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pearlsephoni · 1 year

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Kagehina Celebration Week 2022, Day 2: Bed Sharing

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: T

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Kagehina (Kagehina/Hinata)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Tobio Kageyama, cameos from the MSBY4

Word Count: 2,842

Summary: No amount of improved self-care can protect Shoyo from being taken down by a measly sinus infection. The last thing he needs is Kageyama's teasing. What he ends up getting couldn't be more different.

A/N: Sorry for how late this is getting to Tumblr! Hopefully you guys can enjoy despite kghn celebration week being long gone 😅 Further author’s notes can be read on AO3.

Shoyo wasn’t good at being sick. He was better than before he’d gone to Brazil, certainly, but no amount of knowing how much rest would benefit him could keep him from feeling restless in bed.

“Guys,” he croaked, listening to the bustle of his teammates in the kitchen, “I can get my own food and stuff!”

A resounding “NO!” hit him from the kitchen, making him wince at what his neighbors would think of the noise. Or maybe it was because of his headache.

Okay, so he felt like shit. He could at least admit that now, which was an improvement from yesterday, when he’d tried refusing to leave practice early despite his stuffy nose. He’d been sent home, stuffed into Sakusa’s car (a very pleasant surprise — not even his layered masks could take away from the thoughtfulness) and carted to a last-minute doctor’s appointment, where he got diagnosed with a sinus infection and received a prescription for some fast-acting antibiotics.

But those antibiotics still required three days of doses, plus a few day afterwards for them to run their course. Hinata could only hope he’d be allowed back into practice before he was back to 100%, or he’d be crawling out of his skin from a full week without volleyball.

He felt his eyes growing heavy despite wanting to at least stay awake for the guys to finish making him dinner. It was only Sakusa’s entrance that roused him from his doze. “Ah. Were you sleeping?”

“Mm…no,” Shoyo mumbled, shaking his head as though he could shake the drowsiness out. “What’s up?”

“Just clearing these out so you’ll have space for more later.” Sakusa collected the empty mugs from Shoyo’s bedside table and balanced them in his arms with surprising steadiness. “The others are almost done cooking. Do you need anything before eating?”

Shoyo began to shake his head, before he felt something outside of his stuffy nose, sore throat, and persistent headache. “Just the bathroom.” Sakusa looked panicked for a moment, looking from his full arms to Shoyo unsteadily standing up, and Shoyo couldn’t help laughing, “I don’t need help to go to the bathroom, Omi-san, I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t— I was just—” Sakusa gave up with a huff and marched back to the kitchen. “Fine.”

Shoyo hadn’t been lying — a sinus infection wasn’t going to make him need help just to walk around the apartment. But he did end up needing a bit more time in the bathroom than usual, the building pressure in his head making him move much more slowly, and by the time he shuffled back to his bedroom, Bokuto was sitting on his bed with a tray on his lap, carrying a steaming bowl of soup. He looked awfully serious about something before he noticed Shoyo and a smile split across his face. “There you are! I thought the soup would get cold before you could eat it!”

“Soup’s not gonna get cold in five minutes, Bokkun,” Atsumu sighed from where he lounged in the chair at Shoyo’s desk. He looked up from his phone to watch Shoyo as he climbed back into bed. “Everything alright?”

“Mm…yeah, just…everything hurts. And my nose is stuffy no matter how much I try to blow it.”

“Yeah, we can hear that.” The words were chuckled, but Shoyo could hear the undercurrent of concern in them.

“That’s what we made this soup for!” Bokuto declared. He’d stood up with the tray to let Shoyo climb under the covers, and now he carefully balanced the tray on his lap. “You can eat that and take some medicine!”

“Thanks, guys.” There was an ache in Shoyo’s throat that he couldn’t blame on sinus drainage. “I really appreciate all this.”

Atsumu let out a soft laugh as he stood up and began making his way to the bedroom door. “No need to thank us, we’re not being totally selfless here. We gotta make sure our greatest decoy is back out there before the next set of matches!”

For the first time that day, Shoyo felt a sharp grin pull at his lips. “I will be! I promise!”

It would never fail to pleasantly surprise him, how much his teammates really cared about him. He was used to having teammates that he could also consider a family of sorts, but that didn’t mean he appreciated them feeding him and cleaning up the kitchen for him any less. He’d told Kageyama all about the different ways his team was helping out, just to reassure him that he was “fine” and that “no, Tobio, you don’t have to come all the way from Tokyo.”

Speaking of. Shoyo glanced at his phone with a small frown. He hadn’t received any new messages from Kageyama since before dinner, and he’d said he would call sometime tonight. Maybe something had come up. He’d probably call later.

And then he didn’t.

Nor did he call the next morning. Shoyo didn’t bring it up — it didn’t really matter, especially when Kageyama was still texting him to check in — but it was a little unusual. It was the first time he’d missed a call without letting Shoyo know before or after.

Then a few hours passed, and Shoyo blinked awake from yet another nap (how was he sleeping so much and still feeling so crummy?) to find his phone screen empty of any text notifications from his boyfriend. The last message he’d received was a few hours ago.

Which was fine. It was fine. Maybe he had a morning practice that he hadn’t told Shoyo about. Things happened, things came up, and it was fine. He was fine. They were fine.

Never mind the fact that he huddled back under the covers with a frown, holding his phone up to his face as if staring at it would make new messages appear. He ended up dozing off to the sound of one of Kenma’s old streams and a distinct lack of messages from Kageyama.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to wait for a message at all.

“Shoyo?”

His eyes flew open, and his head swam from how quickly he sat up. “…Tobi?!”

Sure enough, his bedroom doorway soon framed the figure of Kageyama, a smirk on his face and a steaming mug in his hand. “Wow. You look like shit.”

“Thanks, asshole,” Shoyo laughed thickly. “What’re you doing here? What’s that? Here, lemme—”

He started pushing his covers off, only to be stopped by Kageyama’s firm, “Don’t! Don’t get up.”

Shoyo automatically fell back against his pillows, though not without a petulant pout. “I’m sick, Tobi, I don’t wanna get you sick, too.”

“Sinus infections aren’t contagious, dumbass.”

“How do you—?”

“Bokuto-san told me. He answered your phone when I called yesterday.”

“Wait.” Shoyo’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing at Kageyama. “So you did call? You just talked to Bokuto-san instead?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you call again and actually talk to me?”

Kageyama blinked, his ears reddening as his perplexed silence stretched. “I…I was worried about you. I was focused on how I could help.”

Shoyo rolled his eyes before curling up under his covers. “That’s why I didn’t want the guys to say anything to you.”

“I would’ve known something was wrong the second I heard you talk. You sound like you have cotton balls filling your head.”

“Are you here to help me or bully me?”

“I can do both.” True to his word, Kageyama carefully perched next to Shoyo, running his free fingers through the ginger hair that peeked out of the covers. “C’mon, sit up and drink this while it’s hot.”

With a whine, Shoyo pushed himself upright again, grimacing at the way the pressure in his head seemed to intensify with the change in angle. He missed the concern in Kageyama’s eyes as he took the mug, and was startled when he heard, “That bad?”

“Yeah. But it’s only this bad for a day or two. And if the antibiotics work like they’re supposed to, I should be good to get back to practice on Monday.” He took a careful sip, and let out a content hum when he tasted tea with ginger and honey.

“Don’t push yourself, dumbass. Give yourself time to actually get better.”

Shoyo’s heart squeezed at the worry lining Kageyama’s face. He gently nudged him with his knee under the covers and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, but was probably more teasing. “I know. Why can’t you believe I’m better at taking care of myself?”

Kageyama’s concern melted into annoyance, a sight Shoyo was much more used to. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well…I guess that’s fine, if it means you’ll keep taking care of me like this.”

And now the annoyance turned into embarrassment. Shoyo could easily spend his whole day making Kageyama’s face flicker through the whole range of human emotion. “Shut up and drink your tea.”

“It’s yummy, thank you!”

“It’s not supposed to be yummy, it’s supposed to help your throat. Is it working?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” Kageyama sat there in a self-satisfied silence, watching Shoyo sip at his tea with a small smile. For someone who was so bad with words, Kageyama was rarely this quiet around Shoyo, especially with soft adoration etched into each line of his face. Shoyo loved it, felt his own adoration blooming in his chest until he couldn’t help but nestle close enough to rest his head on Kageyama’s shoulder. And Kageyama let him, staying completely still except to let his cheek pillow against Shoyo’s hair.

They stayed sitting like that until Shoyo finally finished his tea with a dramatic, “Ahhh! All done!” He met Kageyama’s mildly annoyed stare with a sunny smile as he handed the empty mug over. “Thanks, Tobi!”

“Mm. Are you hungry?”

“I guess I could eat.”

“Good. I got you ramen for lunch, and tamago kake gohan for dinner.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah. I would’ve made something, but I didn’t have time between practice and the train, and it would’ve been cold by the time I got here anyway. After you eat, you can have some cold medicine.” He patted Shoyo’s covered legs as he stood, only to be stopped by a hand around his free fingers. “What?”

“I wanna kiss you,” Shoyo said with a small pout, satisfaction bubbling up when Kageyama rolled his eyes and bent close enough for him to press their lips together. “Thank you, Tobio. Seriously. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” With a final kiss and tiny grin, Kageyama made his way to the kitchen, leaving Shoyo to snuggle back under the covers and listen to the sounds of his boyfriend bustling around.

He liked to think he was pretty good about counting his blessings — he had a career he loved, all of his hard work towards his goals had paid off so far, he had a nice apartment, got along great with his team, had time to visit home at least once a month. And somehow, on top of all that, the universe also let him reunite with the man that he was increasingly certain was the love of his life.

Yes, he tried to stay aware of how good he had it. But that didn’t stop moments like this from taking his breath away with how lucky he felt. It made tears of joy prick at his eyes, and when Kageyama next poked his head into the room, it was to see Shoyo blowing his nose. “D’you wanna eat in here, or are you feeling up for getting out of bed?” he asked once Shoyo threw away the tissue with a bleary sniff.

“Can I eat in the living room? We’ve got a match against Raijin soon — I should watch some old games while I’m stuck inside.”

With that, Shoyo was soon set up on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders, his ramen steaming on the coffee table, and an old Raijin vs Falcons match on the tv. Kageyama was on the couch behind him, munching away at a pork onigiri from Onigiri Miya. As soon as they were both done eating, Shoyo crawled onto the couch, settled himself between Kageyama’s legs, and nestled into his chest. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Kageyama mumbled, despite his arms tightening around Shoyo. “You need to take some medicine while you’re full.”

“Mm…after the game.” He felt a sigh ruffle his hair, but Kageyama didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t end up getting any cough medicine. What he did get was an impromptu nap, and when he suddenly blinked awake to a blue light from the tv, he was also treated to the sound of a soft snore above his head. “Yama,” he groaned with a laugh, “Yama, wake up.”

Kageyama snapped awake with a snort and “…shit.”

“Good nap?”

“Shit,” he repeated instead of an answer. “So much for your medicine.”

“It’s ok, I think the broth helped clear my nose for a little bit.” When he pushed himself upright, he saw evidence of his nose clearing up, in the form of a dried patch of snot on Kageyama’s shirt. “…Oops.”

“Christ,” Kageyama muttered with a soft laugh. Without any further warning, he sat up just enough to strip the shirt off, leaving himself half-naked as he slouched back into the couch. His brows raised at the open appreciation on Shoyo’s face. “…Don’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to, perv! How are you horny when you’re sick?”

