stigma, only black or brown.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nat says, “Should we get closer?”

Shivani shakes her head, laughing softly. “Nat, it’s hunting.”

She arches her brow, and Shivani’s eyes light up.

“Dragonflies are one of the most dangerous predators on Earth,” she continues, leaning closer to Nat as she watches the insect, side of her head against Nat’s bicep, making her heart flutter, not unlike the beat of the widow skimmer’s wings. Nat is flushing. She can feel her cheeks getting warmer. “If you’re their prey. They can catch other insects in midair and not have to land before consuming them. They feed while they fly. There’s been research that suggests they’re almost like humans — they can focus their attention like humans can, and that allows them to stalk their prey more accurately. Their efficiency is almost unparalleled. They’re remarkable.”

Prey. Such a simple, uninteresting word, over in a syllable, but she finds it repulsive nonetheless, spitting it out in her summations and reports.

“It was funny, really, there were reports of places where frogs were experiencing extreme rates of missing or extra limbs, and there was no environmental factor that they could pinpoint, like improper chemical disposal. It turned out that dragonflies were preying on the frogs as tadpoles. Their bodies would sometimes grow an extra limb in response to losing one before they were grown. And then as frogs, they would get their vengeance by preying on the dragonflies. It’s cyclical.”

Vampires prey on humans.

Someone is holding her hand tightly, squeezing it gently. They’ve stopped walking.

“You know — I read something about dragonflies recently that made me think of you, Nat.”

When they met, it was Shivani’s voice she noticed first. (— Her eyes second. Her lips third.) It’s clear and with an elegant lilt to it, her tone higher when she speaks Gujarati, a voice that made Nat want to listen to her talking about anything, in any language. She finds herself listening to her as though her voice was music, able to hear her even from a distance, as though it was a rope thrown to her. When she hears her name, she knows. Shivani is reaching out for her. They’re close enough that Nat could stoop to kiss her, or sweep her off her feet and carry her home, or —

“A few years ago, researchers discovered that bacteria are not able to survive on a dragonfly’s wings. They’re what’s called “bactericidal”,” Shivani says, “Those wings — they look so delicate, but they might be the key to preventing infection and saving millions and millions of lives. It’s so simple, really. On their wings, there are these structures called nanopillars. They’re like — little spikes. They have different sizes and lengths, and they trap and tear apart bacteria on a microscopic level. It’s as though the bacteria land on a knife point. They can’t survive that. So you’ll never find a dragonfly with a wing infection.”

Nat reminds herself to focus, gaze finding the dragonfly again, lulled by Shivani’s voice. Another has joined it, skimming the water. A blue body, white bands on its wings — another male.

“And they’re trying to use that research to create nanopillar bandages. To prevent infections from open wounds. And — I thought you might find that interesting. That they’re dangerous hunters. But someday, in the future, they might be the reason why we have technology that can save someone like me. Or Verda. Or one of my students.”

When their eyes meet, Nat wants to collapse, overwhelmed by affection for her girlfriend.

She doesn’t have to say it explicitly. She knows exactly what Shivani is telling her, and her heart is aching as she lets go of her hand and reaches out to stroke her face, holding her round cheeks between her palms, desperate to kiss her.

“You’re right,” she murmurs, “I do find that interesting.”

“Nat,” Shivani says, “You know you can tell me when something is wrong, right? Whenever you want. I’ll listen. I want to help you. You’re my girlfriend. I want you to be happy.”

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, lowering her head, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as Shivani rises on her toes, their lips finally meeting. The kiss is sweet — the taste of honey lingers in the corners of Shivani’s mouth — and smokey, the Lapsang Souchong she drinks on her girlfriend’s lips now. “I’m happy. I want to know everything you know. Will you teach me more about the insects here?”

“Well,” Shivani says, suddenly not meeting her eyes, “There is one other thing I know about widow skimmers.”

“Go on, darling,” Nat says, already amused, immediately certain of where the change in her attitude is leading.

“Widow skimmers — when they — when they mate — they form —” her voice is getting quieter. If Nat touched her face again, she knows her girlfriend’s cheeks would be blazing hot, “When they mate they form a heart.”

Nat gasps softly, first, and then she laughs.

🪲 ‎

the opening line is courtesy of my aunt, who refers to the time of afternoon where the sun is low enough that the ocean starts to sparkle as "the diamond hour"! (the lake being a pearl is via my brain, though. i am delighted there is oyster art on my dash as i type this, i am taking it as a sign.)

a male widow skimmer by photographer greg lasley! i don't know where your wayhaven is, and they're native to north america, but it was so beautiful and distinct i couldn't resist choosing it for shivani to spot. (in my mind the two males nat spots at the end are lovers. parallels!)

information on the relationship between dragonflies and frogs is from this journal article and this blog post, and information about dragonflies' hunting is from this nyt article.

what shivani says about dragonfly wings being antimicrobial is true! here's an article about their nanopillar structure.

subscribe for more dragonfly facts with cami and shivani :-)

#i accidentally published the draft on december 15th lol #i hope you did not get notified about it #especially bc it was my formatting copy and the actual fic was still in google drive lmao #this came out a little angstier than i intended so i hope you still like it :) the intention was shivani comforting nat!#as a person with anxiety sometimes i wish i could be the one comforting the ones comforting me #you know?#also i wanted to share bug facts :)#one day i'll let go of n sewell and diamonds as a motif #but today is not that day #can u believe i forgot the tags #wayhavensecretsanta #twc #nat sewell

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coconi · 2 years

Text

Atop a rickety old shed overrun by the elements, Link nibbles on an apple and watches a herd of horses frolic about. It's a peaceful afternoon. The sun is warm on his skin and the fields sing with the breeze.

Yet his heart grows cold with something he cannot place — a persistent, frigid chill that leaves his eyes burning and his throat tight.

Link presses a hand to his chest, focusing hard on the four gifts therein. Three thrum quietly against his heart as usual, warm and subdued and comforting, but the fourth—

The chill flutters like candlelight, as if someone were desperately, angrily trying to snuff it out.

Ah.

His snack forgotten, Link crouches precariously and summons Revali's Gale once, twice, thrice in quick succession. Revali comes to his aid without delay, averting his gaze the first time, then gaping at Link, then outright squawking at him as his indignation mounts ever higher.

Link only smiles at the green flames, offering no explanation.

By the time Revali's gift depletes, all nearby horses have spooked and scattered, and the cold in Link's chest has begun to thaw.

#revalink #revali/link #my writing #botw #breath of the wild #this was originally meant to be one of my a-z drabbles but it got longer than intended so i'm posting separately #it's based on a little idea i had last night before falling asleep:#what if link got vague impressions of the champions' state of mind through their gifts? since they're a part of him now?#and the gifts are fragments of their souls technically speaking #what if he grew better at reading said impressions as time went on?#and tried to offer comfort/visit them/offer a distraction when necessary #would it go both ways?#i'm not the happiest with this ficlet but hey gotta shake rust somehow otherwise my sheikah zine fic ain't getting written #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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suspiciouslackofclowns · 2 years

Text

Eddie’s no stranger to slamming doors.

In fact, he’s fairly familiar with the sound of the screen door clapping against the wooden frame on the trailer across the street. He tries not to be nosy. Tries to mind his business as best he can.

But he somehow always knows when a certain blue Camaro is parked in the weeds.

He’s seen the Mayfields a handful of times since they moved in. Has changed the tire on Susan’s car before when she had a flat and teased Max a few times when she’s practiced kick flips in the street. He’s not a mechanic by trade or even a skater, but he was more than happy to lend a hand in both cases.

He hasn’t, however, had many chances to interact with the third, honorary Mayfield: Billy. Eddie isn’t sure where he goes when he’s not in the trailer park, but he only stays a handful of nights out of the week. Tends the yard, maintains the house, and, from what Eddie understands, helps pay some of the bills. Which all seems oddly generous for someone who doesn’t even live there full-time.

Especially when that someone is Billy Hargrove.

When the screen door slams across the street, harder than normal, even for one of Max’s distasteful moods, Eddie can’t help but peak through the blinds.

What he sees is enough to make his blood run cold.

There’s a car he’s never seen before parked haphazardly out front, the driver door slamming shut before it peels off down the street, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

At the bottom of the steps is Billy. Clutching onto the rail with an unforgiving grip, legs wobbling before he buckles forward. The door flies open and Max is at his side in a matter of moments, dipping under his arm to try and support his weight, only to stumble down the steps when he loses balance and lurches forward.