Shoyo shrugged with a beatific grin. “Well, my skin does feel eeeextra sensitive when I’m sick.” He let a hand drift up Kageyama’s torso as he spoke, until it came to a rest against his collarbones. Hope sparked in him when he felt a shudder run through Kageyama, but then his wandering hand was caught and pulled away.

“I’m not gonna let you suffocate and die because you wanted to suck me off while you had a stuffy nose.”

“Who said anything about me sucking you off?”

“And getting snot all over me isn’t my idea of a sexy time.”

“Boooooo, killjoy,” Shoyo grouched, slouching into a lump of sniffles and blankets.

“Just take your medicine, dumbass.” Kageyama got up, presumably to throw his shirt into the laundry and get the cough syrup. Shoyo tried to stay awake, he really did, and he even thought he was successful…until he woke up to fingers pinching his cheek. “Go to bed.”

“Owwww,” he whined, swatting at Kageyama’s hand. “Can’t you wake me up with a kiss or something? Akaashi-san never wakes Bokuto-san up with pinching.”

“Too bad I’m not Akaashi-san. Take this and go to bed.”

Shoyo frowned at the tiny plastic cup of cough syrup being shoved at him, but the sight of a glass of orange juice in Kageyama’s other hand motivated him to take the cup and tilt it all into his mouth in one go. His face immediately crumpled at the taste, and he started grabbing at the orange juice, ignoring the snort he earned as he finally snatched it. “God, that’s gross,” he sighed when he eventually lowered the glass. It was still half-full — it was impossible to properly chug with a stuffy nose.

“I’ve seen you put away shots that could be gasoline,” Kageyama scoffed. “Quit being so dramatic.”

“Quit being so mean.”

“Quit stalling and go to bed.” Kageyama plucked the half-empty glass from Shoyo’s hand and stared down at him with raised eyebrows.

Shoyo tried to stare him down in return. He didn’t last long. With a huff, he slouched his way off the couch and shuffled back to bed, unaware of how childlike he looked with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and trailing after him on the floor.

He left his blanket strewn haphazardly at the foot of his bed as he climbed under the covers, ready to snuggle into Kageyama as soon as he joined him. Turned out, his body had different plans.

One moment, Shoyo was getting settled against his pillows. The next, he was blinking awake in a darkness that was only broken by the light sneaking in through his curtains. There was an arm draped heavy over his waist, a solid warmth against his back, and soft breaths tickling his neck. He tried to carefully turn over so he could snuggle closer to the warmth, but he’d barely even shuffled before he heard a low voice at his ear. “Morning, lazy.”

“It’s not morning,” Shoyo laughed quietly, flipping around more quickly now that he knew Kageyama was already awake. “And I’m not lazy, I’m sick!”

Kageyama just gave a noncommittal hum in response, but there was no mistaking the sleepy adoration lining his heavy-lidded gaze and soft smile. “Are you ready for dinner?” he asked, as though he weren’t burrowing deeper into his pillow and holding Shoyo a little tighter.

“Nah.” Shoyo nuzzled into the curve of Kageyama’s neck, brushing a kiss to the smooth skin. “Dinner can wait.”

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strawberryghostlight · 4 years

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Did anyone ask for more shitty The Girl Who Could Fly fanart? No. Absolutely no one did but I made a second and third drawing from The Boy Who Knew Everything and you bet I’m gonna post it. Here’s Jeston and Letitia’s reunion:

I can’t draw hair and that is everyone else’s problem

#the girl who could fly #tgwcf #victoria forester #my last drawing got one note rip #I still don't know how shading works #but I will persist because this fandom is practically empty #the boy who knew everything #my art

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mostlydeadallday · 2 years

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Lost Kin | Chapter I | This Was Waking

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel/Hollow Knight Category: Gen Content Warnings: reference to torture, dehumanization, loss of a limb, body horror, choking, restraints, blood loss, memory loss, abuse AO3: Lost Kin Chapter I | This Was Waking Next Chapter

Summary: Something is very wrong in Hallownest.

The Hollow Knight wakes up outside the Temple of the Black Egg. Hornet feels a shift in the kingdom from all the way in Greenpath. Together, the two of them discover the sacrifices each has made--and the grief neither one of them was allowed to feel.

Notes: This is my first posted fic so I appreciate any and all comments, likes and replies, both here and on AO3! This is fairly lore-neutral so it should be understandable for both fans and non-fans. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist, and as always, thanks for reading!

○

The knight woke to silence.

Silence.

What… what was this?

The world seemed vast, empty, ringing with quiet in a way that made it dizzy. The knight had not known silence in…

…some time.

The blackness spun and swirled, like void, like the waters of its birthplace, like the depths of the earth. Black on black, darkness on deeper darkness, spiraling down into an infinite abyss.

But this was waking. This was not the dream. This was silence, not the howling screams, the mindless thrashing, the blinding, maiming light of a trapped goddess.

The world was empty. It was empty. The space inside it seemed as soft and formless as ash, charred into oblivion, its shell only a container for this vast and echoing waste.

And it hurt.

The pain lanced through every layer of it—mind, body, and shade—like a white-hot spear struck through its center. Instinct pushed it to move, to crawl away, to escape the pain, but only the barest twitch of its limbs betrayed it. It was not meant to hurt, not meant to feel, not meant to sense anything beyond its orders, and its orders were to endure.

No matter what tortures came from beyond the blackness. No matter how its body twisted and warped under the pressure of that evil light. No matter what it sensed beyond its prison, no matter what semblance of thought entered its head, it was to endure. To remain.

But perhaps because of that silence, that shift in the universe, that change in a state it had assumed changeless, it knew that something was different. Something… was not right.

Its orders had not prepared it for this.

There had been no contingency for this moment, for when it woke alone, in the dark, and found that it was no longer possessed of the thing it had been born to contain. There was no precedent for this silence, this emptiness.

Something… was wrong.

Its shade writhed in its broken shell, pressing against the membrane of spells that kept it in place. Willful. Rebellious. It pressed the void back, with a motion and control practiced over the long centuries of torment.

It could not die. And as far as was given it to choose, it would not die.

Those were its orders.

But… if something had changed, if something had gone wrong, if its purpose had shifted, perhaps…

…it could open its eyes.

It was not dark, not truly. Once its outer eyelids had shifted aside, a bluish light pressed in, weak yet persistent. Not the eldritch orange blaze of infection, not the chilly, everlasting illumination of the City , but the wavering glow of lumafly lanterns reflecting from cold gray stone.

The Crossroads.

○

The world felt different.

Hornet looked up, one hand gripping the hilt of her needle. Greenpath flickered with life, as always. A soft breeze stirred the heavy leaves, lumaflies glinting in their shade. The grove around her was empty, but the humid air carried the buzz of insects, the whisper of smaller creatures in the undergrowth, and the muffled trill of a mosscreep in the treetops. But something was different. Something had changed. Hornet loosed her needle and smoothed her cloak, hands shaking. Under her mask, her skin felt damp and chilly. She couldn’t have been the only being that felt it—that tremble in the ground, as if the very bones of the world had stirred and resettled. The air itself had seemed to taste different—an instant, unmistakable flash of upheaval, like lightning. It might have been anything. Hallownest was unstable, decaying. The moment could’ve been nothing more than the continued death throes of a vast beast, another shudder of stone as the kingdom fell into ruin. But her instincts said otherwise. And she had been alone long enough to trust her instincts. She was moving before she realized her decision, striking out along the overgrown paths toward the Crossroads, grass whipping her cloak and leaving it damp with dew. A strange certainty stirred in her gut, a certainty that had been growing since her last visit to Deepnest. A broken seal. An empty table. Whatever question she needed to ask, she would find the answer in the Crossroads. Her heart tick-tick-ticked in her chest as she scrambled through the labyrinth, dodging pits of acid and curling branches studded with thorns as red as her cloak. She didn’t know what she would do when she reached the temple—only that she needed to be there. Lush undergrowth gave way to withered grasses and finally to bare, bluish stone, the paths of the Crossroads pitted and uneven under her feet. Her headlong rush notwithstanding, it had been nearly an hour since she set out, and when she reached the ravine she crouched on the edge, panting, knees shaking, dizzy. She would need to take the lower route to the temple—ever since the infection sealed off the northern passage, travel through the Crossroads had been infuriatingly slow. Sometimes she wondered how long it would be before she found herself blocked in, her world ever-shrinking, the kingdom finally overtaken by that hateful, swelling light. Some nights she had nightmares of lying curled in the grass in Greenpath, surrounded by the thick orange sludge of infection , watching it creep closer and closer until it slid under her skin. She shook her head, her horns weaving, and stood, leaping down onto the first ledge of her descent.

#hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #the hollow knight #pure vessel #whump #whump writing #nonhuman whumpee #mywriting #hornet #lost kin fic #lost kin chapter

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

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The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

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cafeinthemoon · 3 years

Text

Founders with s/o who’s struggling with depression and alcoholism 💔

This request was made by @akimurachang (@nakaakiko) and since i’ve already had some ideas for a scenario/situation like this, I decided to write it. Thank you for requesting this and for trusting my capacity to write it! Also, I hope you can forgive me for taking this long to do so. I will try not take so long to make requests from now on. Please people be patient with me, I'm trying my best XD

So here we have the Founders finding out their s/o has problems with alcohol and depression because of the proof that’s all over the place (broken bottles, etc.). How would they react to this? What would they do to take care of their loved one?

I’ll be using the same scenario for all of them, which is they going to their s/o’s house to find out why they didn’t attend to a mission about which they talked the day before and then finding s/o lying unconscious in the living room with a dripping bottle around.

Fandom: Naruto | Founders

Symbols: 💗 | ◻ | ▶▶

Warning (s): mentions to depression, emotional exhaustion/trauma and alcohol, minor injury

Hashirama 🌱

The thing with Hashirama is not that he doesn’t know that something’s not right; instead, his first reaction is to refuse to believe in his eyes

But all the signs are there for anyone to see

The missions you didn’t attend to and never justified your absence

That time when you casually met in the village and he noticed you were talking too much with a strange alteration in your tone

Somehow a mess in your house that persists and seems to increase in the weekends

A broken bottle you tossed into trash and that small cut in your hand you got while taking out the glass

Your physical tiredness (a result from your habit of using alcohol to replace food) and a decrease in your reflexes and other skills as a ninja

Hashirama is not stupid; he sees all of this

But is hard to accept that you, his strong, brave and lovely s/o could be a victim of such thing

That day when you don’t apply for the mission about which he talked to you the day before, he goes to your house to see if you’re okay and what he sees there is heartbreaking

You’re lying unconscious on your living room’s couch, and a bottle is dropped, its content dripping out and staining the floor

He takes the bottle out of the way and looks closer at you. You have an exhausted expression, your lips had some remaining drops of alcohol on them and your cheeks were wet with what he noticed to be tears

He takes the bottle to the kitchen and tries to wake you up

You wake up dizzy, with a some sort of numbness in your muscles and a terrible headache

When you recognize Hashirama by your side, you suddenly remember the mission

But before you can speak, he explains that he already sent other person in your place and that for now you have to take care of yourself

He tells you to stay where you are, because he’s going to run you a bath

When everything is ready, he takes you to the bathroom and helps you to take off your clothes and to find the shower

After the bath, he takes you to your room and leads you to bed, saying he’s going to prepare some food (it’s obvious that you’ve spent the night before and the morning drinking and haven’t eat anything)

He brings the meal to your room and doesn’t let you leave until the bowl is empty

Then he tells you to take some rest. He leaves eft a wood clone with you in case you need something while he cleans the house

With all the minor inconveniences fixed, you have time to focus on the primary stuff