Eddie is sprinting through his trailer when he sees the guy heave and nothing but red comes out. Drips into the dirt and creates a sickeningly dark, crimson mud between his boots.

He’s not a nurse. Or a doctor. Or even a friend to these people, but he doesn’t think twice about slinging the blond’s other arm around his shoulders and taking on the bulk of his weight. Up close, the reality of the situation only eludes Eddie even more.

Billy’s left eye is swollen shut, his lip is busted, and he walks with a definite limp that doesn’t at all fit his normal sturdy gait. His breaths are labored and he gasps when Eddie presses too hard at his side, which is not a good sign. Susan’s frantic voice emanates from inside when Max opens the door, and the two boys almost trip over the clutter that fills the entryway.

A box of stuff has been spilled, no— thrown onto the floor. Glass has shattered. Tables have been tipped. Eddie tries to focus on getting Billy to the sofa.

Finds himself catching the tail end of Susan’s conversation over the phone in the kitchen.

“—no, no, I need you to do something about this, Chief Powell, he’s dangerous,” she says. Voice strained, like she’s been shouting. “He hurt my boy, Cal. He came and he—“ her voice breaks, and Eddie catches a glimpse of her with a hand on her face as he lowers Billy into the couch. “He threatened my son’s life, for Christ’s sake. I don’t care how many officers you have on-hand, I need someone here now.”

“Mom, we need to take him to the hospital,” Max rasps.

Her face is streaming with tears that she wipes away with her sleeve. Cards a gentle hand into Billy’s hair and keeps his head upright when it lolls back.

Eddie’s not sure what exactly he’s getting himself into, but he knows that the box of things on the floor doesn’t belong to either of the girls. That no one from school, not even Jason Carver, is capable of doing this to Billy. And that terrifies him more than anything, confusion or not.

“I can drive him,” he blurts.

Max’s bright green eyes fix on him then.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, no,” Billy grumbles. Furrows his brows. “You stay w’ Susan. Can’ leave her alone.”

Max looks like she wants to protest for a moment, but then she looks away. Clenches her fist against her pant leg.

“Fine.”

“C’mon, big guy,” Eddie says. “Let’s get you out to that fancy car of yours.”

“Ding my baby ‘n I’ll kill you, Munson.”

It’s easier going down the steps than it was going up. Eddie helps the blond into the passenger seat of the Camaro and winds up having to pry the keys out of his hand before he climbs in and starts it. Listens to the familiar purr of the engine that he’s come to be so fascinated with these last few months.

“Buckle in, I fully intend on running every stop sign,” Eddie says.

He throws the car into reverse. Can’t help but smile when Billy laughs hoarsely and thumbs the new wash of crimson away from his mouth.

“Thanks. For, y’know.” The car peels down the street similar to the one that left mere minutes ago. “Didn’t want them to freak out anymore than they already are.”

True to his word, Eddie runs the first stop sign he comes across. Thinks back to that box that spilled on the floor. About how he saw Metallica records among the pile, and about how he’s heard Max rant about how much she loves pop. About how For Whom the Bell Tolls is thrumming through the speakers in the car right now.

Eddie realizes now that he doesn’t have to be anything special to offer his help. Doesn’t need a medical degree, to know how to build cars from the ground up, or own a skateboard to try and be a good person. To do what’s right.

Because Billy Hargrove Mayfield isn’t anything special either, and yet here he is. Worried about his mom and his sister like he’s not suffering from broken bones and internal bleeding.

And, on top of everything, Eddie suspects that the Camaro won’t disappear from across the street anymore after today. That makes a grin split across his face as he presses his foot down harder against the gas.

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

#mungrove #eddie munson #billy hargrove #billy x eddie #max and billy #susan mayfield #n*el hargrove #angsty fic #fluff fic #tw abuse #tw blood #hurt/comfort #this is very rushed and I’m tired #I was intending for it to be a sort of pre-relationship drabble but idk #interpret it however you want #ficlet #my writing

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celestial-toys · 2 months

Text

crawls out of my writing cave on all fours, disheveled and holding a twenty-four-thousand-word-long document between my teeth

#i have. finally finished the WIP i’ve been struggling to write for the last 3 months!!!#Seven’s Celestial Commentary #writing stuff #[N]MbD #[Not] Made by Design #this little hurt/comfort oneshot got. a bit out of hand. and now has way more plot than i originally intended #but i am Quite happy with the direction it went in so it’s all good #just gotta figure out how to split it into chapters for readability on AO3 #24k feels too long for one page even tho it’s a oneshot… sigh it’s AEIWNF all over again #anyways i’m so happy to have gotten that fic out of my brain. feels good man #i’m so ready for [N]MbD’s series to consist of more than one (1) spicy fic. there’s So much more to the AU than that #new hefty installment in the [N]MbD AU comin’ atcha… Soon™️#soon meaning once i finish publishing the rest of AEIWNF and the shorter [N]MbD oneshot that i want posted first #now that i’m sitting on a number of finished WIPs for other things i finally feel ready to return to writing for ES #i’d like to chip away at the next few chapters of that fic while i post my backlog of other stuff that’s ready to go

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bigdumbbambieyes · 2 years

Note

Can you write something like billy with a tummy ache and Steve helps him?

of course 🤍 thank you so much for the prompt, lovely anon!

tw anxiety and mentions of abuse

———

Billy knew that the worst part about his anxiety was the way it made his stomach feel.

It couldn’t be helped. It had started when he was a kid, almost immediately after his mother had packed up and left. He could vividly recall standing in front of the phone and staring at it, his stomach clenching and twisting as he mustered up the strength to pick up the receiver and call.

What if she doesn’t pick up this time? What if she says she doesn’t want to come and get me? What if she found another son to love?

Racing thoughts always lead to a stomachache; left his insides twisting and uncomfortable.

And although he had stopped calling her years ago, had stopped hoping that one day she’d come back and rescue him, his stomach stayed the same. It dropped when he heard his dad storming down the hall to his room, twisted whenever he received an invite to a party, clenched whenever he kissed and touched another boy, cramped when he received a low mark in his classes.

It wasn’t until he met Steve Harrington that he finally felt something new in his stomach: butterflies.

Billy knew he was a goner the second he’d laid eyes on Harrington. That head of messy-yet-perfect hair, his big doe eyes, his pouty lips, his jawline. He loved how expressive Steve’s pretty face was when he felt annoyed and frustrated at him, but what he loved more was how over time, those glares and grimaces had softened into longing looks and warm smiles.

He’d claimed Steve months ago; grabbed a handful of his ass and kissed him in front of the Harrington house, where inside Steve’s parents had been preparing for another business trip. The soft whimper Steve had pushed into his mouth - along with his tongue - told Billy everything he needed to know and they’d been inseparable since.

Billy tried to think back to another time he felt the sensation of fluttering butterflies in his anxious stomach, but came up short. Steve had been the first.

He’d been a few of Billy’s firsts: first real apology, first true forgiveness, first person to tell Billy ‘you have a choice’ in that honeysuckle-sweet voice, first boyfriend, first love.

First absolutely heart wrenching, euphoric, never-wanna-be-without-you kinda first love.

It made Billy ache in the sweetest way.

And the thing was, Billy was used a certain type of ache by now. It didn’t make it any better, no, but at least he knew how to deal with it. Calming breaths, gentle rubs to his stomach with the palm of his hand, telling himself it’ll pass, and if he really needed it, a walk around the block.

It was a quiet Sunday on the brink of summer, a warm early evening, when Billy had to leave the house or else he was sure his stomach would twist itself shut. He was impatiently waiting for a call from the Hawkins Community Pool, as he’d gone for an interview a few days ago and had been told that he’d get an answer on the following Monday. He’d been suffering for days, pacing around the house and in his room with a racing mind.

He knew he’d get the job, he was more than qualified, but if he didn’t - then he was kinda fucked. There would be no way to pay for gas for his Camaro, no way to put money away for his move back home after graduation, no fucking escape from that house on Cherry Lane.

So, he stormed out to his Camaro and left, since his dad and Susan weren’t home and Max was visiting her friends. His stomach was upset the entire drive to Steve’s, so upset that it made Billy grimace and shift in his seat as he tried and failed to get comfortable.

When Steve opened the door, his brown eyes curious and wide, Billy greeted him quietly and they shared a quick kiss in the doorway - a casual intimacy that Billy always craved.

Yet it didn’t do much for his stomach.

“You okay?” Steve murmured as he wrapped his arms around Billy’s shoulders, kept them close as Billy pushed the front door shut behind them. It was sweet, how Steve worried about him and doted on him.