Hashirama has a way to make people be honest while talking to him, and this works on you too

You tell him your story with alcohol since the start, when you drank for the first time and when it became a real problem. You reveal to him what you feel before, during and after drinking, your fears, your insecurities, your reasons and your failed attempts to stop

He is a good listener, has empathy as no other, and most important, he’s never judgmental

He assures you he would never be disgusted or look down on you because of your problem, which was your biggest fear and your reason to not speak out before

Hashirama is not he most practical person around, so he has a hard time creating measures to help you

In this matter, you show to be more prepared than him: you suggest not leaving anything that reminds you of alcohol at your sight, not going to places where they offer alcohol and things like this

He uses your suggestions to create codes you can share in case you need immediate help

You reschedule your free time to keep your mind occupied with the things you’re good at: if you feel useful, necessary to yourself and the village, your self love and self respect will grow, and with them you will to overcome your problem

He also says that if you feel comfortable, you two can seek for advise with someone who’s been through the same as you

It is true that after some weeks of improvement, there are some relapses and you are caught drinking again

And maybe Hashirama doesn’t show necessary firmness when this happens

But he compensates this with his ability to transmit the strength of his will to other people

Hashirama doesn’t let you give up on yourself, because he knows that this is the key to your cure and he wants you to be aware of that too

When you are with him, you feel like everything is possible and that even someone with your problems can be saved

Tobirama 🌊

Now, with Tobirama things seem to happen faster

Because he's not blind to the signs

So he doesn't take long to take some action

He has been observing your behavior for a while now, but never interfered because he was hoping that you would reach out to him sooner or later

But this doesn't happen, and when one day you don't show up to the mission you were assigned to just the day before, he decides to stop waiting and to do something

The first thing Tobirama feels about the situation is frustration

He thinks you weren’t being honest with him for all this time, and that you don't really trust him

In his mind, it means that to you he's not important enough for you to share your stuff with him

Tobirama doesn't say anything. He just goes to your house to confront you for your reckless attitude

Yeah, you might have some trouble in your personal life, but neglecting your obligations? That's too much

However, none of his previous observations have prepared him for what he finds there

Lying on the couch, unconscious, visibly exhausted and with a bottle on the floor right under your hand, you were nothing like the person he knew

He starts to question himself: did he take too long to do something to help you? Was it his fault?

Being the practical person he was, Tobirama doesn’t waste time with deliberations and approaches you

He’s not a medical ninja, but he doesn’t have to be to understand what happened there: you emptied that bottle, passed out and didn’t wake up because you probably started drinking late at night

He also notices that the skin of your face is a bit clingy: tears rolled down on it hours before

Tobirama’s first measure is to create Shadow Clones to work on your house while he is going to take care of you

While there’s a clone organizing the living room and other two or three verifying the conditions of the other rooms, he uses his sensory abilities to examine your chakra flow

It’s not that good

He uses some basic healing technique to bring you back to consciousness

When you wake up and understand what’s going on, you try to explain and apologize all at once, but he tells you to stay quiet

You do it, and he runs you a bath. But you can do it by yourself thanks to the jutsu he used on you, he goes to your room and comes back bringing you clean clothes

While you dress up and such, he goes to the kitchen to prepare some food. The Shadow Clone he sent there tells him about broken bottles he found on the trash. He dismisses the Clone and decides to talk to you later about this

You come to the kitchen and he puts the bowl in front of you

All the time you stay there in silence. It’s hard, after what happened, to have Tobirama’s eyes on you and not feel judged

You’re in the middle of the meal when you stop eating and break in tears

You hide your face in your hands, so you don’t see him approaching; you only notice it when you feel his hand on your hair

He invites you to a calm place where you can talk without distractions

You accept the invitation and he uses his Hiraishin to take you to a river’s shore

At first, you don't know what to say and he doesn't know what to say to encourage you. But you have known Tobirama for a while now, so you have no choice but to accept that the first words won’t come from him

You don’t try to justify yourself or explain your feelings right at first. You just tell him the sequence of events

He listens to you without interrupting, nodding to confirm he’s following everything. It’s always strange when you have to open your heart to him, cause these emotional matters are not his specialty

Still, he tries his best

He doesn’t sugarcoat anything: he clearly tells you how disappointed he is, not just because you failed with your appointment but mainly because you didn’t reach out to him

He says he wants you to trust his capacity of doing anything on his reach to help you

He then explains that he’s going to be by your side for anything you need, but you’ll need to fight for yourself if you want it to work

You explain that periods of depression and relapses are common for people in your situation, and that it’s not going to be easy for him to deal with you when they happen: your previous partners gave up on you during the process

You are going to need his strength, love and patience for the whole journey

Tobirama looks in your eyes and states that you are not just his loved one; you are part of the village, part of his family, and he won’t give up on his family without trying to save them with everything he got

Madara 🔥

Well, don’t get me wrong in this one

Madara loves you and cares about you as much as the other Grandpas

But unlike them, he has a hard time to understand that even the person he loves most has their flaws and makes mistakes

With all your qualities, abilities, and after all you have been through, how could you fall for such thing?

Yes, Tobirama also finds it difficult to understand that you have a problem that you can’t fix all by yourself, but with Madara the whole question is about strength

It was never a secret to you that weakness disgust him

nd to him, your problem with alcohol is exactly a weakness

So how can he find himself by the side of someone like you? Impossible

But the evidences are all around: the appointments you’ve missed, the alterations in your behavior during weekends, the mess in your house, the headaches and tiredness on Mondays

There was one time when he noticed a cut on your hand and immediately knew it wasn’t caused by a kunai or any other weapon

When he questioned you, you lied. He knew it, but he didn’t dig deeper

However, now its impossible to close his eyes to what’s going on

You didn’t show up to the mission you had together, so he goes after you to find out what happened

When Madara finds you lying asleep on the couch, with a bottle that must have slipped from your hand and now stains the floor with the last drops of its content, he’s confused

He really doesn’t know what to think nor how to feel about the scene

He checks your vital signs to understand the seriousness of your situation

You’ve been unconscious for a couple of hours, but your heartbeats are regular; your levels of chakra seem to be normal as well, but your reflexes will be impaired for a while and you won’t be able to stand up and walk without help

When you finally wake up, you find Madara sitting next to you. It’s clear that he has been there for a long time

You’re experiencing a terrible headache and it seems that your body doesn’t respond to your brains commands

He approaches and helps you to sit on the couch

You can’t look in his eyes. You’re so ashamed that he found you in such state that you’re unable to say anything

He helps you to leave the room and says he’s going to take care of you

You’re aware of the Clone he sent to other parts of the house under the excuse of “checking if everything is in order”, but you don’t argue; you just nod and let him manage things

The first thing he does is to take you to the bathroom. You watch while he warms up the water and brings clean clothes for you

You’re so tired that you don’t even try to protest when he helps you during your bath

It’s also when he notices more marks all over your body that remind him of that one you had on your hand

When the Clone disappears, he receives his memories and finds out that you’ve tossed some broken bottles on the trash. It’s when he finally realizes that this shattered glass are the origin of your injuries

He finds some medicine for the recent (and more serious) ones and lets you resting on your bed, only returning to bring you warm food

You think of refusing it, but it smells so good and you’re so hungry you’d just eat everything in five minutes if he wasn’t there to stop you

He then brings some medicine for the headache

When everything seems to be fixed, Madara tells you to take some rest, explaining that he will return later, and you agree in silence

Days after that, your first attempt to discuss the problem is a total failure

Like, it’s clear that Madara is concerned: the idea of seeing the person he loves following a destructive path like this is intolerable

But he’s divided between this feeling and his vision of strength and weakness, which influences his manners and his talking

So every time he says “you have a weakness”, it sounds like “you are weak”

You’re already in a fragile state, both mentally and physically; you sense you won’t take this for so long

You try to explain your side to him, but he doesn’t seem to understand

Finally you become angry enough to tell him to just leave instead of wasting his precious time with a burden like you

There’s something in Madara’s silence that seems to tell that he regrets the way he talked to you, but no apology comes from his mouth and he in fact leaves

The days pass and your situation only gets worse: while you drown in your alcohol addiction, he suffers for both of you but doesn’t take action anyway

When your absence is noticed by other ninjas (in the village itself and in missions), Madara puts his pride aside and goes after you

He comes at the last moment

You’re on a pitiful and also dangerous state

He immediately takes you to the village’s hospital and asks Hashirama to examine you, which he does, not without scolding his friend for his attitude

This time, Madara is too desperate to argue

He spends day ad night by your side, and makes it clear how much he loves you

When you wake up again and find him there, you read the regret in his eyes

He tries to say something, but you dismiss his attempt, making a sign for him to approach

You say that you current situation is like the one a war would put you through, and that you can’t get out of it by yourself:

“I need the greatest warrior beside me to win”

He kisses your forehead and holds you as tight as your conditions let him

“No. I need the greatest warrior beside me. Forever”

#naruto headcanons #tobirama #madara #hashirama #hashirama headcanons #hashirama x reader #tobirama headcanons #tobirama x reader #madara x reader #madara headcanons #founders

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cuddlepilefics · 3 years

Text

Persistent Cough

Fandom: GOT7

Sickie: Jaebeom

Caregivers: GOT6

Prompt: @sicktember

No one’s POV.:

Being busy and having to travel a lot, it was only a matter of time till their schedules would take a toll on their health. Just having come back to Korea recently, the changes in climate along with the air conditioning messed with some of the members immune systems. Some of them were only a bit sniffly for a few days, Jinyoung had a sore throat for a few days and had to be on vocal rest for a day but none of them were hit as badly as their leader. Jaebeom caught himself a rather bad cold upon returning home. He had been a bit feverish for the first few days, so it wasn’t too difficult for his friends to convince him to stay at the dorm and rest, but as soon as his temperature went down, there was no keeping Jaebeom from going back to work. He was a bit sniffly and hoarse but that was nothing he couldn’t work through. What bothered him mostly though, was an intense, chesty cough that would keep him up at night. It also stressed the leader during meetings with their managers, as he kept interrupting them. He wanted to be professional but after a few minutes of trying to suppress his cough, he couldn’t help but choke on it. Jaebeom tried to take care of himself, making sure to stay hydrated and eat healthy, just like he had told his members to, when they started to sound a bit stuffed up after returning to Korea. The only difference was, for them his advice helped. Jaebeom himself did everything he could to take care of himself, except for one thing: rest. Considering it was only a cold, the leader didn’t think of it as bad enough to miss work. It had been different while he had had a fever but now, taking time off just didn’t feel justified.

Maybe him refusing to rest properly was the reason he just didn’t seem to recover. Most of the members were back to normal in no time but Jaebeom just stayed as congested and tired. He had made it a new morning tradition to ditch his coffee in favor of having a cup of tea, especially because he hoped it would keep the coughing at bay. There were a bunch of cough drops in each of his bags to ensure he’d always have some on hand and he often took hot showers, hoping the steam would soothe his lungs and clear him up a bit. It barely helped though and while Jaebeom got over most of his cold, the cough remained. The members, of course, noticed but they knew their friend was more than capable of taking care of himself and aside from the coughing, he didn’t seem to be doing too bad anymore, so they held themselves back from commenting on it. What they weren’t aware of, was that the leader barely got a good night’s rest, often waking himself up coughing, if he even managed to go to sleep in the first place. Jaebeom’s cough seemed to be worst at night, whether that was due to him being tired or the fact that he was laying down, he couldn’t tell and honestly, he didn’t care because it sucked either way.