Billy considered telling a half-truth, or even lying, but he knew better. Steve would find out the truth eventually. So, he gave a small shrug and glanced away from those inquiring eyes.

Steve knew about his anxiety. Knew that Billy struggled with it, but he didn’t know about his stomach troubles only because Billy kept that under very tight wraps from everyone.

But there was no hiding it this time, not when his stomach clenched and cramped so hard he grimaced again and doubled over a little.

“Billy—“ Steve’s voice was full of worry, his brows furrowing as he bent down a little to look at Billy’s face, to see if his boyfriend was alright.

After taking a moment to compose himself, to steel his nerves, Billy finally whispered, “…my stomach.”

“What about it?”

“It…hurts.”

Steve’s brows furrowed again, deeper this time, “Like…like you have a tummy ache? Or something worse?”

Billy straightened with a scowl, placing a hand on his stomach as he glanced away from Steve again, muttering, “Both.”

“I’m not sure what that means, baby.” Steve’s voice is gentle, patient, but still had that edge of worry. Billy loved him.

Loved him so much that he was able to look into those brown eyes again, figuring that he probably looked so goddamn pitiful because Steve leaned in to kiss him all sweet and gentle before muttering, “Go upstairs and get comfy in bed, I’ll be right up.”

It’s not a hard order to follow, not at all, so Billy goes. He unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his legs, leaving them forgotten on the floor as he steals a pair of Steve’s shorts to wear before climbing into bed. As much as he liked to tease Steve about his ‘princess bed’ that had inches of thick foam on top, Billy was thankful for it now as he sank into the mattress with a sigh - his stomach still twisting.

The familiar scent of the bed made Billy relax, even turned his head to inhale the scent of Steve that was there, until he heard his boyfriend coming up the stairs and entering the room.

When Billy looked over, he froze. Steve was rounding the bed with an armful of things: a hot water bottle, a small can of ginger ale, various VCR tapes, and a familiar bottle of pink liquid.

Steve smiled down at him as he began to put the items down on the bedside table, saying as he did, “I got everything you might need or want - although I don’t know if you’ll like the movies I picked out,” he chuckled softly.

Billy blinked like a total idiot for a few seconds, piecing together the fact that Steve had brought him things to help with his stomachache. Things to comfort Billy, to soothe the pain his own mind had caused, because that’s just what he did to himself. And while he caused it, he was never nice to himself about it, didn’t try to soften the effects with warmth and Pepto Bismol like Steve did.

He was so used to dealing with it on his own that Steve’s help almost seemed outlandish. Yet, he didn’t stop Steve when his boyfriend pulled the comforter down just enough to gently press the hot water bottle against Billy’s stomach. The warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt easily, through his skin and to where that ball of anxiety lived in his stomach.

“How’s that?” Steve hummed as he pulled the comforter up to Billy’s shoulder again.

Unable to vocalize anything, Billy just nodded, staring up at him with wide blue eyes.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, smiling down at him like a fucking angel, and asked if he wanted a sip of the ginger ale.

Billy wasn’t sure what good that would do but he nodded anyway, sitting up a little as Steve cracked the can open and handed it to him. The bubbles settled in his stomach gently, and paired with the warmth of the hot water bottle, it was…nice. Calming.

But he needed more than that.

“Could you…lay down with me?” He asked quietly as he settled down into the bed again. It wasn’t the usual bratty tone he used when he wanted to get Steve to do something for him, and his boyfriend quickly picked up on that, if the way Steve quickly rounded the bed said anything.

Billy felt the covers lift as Steve climbed in, felt the press of Steve’s chest against his back as the pretty boy pressed his entire front to Billy’s back, effectively spooning him. The warmth on his stomach paired with the warmth of Steve against his back, kissing the nape of his neck, was heaven.

And he felt his stomach untwist itself, a little.

“Better, baby?” Steve murmured as he nuzzled at the top of Billy’s spine.

“Yeah,” Billy finally muttered in a breath, closing his eyes as concentrated on his breathing, letting himself relax his tensed muscles one by one. He all but melted into the bed and against Steve within minutes, his stomach beginning to settle.

A few more moments passed before Steve quietly asked, “Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?”

It’s an innocent question. Totally understandable to ask given the circumstances, but Billy still gave a bitter laugh. “No,” he muttered, his brows furrowed.

Used to the sharpness that came with Billy Hargrove, Steve didn’t back down, asking, “Then what?”

And…Billy couldn’t not tell Steve. He’s told him about his anxiety, about his shit father, about his mother, so why not this? “I…” he began, hesitated, before opening his eyes and whispering, “My stomach…gets upset, when my anxiety gets really bad. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Steve muttered against his back, “Like…it’s a side effect?”

“Yeah. I guess.” That was probably the best way to put it, really.

They laid there for a quiet moment, both processing the fact, before Steve shifted up onto his side and leaned over to kiss Billy’s cheek and temple. “Don’t worry, I got you,” he muttered sweetly, so sweet it almost made Billy’s teeth hurt, “Want me to rub your tummy?”

There were no questions, no asking for an explanation, no judgement - just an urge to help and Billy was relieved. Steve knew how to take care of him and Billy would let him. So, he nodded his head quietly and closed his eyes again when he felt Steve’s hand slip behind the hot water bottle to rub gentle circles on his stomach.

Billy dozed off like that, tucked away so cozy and loved with Steve pressed behind him. And when he stirred awake, Steve still holding him close and asking how he felt, his stomach was soothed and calm.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #prompt fill #prompt fic #hurt/comfort #tw anxiety #tw mentions of abuse #this one kinda got away on me so it’s longer than i intended but i loved writing it #thank u anon!!#bambiwrites

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sysig · 6 months

Photo

Only the cutest prettiest sparkliest aliens (Patreon)

Bonus comparison | 2023 | 2021

Oh no he’s been yasssified

#Doodles #SCII #Arilou #ZEX #YIK #Leftover SCII doodles! Remember how I left off on SCII at the end of September? That feels so long ago!#I had a few ancillary doodles left over ♪ A bit of Pirate Fic a bit of just general silliness :) Fun!#Outfit designing for the guest Arilou at the Captain's defense-planning table :D Cute!#I went looking for references of maritime naval uniforms for them as well but nothing in particular stood out to me :P A shame #So I mostly went with something comfortable and easy to move in :D And cute of course! The Arilou's shoes in their actual outfits are ♪ cute #They also give me Knifecat vibes lol - I guess I'll have to see how that holds up once I meet one for real #Looking forward to it for sure!#A couple of ZEXes - thinking around flintlock pistols! Again while I was rewatching Muppet Treasure Island lol #Gosh that feels like years ago now haha - but the scene where Silver leaves in the boat with the stolen treasure #I just like ZEX with weapons ♪ Doesn't intend to use them just puffing up to appear more deadly than he wants to have to act on #Always always paired with the knowledge of his history and where he stands with other humans - the blood on his hands! (Arms? Tentacles?)#But he wouldn't really want to hurt him <3 Would he even be able to? I guess it's mostly a matter of aim and fire #One arm around the barrel - ouch - and one squeezing the trigger #These weapons are not made with VUX in mind!#A Very pretty ZEX - there was an animation meme going around and my brain was Fighting me for who it would better suit #Between Scriabin and ZEX actually lol - normally it'd be an easy choice (which way??) but I was So in on SCII at that moment #It was the GOD meme - first of all so many gorgeous entries hhhh <3 <3 But they are honestly both kinda perfect for it??#ZEX wins this time ♪ Good for him #And rounding off with a YIK <3 <3 <3 #I don't remember if there was any inspiration for drawing her in a veil other than just - she pretty ♥ No thought just YIK 💖#She did end up super pretty :) I think veils would work well for VUX! Especially like jewel or gold embroidered ♪ All the decoration!#Oh and technically sort of one more - I had forgotten I'd made a similarly-posed doodle of ZEX a bit back lol #Interesting style evolution and Totally Nothing Else lol

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set-phasers-to-whump · 6 months

Text

warmth

prompt: water inhalation

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hiii i am back from my trip and back to beating illya up :) hope you enjoy it!

A human being can survive, in theory, for four minutes without air to breathe. Illya has tested and pushed his own limits, but cannot ever seem to make it past two.

So it is that a clock is ticking at the back of his mind as he struggles with all of his strength against the people holding him under water.

There are many hands on him, and sometimes he feels one move, a small victory on his part, but he cannot do much more than be a brief inconvenience. There are too many people holding him down and struggling makes his lungs burn more and more.