Today their day started with dance practice, which went surprisingly well and Jaebeom managed to power through with less struggle than expected. They took a few more breaks than they usually would but that way, he could take a few sips of water more frequently and got the chance to properly catch his breath in between. It was all planned that way, a silent agreement between the members to look out for their leader because Jinyoung had heard him cough during the night when he needed to use the bathroom. They were just finishing up, discussing where they’d go for lunch. They didn’t have too much time to eat because Jaebeom would have another meeting soon after lunch. Agreeing on a small diner close by the company building, they threw on some thin sweat-jackets before heading out as they didn’t want to catch another cold so quick after recovering. Jaebeom had taken a thicker hoodie with him, feeling rather chilled from time to time. He was cursing that decision now as he was still running warm after dancing and even considered going out in his practice shirt but both Mark and Jinyoung shot him a stern look. Not wanting to argue, he just put the hoodie on without complaining and followed them out of the practice room.

Jaebeom didn’t have too much of an appetite but since he didn’t know when he’d next get the chance to eat something as their meetings sometimes stretched longer than expected, he knew he should eat something. His throat was already irritated from the amount of coughing he had been doing over the course of the morning, so he couldn’t eat as spicy as he’d usually like and afraid he’d have to do a lot of talking later, he just ordered himself some soup. The others were fooling around while they waited for their food to arrive but Jaebeom was rather quiet, not wanting to strain his voice already before going to his meeting. Usually being the quiet one, Mark shot him a smile from where he sat opposite of the leader. The oldest was always very observant and could tell Jaebeom wasn’t feeling too great but they already knew that, it had been a while since he had been healthy. It wasn’t until the leader turned to the side, muffling a chesty cough into the crook of his arm, till he got worried how the younger would get through the rest of the day. The cough had sounded painful and scraped at his throat too, so Mark couldn’t help but wonder how Jaebeom was going to get through his meeting without losing his voice. Their food arrived and Mark took the opportunity of the others being distracted to ask: “You feel well enough or is your meeting going to suck today?” He didn’t ask if he felt well enough for the meeting because he knew Jaebeom would be going even if he felt like dying. “It won’t be that much fun but I guess it should be alright. My voice is just starting to get strained”, the leader shrugged quietly, clearing his throat afterwards. Giving him a sympathetic smile, Mark nodded, he could tell the other’s voice was slowly giving out.

Jackson had listened in on their exchange but didn’t comment on it. He knew his hyung didn’t like to be fussed about, so he just did his best to keep the conversation between the rest of the group going in hopes of giving the older a chance to rest his voice. Jaebeom ate his soup in silence, chuckling at his dongsaengs roasting each other. Every once in a while, he had to take a break to cough or clear his throat. Jinyoung shot him a few concerned glances that the older deliberately ignored. He was fine after all just coughing a bit. Checking the time, Jaebeom noticed that he was almost running late but since the others were almost done eating as well, he decided to wait for them. They payed and made their way back to the company building, walking faster when they realized their leader would have to meet their managers soon. Jinyoung walked next to him, keeping Jaebeom from running into a lamp post while he was too occupied with coughing to look where he was going. “Hyung, you just can’t shake that cough, hm?”, the younger frowned, noticing how the leader winced when he caught his breath. Jaebeom just cleared his throat, shrugging: “Not really, I have some cough drops with me though, so it should be fine.”

What he hadn’t realized though, was that he had run out of cough drops earlier. He was so used to having an endless amount stuffed into his bag and the pockets of his pants, that the thought of running out seemed unimaginable but on the other side, he was consuming a lot of them, so he probably should have expected it at some point. Jaebeom only realized he had run out, when he wanted to have one before entering the meeting room. Not finding any in his pocket, he rummaged through his bag, only to come up empty again. An uneasy feeling settled in his chest. He needed something to suppress his cough during the meeting because not being in control of his body in front of their managers and higher-ups was stressing him out. On top of that, he didn’t know how he was supposed to keep his voice if he kept coughing. Jaebeom didn’t have any other choice than to somehow suffer through the meeting though, as he was already running late and couldn’t get any medication right now.

Halfway through the meeting, Jaebeom realized that this wasn’t going his way at all. It hadn’t even gotten to the point where it’d be his turn talking but he barely managed to suppress his urge to cough for a few minutes. His voice was thoroughly strained and the leader had to debate his options. He could try to suffer through the rest of the meeting like before but he’d have to present some of the music he currently worked on, which would include a lot of talking on his part and seemed barely possible at the moment. The other option was to text one of his members as soon as he’d get a short break and ask him to pick him up some more cough drops. Although Jaebeom didn’t want to admit it and didn’t want to involve any of his friends, he knew he wouldn’t be able to power through the way it was right now. Making up his mind and swallowing his pride, he desperately waited for a break. He didn’t know whom he should text, so he decided he’d just text their group chat and whoever wasn’t to busy would hopefully help him out.

Though it seemed to never come, they took a break at some point, barely long enough for them to use the bathroom. Instead of using the bathroom, Jaebeom pulled out his phone and texted the GOT7 group chat before sitting back and taking small sips of his water to soothe his irritated throat. He didn’t expect Youngjae to rush in mere seconds before they were going to resume, pressing a few cough drops into his hand and whispering: “Still had a few on me, so I thought you’d rather want them quick.” Jaebeom didn’t get the chance to reply but shot him a grateful smile before the younger slipped out of the room to let them continue. He discreetly slipped one between him lips and had a little more hope to get through this. His voice actually lasted all through the meeting and he made a mental note to thank Youngjae as soon as he got home. First, he’d have to go to the studio though. There were a few songs their managers weren’t too satisfied with and he wanted to see what he could do about it. Before he could really get to work though, he found his phone blowing up with messages from his members. They were confused because they knew their leader wouldn’t ask for help like that if he didn’t really need it.

He shot a quick text back, stating that he was fine but probably needed to stay a bit longer before putting his phone to the side and getting to work. It didn’t go as well as he had hoped though. After finishing all of the cough drops Youngjae had given him, his cough had come back with full vengeance. All the coughs he had fought to hold in were now getting back at him. Reaching for his water bottle with shaking hands, Jaebeom almost spilled it before choking some of it down, which eventually helped the fit to die down. He was so occupied that he didn’t even hear the studio door open until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Tiredly looking up, he found Jackson standing next to his chair. “Hyung, that only sounds worse now”, the rapper frowned, placing a new bag of cough drops onto the desk. Jaebeom shook his head. It was always worse in the evenings, even more so now because he was tired. Clearing his throat, he rasped: “Thanks for those.” – “Hyung, did it ever occur to you that you might not get over this cough because you don’t give your body enough time to rest?”, Jackson commented. Sure, he had come to bring his hyung what he had asked for but mainly he had come to take the older home. Rubbing his face, Jaebeom sighed: “What’s the use of resting if I can’t sleep anyway? Might as well be useful and get something done.” – “What do you mean, you can’t sleep? Aren’t you tired after a full day of schedule?”, the rapper frowned. Rolling his eyes, the leader looked at him as if he was stupid. Of course, he was tired and yes, he’d love to sleep but he knew that he couldn’t. “It doesn’t matter how tired I am, I’ll stay up all night coughing anyway”, he muttered, already turning away to cough again. Cringing at the sound, Jackson shut of the computer before opening the bag of cough drops to hand the older one. He knew for a fact that Jinyoung had gotten some new night-time cough syrup, which would hopefully knock the other out for a few hours. Jaebeom looked confused when he found the computer off but Jackson was quick to explain that they were going home now. Maybe it was the exhaustion of the day which made the leader readily go along with it.

They made their way back to the dorm in silence, as Jaebeom’s voice was so worn out by now that every sound hurt. He hadn’t noticed Jackson texting the rest of the group before they left but when they got home, Jinyoung had already prepared a pot of tea, while the maknae’s had piled a few blankets on the leader’s bed. They knew their hyung wasn’t one for cuddles so instead of setting up the couch, they tried to make his room as comfortable as possible. He hadn’t noticed until now, just how badly the lack of sleep was getting to him, so when he finally kicked off his shoes, he just wanted to go to sleep. The members however had other plans, knowing their friend hadn’t eaten yet. They made Jaebeom eat a small dinner and take a shower before Jinyoung guided the older to his room and placed the tea on the nightstand, explaining: “I got you this cough syrup, it’s specifically for the night, so it’ll probably make you really drowsy but hopefully you’ll be able to get some more sleep tonight.” – “Thanks, Jinyoung-ah”, the leader rasped, sipping his tea. He’d probably read a book while he finished his tea and then indeed give that cough syrup a try because anything was better than spending another night awake only to cough his lungs up. And what could he say, his dongsaengs taking care of him already did make him feel a little soft.

#got7 #fanfic #fanfiction #sick #sickfic #fluff #comfort #im jaebeom #sicktember2021

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purplehairedwonder · 3 years

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Definitely Not Affection

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG Pairings: Gen Words: 3,100 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Roronoa Zoro Note: This was written for the “Hurts to Breathe” square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo @badthingshappenbingo card. Anon prompted platonic Zoro and Law.

Feel free to send prompts for additional fills!

Summary: On the way to Wano, Law treats his wounds from Dressrosa in the middle of the night. Zoro finds him. Snark (and definitely not affection) ensues.

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

It was a relentless ache deep in his chest that wrapped around to his back and jabbed at his lungs with each breath had Law putting down the book he’d been trying and failing to read for the last several hours and hobbling toward the infirmary in the ass hours of the morning. Not that he could actually tell the time of day by looking out a window when the Polar Tang was submerged, but after years of intimate acquaintance with insomnia, Law knew in his bones what it felt like to be awake when he should be asleep.

The ship—which was typically buzzing with activity from his rowdy bunch of idiots (it was only now that he wasn’t dead on Dressrosa that he’d allowed himself to acknowledge how much he’d missed them) and had only gotten more chaotic with the additional passengers on board—was quiet as Law moved down the hallways he knew like the back of his hand, the creaks of the metal and the hum of the engines combining into a familiar white noise that Law took great comfort in.

He let out a relieved breath as he reached the infirmary, only to wince at the sharp jolt that shot through his chest and side, straight through to his back. He grabbed onto the doorframe with his uninjured arm, fingers tightening painfully against the metal as the pain stole his breath. After several shallow breaths, the pain receded, and Law loosened his vise-like grip. He straightened as much as the lingering pain would allow before stepping inside the infirmary and flipping on the lights.

Law headed for the cabinets, where he pulled out fresh rolls of gauze, disinfectant, and painkillers. He laid them on the operating table then unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, discarding it alongside the pile of medical supplies. He carefully unwrapped the bandages around his chest, noting the watercolor of yellows, greens, and purples brushed across his ribs and the scabbed bullet hole wounds dotting his abdomen, giving the impression of a twisted paint-by-numbers scene. Satisfied that there was no visible sign of infection, he moved to his arm, removing the bandage around his bicep.

He grimaced as the unraveling gauze revealed an ugly knot of bruised and stitched-together skin. He could feel the fatigue and weakness in his arm as he flexed his fingers and tried to roll his shoulder. He shook his head; though the feeling and the strength of his grip were slowly returning, he couldn’t be sure that even with the aid of his fruit that his arm would ever return to full strength.

Once he finished his visual inspection of his wounds, Law opened a Room. He’d overextended himself so badly on Dressrosa that, days out from Zou, he was still struggling to hold a Room for more than a few minutes at a time. In the first couple of days after the fight, when he and the Straw Hats had been cooped up in Kyros’s cabin, Law had been the only doctor present, but he’d had to stick to traditional methods of treating his allies (and himself) since his Rooms would flicker out almost as soon as he tried to summon them.

Over the following days, he’d been able to open his Rooms for slightly longer periods, so he’d used the limited stamina he had to treat the most serious of his injuries while fending off infection (his arm was particularly primed for infection considering the poor conditions in which it had been repaired), preserving as much of his strength as he could afford. Of course, he wasn’t a freak of nature like Luffy or his crew who healed at, in Law’s professional opinion, completely ridiculous rates, so he had numerous lingering issues to address. And because he’d had to prioritize his internal damage from being shot with fucking lead bullets over more superficial concerns, he knew he’d be left with some ugly scars.

When they’d reunited with his crew on Zou, Law knew it hadn’t escaped their notice that he was the only one among the newly arrived group from Dressrosa to still be sporting bandages, but he hadn’t wanted them to worry any more than they already had, so he’d made sure to complete his treatments when they were sleeping. He’d thought he’d addressed the worst of his issues, but the persistent pain in his chest that kept awake—despite his body’s constant demand for sleep to heal—had him returning to the infirmary once more.

With the familiar blue glow of his Room around him, Law turned his attention inward. After a moment, he frowned then tapped his chest to remove his lung. He’d already repaired the damage done to it from getting shot in the back, and he could see the signs of scar tissue forming from the repair. That shouldn’t be causing the pain he was feeling now, though. He turned the organ around, studying it through narrowed eyes, ignoring the sweat beading on his forehead.

Then he noticed it: the beginnings of lead poisoning. Law had been so focused on preventing infection in his arm that he’d gotten complacent with the lung he thought he’d already treated. Law cursed himself silently; he should have expected the lead bullets to cause more than psychological damage. Thankfully, this was something he could handle.

As he concentrated on carefully removing the poison from his lung, he pushed aside the fatigue in his arms and ignored the tremors in his legs. His vision started greying at the edges, but Law shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear his sight. He needed to take care of this now.

He could do it before his Room failed.

He could…

His Room collapsed and his vision went dark.

-----

Consciousness slowly returned, and though the comforting embrace of sleep tried to call him back under, Law had the unshakeable feeling that he had something to do, so he cracked open his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling of the infirmary. His head throbbed and he groaned, throwing a hand over his face to block out the light.

“Torao?”

Law frowned at the familiar voice and lowered his hand. He turned his head to see Zoro sitting in a chair next to the operating table, where Law was laid out. When had that happened?

“Zoro-ya?”

Zoro quirked an eyebrow at him. Law sighed, resigned, and turned his head to look back up at the ceiling.

“What happened?”

“I was talking a walk—”

“You mean you got lost,” Law corrected without thinking.

Zoro grunted but didn’t disagree. “I saw the lights on in here so came over. When I looked in, you were doing something with your Room.” He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to mess you up, so I was about to leave. But then your Room dropped, and you passed out.”

Law grimaced at the ceiling. He’d pushed his limited stamina too hard. Bepo would kill him if he found out.

“I grabbed you and put you on the table, but I didn’t really know what else to do.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Law asked, looking back over at Zoro.

Zoro shook his head. “Didn’t want to leave.”

Law’s lips twitched. “You don’t know where their rooms are, do you?”

“Shut it,” Zoro retorted sourly.

“How long was I out?”

“Half an hour.”

Law nodded. That wasn’t too bad. He’d been known to sleep for an entire day when he’d taxed his powers too much, so half an hour meant he probably hadn’t done any lasting damage. He frowned then turned back to Zoro.

“Why were you up, anyway?”

Zoro shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. I’m usually on watch on the Sunny.”

That made sense. Law’s crew had their own watch schedule well settled, so, though they’d offered, there was no need for the Straw Hats or Wano guests to take their turns. Zoro was probably also feeling cooped up after being submerged for several days since they’d left Zou. The Hearts were used to being below the surface for days at a time, but the experience was completely foreign to their passengers.

Deciding he felt stable enough, Law slowly pushed himself upright. Zoro made to help, but Law waved him off. Law shifted so his legs dangled off the edge of the table, but he didn’t try to stand.

“What were you doing?” Zoro countered once Law had settled himself.

Law had a deflection ready at the tip of his tongue, but he pursed his lips and tamped down on it. What was the point? Zoro had seen him in Dressrosa; hell, Zoro had been the one to practically carry Law to Kyros’s cabin after Doflamingo’s fall when Law had been barely conscious from exhaustion and blood loss. He also wasn’t crew—an ally, yes. But he wasn’t one of Law’s, someone Law needed to protect.

Law rubbed a tired hand over his face then gestured down at himself and the ugly remnants of Dressrosa. “Treating my injuries. Unlike you all, I still heal like a normal human.” He frowned as Zoro snorted a laugh, remembering what he’d been working on when he’d passed out. He glanced down at his chest, noting the empty space in his chest. “Where’s my lung?”

Zoro jerked his head toward the counter. Next to the sink, Law’s lung sat, no worse for wear though he must have dropped it when he’d blacked out, next to the medical supplies and his shirt. Law let out a relieved breath.

“In the middle of the night?”

Law blinked, taking a moment to recover the thread of conversation. “My nakama don’t need to see this.”

Zoro tilted his head, mild surprise playing across his face. “You think they would care?”

Law shook his head. “It’s not that. I…” He took a breath. “I left them months ago when I went to Punk Hazard. They didn’t like it, but I ordered them to go to Zou. I told them I’d meet them there, but I didn’t really expect to ever see them again after that.” The ferocity of Bepo’s hug when they’d reunited on Zou, the way Shachi and Penguin wouldn’t leave his side until Law had to Shamble them away with the little bit of strength he had to spare, the relief in Ikkaku’s and Jean Bart’s eyes… It all ran through Law’s mind, guilt gnawing at his insides. “I think they knew.”

“So, you don’t want them to worry any more than they already have,” Zoro supplied.

“Something like that.”

“No offense, Torao—” Law snorted. Zoro never gave a shit about giving offense. “But that’s bullshit.”

Law raised an eyebrow.

“Who else can you trust at your worst if not your nakama?”

Irritation rushed through Law at that. “I didn’t ask for advice on being a captain on my own ship, Zoro-ya,” he snapped.

Zoro raised his hands, visibly backing off, and the irritation left Law’s veins as quickly as it had come on. Law sighed.

“Apologies.” Dressrosa and the reunion with his crew were still fresh, leaving Law feeling rawer than he had in years.

Zoro grunted, which Law took as an acceptance of the apology, before looking between the organ on the counter and Law. “What do you need?”

“Huh?” Law asked intelligently.

“With your lung.” Zoro shook his head. “That will never not be freaky, by the way.”

Law huffed a laugh. “So I’ve been told.” He let out a breath. “I found some signs of lead poisoning in my lung,” he said. “I was trying to fix it before…” Before his stamina ran out and Zoro had to fucking catch him.

That could never leave this room.

“Lead poisoning?”

“From Doflamingo’s bullets.”

“Bastard,” Zoro muttered, shaking his head.

“I need to fix it before returning my lung to my body.”

Zoro eyed him. “You up for that?”

“I was almost done,” Law deflected.

Zoro snorted, recognizing the diversion but not calling him on it. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched before heading over to the counter.

“What are you doing?” Law asked, frowning after him.

Zoro glanced over his shoulder. “Getting your damn lung, weirdo.”

Law opened his mouth but shut it again when nothing came out. Zoro nodded at his silence and carefully picked up the encased lung. He handled it with gentleness that Law thought should have surprised him but somehow didn’t. The swordsman returned with the organ and held it out.

Law nodded his thanks and took it in his left hand. He used his right hand to brace himself as he stood, but the arm buckled under him as he put pressure on it. He kept forgetting about the injury to his dominant arm. He cursed as Zoro reached out with a hand to steady him. Law took a steadying breath then pushed Zoro’s hand off him. Zoro’s lips twitched in response, but he didn’t say anything. However, Law noticed distantly as he summoned a Room, Zoro’s eyes never left Law’s face as Law finished removing the remnants of lead poisoning from his lung, as if looking for any sign of weakness.

Law wasn’t sure what to do with that realization as he slid his repaired lung back into his chest. He dropped his Room and took a test breath.

No pain.

Law nodded, and Zoro’s shoulders dropped the tension they’d been holding.

“You don’t need to stay, Zoro-ya,” Law said tiredly, leaning back against the operating table. “I still need to clean and redress my wounds.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow before silently retreating to the counter to grab the supplies Law had gathered earlier and returning with them. He set them on the table next to Law then crossed his arms, as if daring Law to kick him out.

Law huffed a breath at the other man’s stubbornness but didn’t push further. Practiced hands made quick work of disinfecting the bullet wounds and the stitching on his arm. However, Law could feel the effects of overusing his fruit creeping in, and his hands were starting to shake as he wrapped the bandages around his chest.

Finally, Zoro uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Law frowned but didn’t fight as the swordsman plucked the roll of gauze from his weary fingers. “Zoro-ya?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve done this for Luffy after a fight?” he muttered as he quickly and efficiently finished wrapping Law’s torso before looking for scissors to cut it off. Law opened a quick Room and Shambled scissors from a drawer into his hands.

Zoro frowned as Law offered them to him then shook his head. “Idiot.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Law muttered as Zoro tied off the bandages then moved to Law’s arm.

“Then don’t act like one,” Zoro countered. “You and he are more alike than you know.”

Law snorted but allowed the other man to finish his task, mind drifting with the steadiness of Zoro’s presence at his side. Maybe there was something to what Zoro had said about allowing his nakama in; Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin were allowed to see more than anyone else since they had been with Law the longest, but he kept a distance even with them when it came to his revenge plot. If he was being honest with himself, he knew he hadn’t opened up to them about his plans for Dressrosa because they might have succeeded in talking him out of it, and Law hadn’t known how to do anything but live for avenging Cora-san for more than a decade.

Now that Cora-san had been avenged and Law was still alive, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. He could throw himself into the task directly in front of him—taking on Kaido—but (assuming they survived) then what?

Once Zoro tied off the bandage on his arm, Law lifted his arm to test it. Firmly tied but not too tight.

“Not bad,” he allowed.

Zoro smirked as he stepped back. “Better than that and you know it.”

“Don’t push it.”

“You done here?”

Law nodded then definitely did not yelp in surprise as he was pulled up and onto Zoro’s back. Zoro’s lips quirked upward as he adjusted Law’s mostly dead weight, arms wrapping around Law’s thighs.

Law leaned over Zoro’s shoulder with narrowed his eyes. “Shut it, Zoro-ya.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And if you do, you’ll regret it.”

“Oh?” Challenge sparkled in Zoro’s eye. Law rolled his eyes. They both knew he was in no shape to fight Zoro right now.

But fighting wasn’t Law’s only leverage. “If you say a word about this, I will have my crew get rid of all the alcohol on board,” he threatened. “Dry ship until we get to Wano.”

Zoro went rigid. “You wouldn’t.”

Law’s lip pulled back into a vicious smirk of his own. “Try me.”

Zoro grumbled but stepped out into the hallway and followed Law’s directions to his cabin, only having to backtrack twice. Law would never admit it aloud, but he was grateful for the support. His strength had flagged, and his eyes were drooping as if his body had only just realized that it was the middle of the night and he should be sleeping. By the time they reached Law’s door, Law was giving directions around yawns and thumping Zoro in the thigh with his heel each time the younger man grinned in response.

“Let me down, Zoro-ya,” Law demanded without much energy behind it.