He’s getting lightheaded and the numbers stop ticking along. He tries to go limp, to play dead, to see if they will release him. But he lasts all of twenty seconds before he starts struggling again, his body’s hardwired fight instincts winning out over any kind of logic.

His chest feels like it’s on fire. His limbs are growing weaker, and eventually he once again stops struggling, simply because he lacks the strength for it.

He will lose consciousness soon, and then he will die.

Death through capture, through faulty intel, is a hazard of his work. This is just one of many ways he’d imagined he might die.

He hopes that his capture, his imminent death, will at least allow his partners time to escape. No sense in all three of them dying for this.

The pressure in his lungs is too great. He has to breathe.

The cold water burns as it enters his nose, floods his lungs. He starts coughing and choking and gasping for air that is not there and will never be there again.

The panic is horrific. His eyes fly open and see nothing. He is dying. He is terrified.

Noise and light. Pain and terror give way to numb oblivion.

Crashing water, like being at the beach. Something touching him. Hands, arms, embracing his body, dragging him backwards.

Air.

He breathes and it burns. The coughing and choking begin anew, water spilling from his mouth in painful waves.

It hurts. He does not know what is happening. His body is the only thing that exists, and it is running on pure animal instinct. Air. Breath. Pain. Cold. He thinks of nothing, can think of nothing.

Something touching his back. Solid and warm. An especially harsh cough that brings up several mouthfuls of water. A thumping between his shoulder blades. Noise.

Bit by bit, he comes back to himself. The coughing slows as more and more water is expelled from his lungs. Then the shivering starts, violent and painful.

Two bodies pressed to his. The heat from them does nothing, but their presence is steady and grounding.

He eventually gains enough awareness to know that he is alive and can think. Recalls vaguely what had happened - water, pain, fear.

The fear returns, now that he remembers it. He latches on to the figure closest to him. Gaby or Solo, he does not know. Possibly both of them.

They are speaking, he thinks. Quiet words. He does not understand. But they are nice words. Safe.

The terror ebbs away, and the ache takes over.

His lungs, his limbs, his eyes, his throat. Everything burns and hurts. He doesn’t like it. Cannot do anything about it.

Suddenly, he is lifted off of the ground. An arm beneath his knees, behind his shoulders. A broad, warm chest beside him. He settles against it as they begin to move.

The car. Sitting up, leaning heavily on Solo, coughs tearing their way out of his throat every so often. There is a jacket around him now, Solo’s, warm and smelling of him. He is still cold, but warmer now. The water does not seem so very close.

He dozes, slipping in and out of consciousness as Gaby speeds down streets he does not recognize. She and Solo are talking softly, and he understands their words now, though he lacks the energy to actually listen.

He does not realize they are at a hospital until Solo gently jostles his shoulder and he discovers that they have stopped moving.

He cannot go to a hospital. It is not permitted. He tries to refuse, but his body is slow and his movements are uncoordinated and it is easy for his partners to force him into the sterile waiting room.

A nurse speaks to him. The words fly right over his head, technical and complicated and alien. Solo translates, but does not know all of the words. Illya tries to make himself understand the complex English, and together they make it so that he comprehends, more or less, what is happening.

Then doctors. Breathing. Hands all over him. Warmth, but not the kind of warmth that is comforting. Clinical warmth. A bed that is too small and too hard.

And them. Beside him, protecting him. He has not been alone for a second, never left to fend for himself against this foreign and overwhelming environment.

They are warm in the comforting way. They are sitting beside him, now, and Gaby is holding his hand and Solo’s fingers are tangled in his hair, which is finally dry, and even though he is in an unfamiliar place, a place that he knows he should not be in, he feels mostly safe.

They are with him, and he is warm again.

thanks for reading!!! i hope it was alright, love u guys <3

#whumptober2023 #no.14 #water inhalation #fic #the man from uncle #illya kuryakin #drowning #water #wet #my writing #i say things #hospital #comfort #anyway.. i had an absolutely amazing time on my trip truly one of the best times of my life probably #and now i am back! glad to see all my scheduled posts worked as intended lmao

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conellu · 1 year

Text

when the night gives way its like a brand new doomsday

Narancia/Reader (platonic), Mista/Reader (intended as platonic, can be read either way)

Title from Doomsday by Architects

Summary: Mista comforts you, like he always does, after you have a nightmare about Narancia’s death.

Also posted on my AO3

You shot straight up in the bed as you gaped your mouth open and closed like a fish, hand clutching the shirt that hung loosely around you. You gasped and panted for air, your airways too dry, too tight to let any air enter your desperate lungs. Your eyes darted around the room, trying to find anything to focus on to bring you back to reality - to make you snap out of the horrid nightmare you had. You lifted your hands slowly and looked at them, they were shaking- you were shaking. Tears drop, drop, dropped down into your awaiting palms as it felt like a rush of cool air was accepted into your lungs. A strangled cry started to pour up and over your trembling lips, a scream begging to be released but stopped short as your sobs took over. A nightmare, the same nightmare you had had since it happened.

You couldn’t even get the words out to describe your inner turmoil, the situation even to Trish. She sat with you after everything was settled, after Giorno was officially the Don. Day in, day out, offering you small words of comfort and care, which were only met with silience from you. For days afterward you sat still and silent, unable to allow more than a couple nibbles of food past your lips and sipping the smallest amount of liquid possible. So many of your friends, your found family, had passed and their deaths haunted you. The first few weeks you had dreams of all of their deaths, replaying the scene of coming to get Bruno back with a listless Giorno who already knew what awaited, of Abbachio’s still and lifeless body against the rocks, of him. You had became able to repeat Bruno and Accachio’s name with a few hiccups but you were unable to let Narancia’s name through. His death haunted you the most. You were the closest to him, quickly seeing him as a little brother- a stand in for the real one who you left behind when you joined Bruno’s team. The familial love was evident from Narancia as well, picking on you like a younger brother would do to his older sibling while not entertaining the thoughts of others doing the same. When Giorno had given you the option to leave the mafia, that he would provide you enough money to be able to live comfortably, you crumbled to the ground in front of the younger man. You couldn’t leave, you couldn’t leave the only people who knew what happened. He sunk down beside your crying form and patted your back, shushing you with quiet, soft words. He wouldn’t send you out for the time being, and he wouldn’t dare send you on a solo mission until he was certain you could handle it.

A soft, tired knock came at your door. You didn’t have to say anything, nor did the person on the other side of the door. The door opened to reveal a caring and concerned, albiet very tired, Mista. This had become a common occurance, you often slept in each other’s beds to avoid him having to come to your crying form or you having to stand on shaky legs in front of his muttering out his name with sharp knocks. He never provided many words of comfort, something you preferred. You knew Trish meant well, but you could only hear the same words of comfort and care from her (or from Giorno, or even from Fugo). He made his way to the bed, sitting on it and opening his arms wide- an unspoken invitation for you to crawl over and hang onto him while the sobs raked your body. He rocked softly with you in his arms, eyes closed and humming while he rubbed your back. Your grip on him was boarding on painful, your shaking causing his body to shake as well. You were trying to get out the nightmare, words mushing and melding into one. He shushed you gently, and you complied readily. He didn’t have to ask, he knew. He knew the recurring nightmare you had of Narancia’s death. Despite you knowing that he, in all reality, died before he even knew what happened, you had nightmares of him clinging to life. His hands reaching out towards you, blood dripping out of his mouth, gurgling out your name.

Neither of you knew how much time had passed, time drip, drip, dripped by slow for you and Mista was less concerned with how long he stayed up to comfort you and more concerned with getting you back to sleep so he could sleep again. Your sobs had became nothing more than sniffles that occasionally left your nose as you rested your nose in the crook of his neck. He had stopped humming, but kept his soft rocking and rubbing your back, easing you more and more into a state of ease enough to sleep again. “You ready to go back to bed?” He asked in a whisper, making you jump slightly. You nodded into his neck, opening your mouth to ask a question that you both already knew the answer to. “I’ll stay here with you, you won’t be alone.”

Releasing each other from embrace, you both laid down. Mista’s hand softly stroked your face as you faced each other. You rolled over and his arm wrapped around you. His embrace was just tight enough to offer comfort, the amount of times you both had fallen asleep like this allowing him to know just how tight he should hold you against him. Yawning slightly, you muttered out a thank you. He let out a soft hum in acknowlegment, making a small reminder to tell you in the morning that you didn’t have to thank him. The nightly routine of comforting you allowed him to find comfort as well.

#x reader #jjba x reader #narancia x reader #mista x reader #angst #comfort #This wasnt how i intended the fic for this song to be so i might do another #got plans for some hcs i might start on tonight

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