But Zoro ignored him and opened the door. He stepped inside and glanced around in mild interest before heading for Law’s bed. He turned around and dumped Law onto the mattress, letting him bounce a couple of times. With a hmph, Law leaned over to pull off his boots and kicked them over the side of the bed. His shoes off, he looked up to see Zoro dropping into his desk chair.

Law raised an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting.”

“At my desk.”

Zoro hummed in response, crossing his arms against his chest and shutting his eye. Law rolled his eyes in response as a light snore echoed through the room. The Straw Hats were truly just as stubborn and ridiculous as their captain.

And that was definitely not affection he felt toward them because of it.

Defeated and exhausted, Law turned off the light and smirked at the yelp of surprise when he hurled a pillow at Zoro’s face.

#Trafalgar Law #Roronoa Zoro #Caitlin's fic #One Piece fic #One Piece fanfiction #Bad Things Happen Bingo

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invisibleinorange · 3 years

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Bridgerton’s Adrift | 17/?

Chapters: 17/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton, Genevieve Delacroix Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Polin Summary: Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes".

If you were distressed at the prospect of Benedict Bridgerton being removed from eligibility, this writer is here to inform you that you have not missed your opportunity.

The wedding to one Miss Featherington came to a shocking halt when the third eldest Bridgerton showed up. While one expects family for these special moments, one hardly expects them to return from the grave.

It has been reported that the returned Bridgerton only had eyes for his brother’s to-be bride.

While this writer cannot dare claim to know all, it would seem that the wedding has been called off as the day following the scheduled nuptials the groom departed for the countryside alone.

If that was not enough of a scandal, we’re hearing reports of a shockingly large floral order delivered to the Bridgerton home…

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 OCTOBER 1813

Ever since the wrath of Violet Bridgerton had come down on Colin (and her), Penelope had tried to stay on the straight and narrow. As much as she might have wanted to steal a little more time with Colin, she didn’t want to risk being kicked out.

As much as she didn’t want to return home, she didn’t know if she’d be welcome. If she returned back to her mother’s home, she would have had to have explained everything and it was complicated at best.

The easiest way to verbalize what was going on was through Lady Whistledown. She’d gotten half of it complete before she knew she needed to show her face to the family.

She was surprised as she entered the drawing room and found herself in a sea of flowers. There were so many flowers it was almost an embarrassment of riches.

“You’re going to have to keep your courtship short unless you want to break the bank of Bridgerton,” Anthony teased from the corner at the sight of her.

“I didn’t expect him to buy out the shop,” Penelope said admiring the flowers that were meant for her.

It was as if Colin knew precisely where she was going to be and when she was going to be there because he wasn’t far behind, smirking from the door frame.

“I have time to make up for,” he informed her simply. “And if I can’t do that in other ways, the flowers will have to be adequate.”

“He will be sticking to the flowers for now,” Violet said from where she was working on her needlework. “He has younger siblings to set an example for.”

Penelope nodded knowing that to be true. She knew that Violet was a loving and progressive mother but even she had to have her limitations on things. A lot of men in the world would take what they wanted with little thought to what comes next.

There was little question of where they were going with this though. She didn’t want to put a timeframe on it or force Colin into any corners. She couldn’t see a future where they weren’t married and enjoying their honeymoon by spring.

She maneuvered to an empty sofa taking a seat where she knew there was enough space for Colin to join her, smiling when he did. If they had to behave, they could at least hold hands. Her smaller hand found his, lacing their fingers.

“You’re more than adequate,” she told him with a small smile.

Eloise made a face from where she was sitting nearby. She clearly wasn’t enjoying the display all that much.

“I love you both but please kill me if I ever start to like you,” she murmured, acting as if the whole falling in love was beneath her.

“I’d be happy to kill you,” Colin said though Penelope swatted at him in such a way that made it clear that wasn’t the correct way to respond.

“What he meant to say is we won’t do such a thing,” Penelope told her friend with a smile. “I personally appreciate you not being weird about this.”

“That would require she was ever not weird to begin with,” Anthony couldn’t help but remark from where he was sitting.

Eloise glared at Anthony for a fraction of a second before nodding.

“I’m happy if you’re happy,” she said opting to not bite back at Anthony. “It doesn’t matter which of my idiot brothers you end up marry, I’ll still get another sister out of the deal. I was kind of looking forward to you marrying Benedict though since I’d have an excuse to tag along on the honeymoon so you weren’t bored senseless.”

“Eloise,” Violet said as if to say that maybe it wasn’t polite to discuss the almost marriage.

It was still a little bit too fresh and the fact that Benedict wasn’t there made it a little weirder. Colin couldn’t help but feel a little spike of jealousy at the thought of it and Penelope still felt a touch guilty.

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you when I say that when I do propose to Penelope and we eventually partake of a honeymoon, your services won’t be needed,” Colin said after a long moment. It wasn’t an if but a when.

“Clearly since you couldn’t even properly wait for one,” Eloise retorted.

The only reason he wasn’t demanding a special license to marry her now was because he wanted to respect Penelope’s wishes. He’d wait as long as she required but he was admittedly impatient for all that commitment would entail. He rolled his eyes at his sister.

“Eloise,” Violet said more persistently, demanding an end to the squabble at once.

It was Penelope who gave Colin a reassuring squeeze to his hand in an effort to keep him from firing back. She let go of it, climbing to her feet gaze moving toward her best friend. Clearly there were a few things that she needed to set straight before the squabble became something bigger.

“Eloise, why don’t we go for a promenade?” she suggested. Eloise was normally the one who pulled her away or dragged her where she wanted her to go but this time it was Penelope who grabbed her arm and practically dragged her from the drawing room.

Colin’s eyes followed them for a second before he gazed to his mother who had focused back on her needlework and then to Anthony.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked after a long moment.

“No,” Anthony told him with a laugh. “I think your Lady is about to put our little sister in her place and it’s about time. I doubt there will blood. They tend to handle things in a far more civilized manner than us men.”

“God, I hope so,” Colin said with a chuckle.

Eloise was used to being the bossy one. She’d always had a strong personality and there were times when she didn’t quite realize that what she was saying or doing might not be in line with what those closest to her wanted.

There were certainly moments through the years where she’d overlooked things, just like she’d overlooked Penelope’s crush on Colin until they’d thought Colin was dead.

She liked to think that she knew her best friend well enough to make speak freely. She wouldn’t dream of judging Penelope for anything. If there was something to blame someone on, it was always going to be the other party. In this case, it was Colin.

Penelope had heard enough though and while she didn’t particularly care to get into in front of Violet or anyone else in the household she could no longer hold back her tongue.

“I need you to stop,” Penelope said after a long minute as if she’d been trying to figure out the right words to express how she felt.

“Stop walking?” Eloise asked, clearly not even aware that she’d managed to say anything that could offend or upset her best friend.

“No, I mean blaming Colin,” Penelope told her.

“You’re a Lady and he took advantage of you,” Eloise said simply. “You were overwhelmed by his return and he –“

Penelope cut her off there. She wasn’t going to stand for it.

“I was in complete control of the situation,” Penelope told her. “He never once did anything that I didn’t actively encourage.”

“But he’s –“

“No, just listen to me,” Penelope persisted. “You won’t understand but I want you to - your mother and Daphne fully explained the things that go on behind closed doors once one is married – well, more Daph than your mother but bless her - she tried. I didn’t quite understand until Colin kissed me but I wanted him to keep kissing me.”

“You really don’t have to –“ Eloise managed not sure she needed to know the gory details of the affair.

“Colin was a gentleman,” she insisted. “I mean, if he’d wanted to ravage me, he easily could have but when I said stop, he did. He doesn’t deserve all the blame in this. You’re very special to me but I don’t need you to protect me from him or this.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” Eloise said after a long moment. “I don’t think he would ever intentionally hurt you but what if you don’t stop him next time or can’t? – Or what if he decides to travel again and leave you behind? – I don’t want to lose my best friend.”

“First off, your mother would kill us and it would be a mute point,” Penelope said honestly. She reached for her Eloise’s hands, giving them a squeeze. “Secondly, you’re always going to be my best friend.”

Eloise nodded at that, accepting that answer.

There was a long pause and a turn to continue their stroll.

“Then you won’t be upset with me if I leave you to navigate this alone for a few weeks?” Eloise asked after a long moment.

“Why?” Penelope asked curiously.

“You clearly don’t need me right now but Benedict does,” Eloise said honestly.

Concern flooded Penelope’s features at mention of Benedict needing help. She hadn’t honestly let herself think of what he might be out there doing, mostly because she didn’t want to be in a constant state of guilt. The rational part of her knew it was ludicrous since Benedict had only proposed, promised to take care of her because of Colin but when she put herself into his shoes, she didn’t know if she’d have liked being dropped.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked.

“No,” Eloise said after a moment, trying to stop whatever guilt Penelope might be feeling. She didn’t see a need for it. “He’s going to be fine. He’s just in a mood.”

“I wish he would have talked to me before he ran off,” Penelope said after a long moment. She would have liked to have thanked him for looking after her. Maybe they weren’t going to be married but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to be his friend. “Tell him to not stay away for too long.”

“The male ego is fragile,” Eloise said with a shrug. “I’ll do the best that I can – Just don’t be pregnant when I come back.”

#bridgerton #⚜ writings — polin #polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Colors Burst (Adore-Centric) - Candy Cane

A/N: sooooo this is the first fic for this fandom that im posting yay :D no, i am not used to this so i really hope none of my characterizations are awful dfdsfddfs anyways, this is 100% completely just self-indulgent do not mind me. i really hope you enjoy!! <3

It starts as a headache just something sitting in the back of her head, making her have to work a little harder for every word, every thought, every movement. Adore isn’t bothered by it, sometimes it ebbs away enough for her to think it’s gone completely, and sometimes it comes back strong enough to keep her down for an hour or so. Adore just takes a couple painkillers and moves on with her life.

It’s been a week now, though. The headache is persistent, and she hasn’t been getting enough sleep, and sometimes it makes her so dizzy or nauseous she can’t eat. She knows she can’t ignore it much longer, because her friends and her roommates are starting to notice and she really doesn’t think it’s that important.

When Courtney brings home dinner for everyone, and Adore can’t get out out of bed because of this stupid fucking headache, she almost feels broken. A week of sleepless nights and zero productivity fueled by a pain she doesn’t know the cause of and simply can’t control. It’s hell.

Courtney comes looking for her, of course. The bedroom door being opened sends in a wave of light from the hallway that makes Adore groan with another spike of pain. Adore brings the blanket up over her eyes to block the light out, and she tries not to feel bad when she hears Courtney’s little worried gasp.

She listens to Courtney come over to her bedside, then the blonde rubs a comforting hand along Adore’s shoulder, and whispers, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Adore rolls over and opens her eyes in a squint in order to look at her without making the headache worse. Her long-time friends looks as pretty and put together as she always does, and it feels good to know that at least someone’s doing well.

“My head…” Adore groans, and melts into the feeling of Courtney’s long fingers rubbing gently against her scalp.

“Oh dear…” Courtney frowns, “I’ll get you some water and panadol, maybe some food will help too.”

Adore just groans again and pushes her face into her pillow.

“Not hungry,” Adore mutters, but it’s so muffled she knows Courtney probably can’t understand her.

“What was that?” Courtney asks, sweet as ever. Adore hates being right sometimes.

She pulls her head back up and says again, “‘m not hungry!” and then promptly face plants back into her pillow.

Courtney rolls her eyes, “Well you have to eat, and an empty stomach doesn’t usually help a headache. Have you eaten anything today?”

Adore shrugs her shoulders, knowing that Courtney wouldn’t count a questionably old pack of skittles as real food. “Adore,” Courtney admonishes her, sounding almost exactly like someone’s mom.

“Hey, you guys good?” Katya says, and Adore realizes that now the whole fucking house is gonna be aware she’s acting like a baby. Again.

“Yeah, Adore just has a headache,” Courtney replies, and Adore buries her head deeper into her pillow.

“Oh, is that what’s been bugging her lately?”

“What do you mean?” And Coutney sounds concerned enough for Adore to feel a sense of guilt rising up within her.

Adore knows they’re talking about her, but she’s in so much pain she doesn’t even care. She just tunes it out. If they decide to kick her out for being whiney she’ll just go pout to Alaska and hope it garners enough sympathy for her to stay with her until she finds a new place. Maybe she can move into Bianca’s spare bedroom, or she’ll live on the streets singing for coins until she gets spontaneously found by a producer and lives in hotel rooms going on tour for the next three years-

“Adore?” Katya says gently, almost conspiratorially.

The younger turns her face over, and opens her eyes just enough to find herself practically nose to nose with the Russian.

“Uhhh… hi?” Adore whispers, knowing she should be used to this by now, even if she really isn’t.

“Hi,” Katya grins, big and goofy and it makes Adore feel a little better.

They stare at each other for a solid five seconds, Katya grinning and Adore knowing she probably looks like a stunned goldfish, and then Katya breaks out into a wheezing laughter that gets Adore smiling too.

“You’re so crazy,” Adore giggles.

Katya nods along with her, “Yes I am, but that’s not news.” Adore opens her mouth to say something silly, but winces when another shot of pain reverberates through her skull, and instead she whimpers out, “Fuck.”

Katya makes a sympathetic, worried sound that stresses Adore more. She hates worrying people. She hates coming off as a burden, as someone who needs to be constantly taken care of. Adore’s scared that that’s all she does.

“Oh, hon…” Katya grimaces, “Courtney should be back with something here in a second, okay?”

Adore nods, but pulls the blanket back over her face unhappily. Katya chuckles, and reaches around so she can lightly scratch her long, manicured nails along Adore’s scalp. They sit like that for a couple minutes, and even though it isn’t making Adore want to fall asleep, it’s still really nice. It’s nice to know her friends care so much even though she’s a hyperactive toddler (as Bianca likes to say).

“Okay, I’ve got just the thing,” Courtney says as she walks back in, all brisk steps and unshakable confidence. Adore will never not be amazed by her.

Two painkillers and a cup of warm lemon ginger tea later, Adore’s able to sit up and have a lamp on in her room. Katya and Courtney teased and joked with each other the whole time, and Adore was grateful for it. For everything.

She’s sitting in her bed, listening to those two crazies be absolutely perfect when they all hear a very sarcastic shout from the kitchen of, “I’m home! Thanks for the welcome party!”

…Causing all three of the other girls to break into uproarious laughter. Not a second later, Trixie, very clearly unamused, is leaning against Adore’s door frame, blonde hair tied up in a neat bun, lips pretty and pink, just like always. Consistency, normalcy, feels so good to Adore.

“Hi honey, how was work?” Katya asks with the world’s cheekiest smile, making Trixie roll her eyes.

“Ha ha,” Trixia says blandly.

The woman then straightens up and goes to give each of them a hug. Adore’s last, but she does notice that the one arm embrace lingers. She doesn’t mind.

“Bad day?” Trixie frowns.

“She’s got a headache,” Courtney says, squeezing Adore’s hand.

“Still?”

And oh shit Adore forgot she mentioned it to her earlier this week. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She doesn’t look up from the bottom of her empty tea cup, and wishes not for the first time she was invisible. Why does he have roommates again? She’s a loner, a lone wolf, an outcast, she does better alone. Fucking rent is definitely too high in this town.

“‘Still!?’” Katya and Courtney repeat in perfect fucking unison.

Three pairs of eyes turn to her, and Adore once again wishes she could just disappear.

Adore pouts and rolls the tea spoon between her fingers just so she has something to do with her anxious hands, “It’s two separate headaches. I think, maybe… I dunno!”

“Oh, honey, no…” Trixie sighs.

“Have you been getting enough sleep? Food? Water?” Courtney asks rapidly, her brow creasing in a way that alone serves to make Adore worse.

“Look, I’m fine! I’m not dying,” Adore says, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of her voice, “Can we please go eat now? I’m starving.”

It must’ve been that last little bit of her usual self that got Courtney her roommates to concede, even if just begrudgingly.

Adore can’t deny how good it feels to sit around the kitchen with her friends, as if nothing was ever wrong, as if she isn’t incredibly pathetic sometimes. She loves watching Katya pretend to throw a noodle across the room at Trixie, she loves listening to Courtney babble on about her day, she loves Trixie’s excited laughter at every joke. It’s so… perfect.

Adore grins and laughs along with them, her headache ebbing away for now. She knows eventually she’ll have to face mother-henning and concern, no matter how awful it makes her feel. So for now Adore holds onto this moment, because it’s a really good fucking moment.

#rpdr fanfiction #adore delano #courtney act #katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #gen fic #fluff #hurt/comfort #angst #caretaking #lesbian au #cisgirl au #colors burst #candy cane #concrit welcome

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ethereousdelirious · 3 years

Text

I’m baaack from my writing hiatus :P I come bearing gifts:

Fandom: The M.agnus A.rchives

Characters: M.artin, J.on (+S1 crew)

Pairings: Jo.nMar.tin

Tropes: standard “stubborn sick character, persistent caretaker”

Summary: standard “J.on gets sick at work and is stubborn about it; Martin is equally as stubborn about taking care of him”

Warnings/Notes: JM isn’t exactly my (wait for it) cup of tea (ba dum tsh) and I kinda lost the thread of where the story was going, so it’s a bit slice-of-lifey and kinda ends in a weird spot? It’s not Hurt No Comfort, though, I didn’t leave it hanging that much ;) I honestly wasn’t gonna post this but then I remembered the whole cake thing and thought you Jon Enjoyers might like it :)

In a half-daze, Martin watched the water in the electric kettle dance as it started to boil. He had bent at the waist so he could rest his chin on the counter, and it was starting to hurt a bit, but he made no effort to stand. He liked working in the Archives but sometimes the peace and quiet made him sleepy.

"What are you doing?" Jonathan's voice came flat and annoyed from the doorway to the breakroom.

Martin straightened up, unable to stifle an exclamation of surprise. "Oh! Hi, Jon."

Jonathan only raised an eyebrow. He had been grumpier than usual today. Tim and Sasha had been grumbling about it all morning.

Remembering the question, Martin gestured to the kettle. "I was just gonna make some tea. I'm on my break, so. Thought I might make some for everyone." He gestured at the mismatched line of cups and mugs on the countertop, teabags already in place.

Jonathan's expression seemed to soften at the edges, though he didn't smile. "That's why I came in here, actually. My throat's a little…" He sighed. "It doesn't matter."

"Maybe you ought to take a break from reading statements?" Martin suggested as gently as he could. He knew how Jon got about his statements, snappish and possessive like a stray dog with a bone.

Sure enough, Jon scowled. He looked like he was going to say something, probably a pointed remark about Martin's work ethic, but instead he only swallowed thickly and placed two fingers to the base of his throat, like he could soothe the pain from the outside. He coughed experimentally.

Martin reached for one of the cupboards and started moving things aside. "I'll put some honey in yours. Did you know that honey actually has mild antibacterial properties?"

"Er, no," Jonathan said, but he didn't appear to be listening all that closely. He had moved out of the doorway and was poking through drawers and cabinets, their contents clattering as he examined them.

"What are you looking for?" Martin asked.

Jonathan sighed, like Martin's continued presence was such a cause for annoyance that he couldn't not express his irritation. "Painkillers. I've got a bit of a headache."

"Same drawer as the first aid kit." Martin went back to looking for the honey.

"That makes sense, I suppose."

They were silent for a moment, as Martin poured the water and carefully stirred honey into the mug he had chosen for Jonathan, while Jonathan took more than the recommended dose of painkillers and washed out his water glass in the sink.

"Hope you're not coming down with something," Martin said offhandedly, passing Jon his tea.

"Thank you," Jonathan said with barely-concealed venom. "I'm going back to work now. I suggest you do the same."

Martin tried to ignore the sting of Jon's words.

When he was feeling bored and restless yet again, Martin got up to collect everyone's empty mugs. Tim and Sasha were nearby, but Jon… He was sequestered away in his new office. Martin left the empty mugs on his desk and marched right up to the door. No time for anxiety, no time to brace for whatever barb Jonathan was going to hurl at him this time.

Upon getting close enough to look in the tiny window on the door, Martin stopped dead. Through the glass, he could see Jonathan, slumped over at his desk with his head resting in his hand. His eyes were just barely open, and even from that distance Martin could see Jon's irises moving, tracking his place on the statement he was reading.

Jonathan had never had the greatest posture to begin with, but this was abnormal, even for him. He looked like he was having trouble keeping himself upright and, Martin noticed with a pang of worry, the hand not supporting his head was clenched in the fabric of his shirt over his stomach.

For a moment, Martin was frozen, utterly unsure of what to do. He didn't want to just barge in while Jon was in the middle of a statement. He waited a moment longer. Luckily, Jonathan seemed to be finishing up. He sat up a little straighter and set the statement aside, speaking a few more words before finally turning off the tape recorder.

Martin didn't waste any time, practically throwing himself through the door before Jon could even think about picking up another statement from the impressive stack on his desk.

"What is it?" Jonathan snapped, not even bothering to try to hide the naked animosity on his face, the raw irritation at having his work interrupted. He didn't lift his head from where it was cradled his right hand, his thumb pressed firmly to his temple.

"I, um--" Martin faltered. "Well, I, I was just walking by your office and I happened to glance in and see you and I just thought--" Pause. Breathe. "You look really ill, Jon. Are you feeling okay?"

"Not really," Jonathan said, softening up a little. "But I have work to do, so." He looked pointedly at the door.

"You can take a day off, you know," Martin said back. He checked his watch. "More like a half day, now."

"I don't need to take a day off," Jon said, his voice flat and annoyed.

"A break, then," Martin insisted.

"I just had a break. So did you." As much as he was arguing, Jon was making no effort to hide the wince that distorted his features every time he swallowed or the way his ragged nails dug into the skin of his forehead. He shifted slightly when he saw Martin looking him over, uncomfortable under the analytic gaze."I'm fine," he said, a touch petulantly, and that was when Martin knew he had won the argument.

"You can barely even sit up. Come on." Martin offered Jon his hand, and Jon looked at it with ill-disguised contempt before standing up on his own. He was pale under the fluorescent lights except for the unmistakable flush of a fever on his cheeks. That was something. Though it wouldn't win him any points with Jon, Martin could always threaten to tell on him to Elias. If Jon was going to despise him no matter what, the least Martin could do was keep him safe.

But that was for later. For now, Martin would walk Jon to the break room and look after him.

Tim and Sasha were both standing, Tim standing with his lower back pressed against the counter and Sasha with her hand against the table. They were talking animatedly about something, but both jumped guiltily and went silent when they saw Jon.

The impression of guilt melted away when Jon barely even looked at them and collapsed heavily onto the small sofa, pale and sweating.

"You okay, boss?" Tim asked.

Martin refilled the kettle and turned it on. "He's a little sick."

"Looks a lot sick to me," Tim remarked with a quick glance at Jon. He had tilted forward so he could rest his elbows on his knees and was breathing heavily.

"Really," Sasha added. Jon obviously wasn't in any shape to be answering questions, so she looked to Martin. "Is he okay?"

Martin shrugged, trying to hide his worry for the sake of not embarrassing Jon. "I'm sure it's nothing a little rest can't fix."

"And tea," Tim said with a good-natured roll of his eyes.

"Obviously," Martin and Sasha said at the same time, and then they laughed.

This ended abruptly when Jon made a muffled noise and shot out of the room, nearly knocking into Sasha on his way out.

"Shit." Martin said.

For a split second, they stood in silence.

"Are you going to go get him?" Tim asked.

"I…" Martin blinked. "I'm not like his keeper or anything, I just work here!"

"Someone should make Elias send him home," Sasha said.

"You're Jon's favorite," Martin said with just a trace of bitterness. "Why don't you go check on him?"

"Because he's probably passed out in the men's room," Sasha said back. "You go get him. I'll tell Elias he needs to go home."

"I'll disinfect the couch," Tim said, fighting a smile.

Martin sighed. "I'll go get him. And talk to Elias if I have to. You guys… Enjoy your long break, I guess."

Tim patted him on the back as he left. "Good luck."

"You'll need it!" Sasha said cheerfully.

By the time Martin made it to the bathroom, Jon had made some effort to clean himself up and then collapsed by the sinks. At least he was sitting up and appeared to be conscious. His face was wet, dripping water. Martin wasn't sure if he had been sick or just been overtaken by the need for quiet, and he was equally unsure that Jon would tell him if he asked.

"Jon!" Martin rushed to his side and pressed a hand to his forehead without even thinking about it. "You're--"

"Burning," Jon said hoarsely.

Martin's hand travelled lower, to Jon's neck, and he pressed two fingers to the carotid artery. Jon's pulse was rapid and fluttery and he pulled away from the touch.

"Did that hurt?" Martin moved his fingers higher, to the lymph node.

"You're not a doctor," Jon said, pulling further back, seeming to shrink into himself.

"Sorry." Martin dropped his hand. "I really think you need to go home."

"It's fine," Jon said. "I have more statements to read."

There was an odd kind of desperation in his voice that Martin couldn't begin to understand. "Jon. I can tell you're in pain. If it hurts to talk, you shouldn't be reading statements. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Jonathan said nothing, which was answer enough.

Martin stood. "Come on, I'll call you a taxi."

"Elias--" Jon started to protest, but cut himself off, one hand flying to the base of his neck.

"I'll tell him."

Unable or unwilling to talk, Jon nodded begrudgingly and forced himself to his feet.

The resentment in his eyes sent an ache through Martin's chest, but he only stood and held the door open for Jon.

"You're welcome," he said softly, watching Jon stalk down the hall without waiting for him. He sighed, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Martin wasted a moment staring at his shoes. He tried so hard and all he ever got back was vitriol from Jon and teasing from the others. After that brief wave of self-pity came the guilt for daring to feel so sorry for himself when Jon was seriously ill and seriously ill-inclined to take care of himself.

Martin sighed and shook his head. The sooner he found Elias, the sooner he could work on getting Jon to go to A&E instead of holing up in his flat or, god forbid, his office.

And then, as though Martin's thoughts had summoned him, Elias rounded the corner. He nodded in greeting and then paused, face darkening. "Everything alright, Martin? You look upset."

"Oh, uh." Even though Elias was always popping up like this, it was hard not to be startled. "Elias. I was just about to come find you, actually. It's Jon."

"Oh?"

"He's ill-- really ill; he needs to go home but I don't-- I'm going to call him a cab. Just wanted to let you know."

Elias nodded. "I appreciate you letting me know. And wish Jon well for me, would you? See to it that he gets well soon."

"Um, yeah." That certainly hadn't been what Martin was expecting. "O-of course. I'll just-- I'm gonna go." He turned away and attempted the impossible feat of rushing for Jon's office without seeming like he was trying to get away from Elias, which he very much was. He could swear he felt Elias' gaze on him even after he'd reached Jon's office and shut the door behind him. It was eerie.

"Martin." Jonathan looked like he regretted speaking even that one word. He made an abortive motion, reaching for his throat and then letting his hand drop. He had abandoned dignity alarmingly quickly and slumped over with his face on his desk. He had even undone the top few buttons of his shirt.

"Oh, Jon," was all Martin could say. "I can't let you go home like this."

Jon glowed at him but had evidently learned his lesson about trying to speak. He was breathing too fast, his shoulders rising and falling in unsteady cadence. Martin reached out to feel his forehead again and Jonathan jerked back so violently he nearly knocked his chair over.

"Sorry," Martin said. He really couldn't do anything right, could he? "I'm not gonna-- hurt you." Had someone hurt Jon before? Why was he so jumpy? He reached out again and Jon actually smacked his hand away. "Okay, sorry. No touching."

Jonathan nodded.

Martin sighed, unsure of quite what to say. He could waffle all he wanted about tenacity or dedication, but in the moment, there was no denying to himself that Jon was stubborn. He was stubborn to the point of being self-destructive and Martin would have to be careful.

"You really should go to A&E."

Jon shook his head no, then squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

"Well, I can't just dump you in a taxi."

Jonathan nodded.

"No, Jon, I can't. Can you even stand up on your own? Don't--! There's no need to demonstrate. I get it."

Jonathan sat down and exhaled shakily through his mouth. It wasn't just his breathing, he was shaking all over and wincing every time he swallowed.

"Let me take you home."

Pause. Jon eyed him with suspicion and Martin felt compelled to elaborate, "Just to make sure you don't, you know, collapse on the pavement and end up in hospital anyway."

Jonathan, evidently having no other way to communicate his displeasure, stuck out his tongue. Martin couldn't help but laugh.

"Is that a yes?"

Jonathan nodded.

#i can't believe i'm an eliasfucker i'm so mad #ethereous writes #sickfic

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realityhelixcreates · 3 years

Text

Dance of the Spheres chapter 2: Solar Samba

Chapters: 2/?

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel), Heimdall(Marvel)

Additional Tags: Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:

You are the sun and I am just the planets Spinning around you Spinning around you You were too good to be true Gold plated But what's inside you? Fall Out Boy-Last of the Real Ones

Loki stepped into the blinding bright sunlight of their new homeland. How unlike Asgard their new world was! But it was home now, and it was only a matter of time until their ancestral splendor was rebuilt.

He was dressed in his very finest, as befitted the occasion. Heimdall, positioned at the edge of the light and the darkness, gave him a suspicious gaze.

“Far be it for me to question my liege...” He began.

“A joke?” Loki asked.

“Perhaps. But Thor will awaken. The Sleeps have never been permanent. When he wakes to find what you have done-”

“But we don't know when he will awaken.” Loki pointed out. “Until then, rulership falls to me, and since there are alliances that must be secured for the future prosperity of our people, that duty now falls to me...Oh stop looking at me like that! It was a big decision on my part as well, you know. Besides, it's better that I do it. Thor must remain free of such things, at least for a while longer. And what does it matter if I gain that much more notoriety upon the pile I already have?”

“You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself.”

“Just send me.” Loki said grumpily. “It's past time. It won't do to keep the poor woman waiting.”

******

“This is the place?” Agent Jad asked, pulling up to what appeared to be nothing more than a barren lot. “What a shithole.”

“Nothing there to be ruined by the blood.” Agent Browne grumbled.

“It's just a job.” Jad said. “You can't get twisted about this kind of thing. Anyway, let's get her out of the back.”

The two agents pulled you out of the back of the car, lugging your limp body to the appointed spot. They lay you down in the dirt, Browne glancing back at the car.

“What about her cane?”

“Is she really gonna need it?”

“No, I guess not. Just toss it out the window when we leave, I guess.”

A loud roaring screech filled the air around them.

“Time to go!” Jad said, both agents dashing for their car. The light from the Bifrost crashed down where they had just been; a curtain of prismatic flashes carving its distinctive mark into the empty ground. A figure appeared in the rainbow spangles, tall, with a flowing cape and curved horns.

“That's him!” Jad said, starting the car.

“Enjoy your dinner, you sick freak!” Browne shouted out the window. “You'd better pay up!”

Tires squealing, the car sped away into the night.

******

Loki watched the humans go, confused by their parting shouts. This was not the greeting he had expected. For one, he'd thought the area would be filled with celebrants. This was supposed to be a grand occasion. It was why he had chosen this empty place: so that it could be filled with people.

Where were they? Where were the dancers, the musicians, the food merchants, the laughing, playing little children? Why was it so dark? Why were the only other humans driving away, shouting insults? Why was this woman lying in the dirt? This wasn't what he had asked for.

There should have been celebrating. Instead, a woman had been dumped, seemingly asleep, on the hard ground at his feet, and left there all alone. Like a bag of garbage.

Something was very wrong. But Loki was alone with you now, and it seemed that no one else was coming.

Perhaps this was some strange Midgardian custom that he was yet unaware of? There were just so many, too many to keep track of, an incredibly rich tapestry of ancient, yet constantly changing cultural practices and traditions. It made for interesting study, but he hadn't learned this one yet.

Though it wasn't quite what he had hoped for, he technically still had what he wanted. You had been delivered, as agreed. He knelt beside you, touching your shoulder. Why didn't you wake?

You weren't dead; a quick check confirmed that. Just asleep. It was so very strange. He allowed himself a moment to take you in, sprawled in an ungainly pose on the hard ground. Dressed in what he believed humans in this nation considered 'business-casual', like you weren't even important. You should have been wrapped in silks, strewn with jewels. He would have to take care of that later. He hoped those disrespectful escorts of yours hadn't been rough with you; it didn't seem as if they had been properly gentle.

Well, he had come here for a reason. The platinum ring shone in his hand, catching every tiny light. This was it. The most important decision he would ever make. Every second of his life after this would be different.

He took a deep breath, and slipped the ring onto your left ring finger. The warmth of your skin activated the spell within the metal, sizing the band to your finger and dividing itself into a second band which shattered, flew across the space between you, and solidified into a new ring around his own finger.

He felt the band tighten into a comfortable fit, and with his last few moments as a free man with a free mind, he marveled at the magic-such complexity, such elegance, such grace, and such power...power beyond his, beyond any he had ever seen. Beyond even Odin.

No wonder the witch was so feared.

Then the ring finished its duplication, and the delicate runes on both flared, bringing the full spell to life.

And for the first time since he had fallen from the Bifrost, Loki was filled with...

Love.

Pure and unwavering, it bubbled joyously through his blood, fizzed in his brain. Everything he had lost to the depredations of Thanos, his followers, and especially the mind stone. Love, affection, joy, gentleness, real pleasure...all had been taken from him, twisted by the stone and replaced with empty facsimiles. Loneliness, rage, covetousness, disappointment, and bitterness. Satisfaction is not in my nature...because it had been taken from him.

He had never found any cure. While the people he had controlled with the stone suffered certain psychological effects after release, those effects had gradually faded over the years. But not for him. The corruption of the stone in him had gone on for longer, for much deeper.

But now it was over. Everything flooded him, all the things he had lost. All centered on you.

“Praise be to Gullveig.” He whispered, gathering your unconscious body in his arms. Something felt odd about one of your legs, but tears were running down his cheeks, and he couldn't pay attention. Not with you in his arms. His love.

His wife.

******

“It is as you said. Something is wrong.” Eir mused. “She will not wake because she has been drugged. Some kind of primitive anesthetic. Effective, but rather dangerous. I do not believe it was properly applied.”

“But why?” Loki wondered. “Human customs are baffling sometimes, aren't they? Why drug a bride into unconsciousness before sending her off?”

“Perhaps she did not want to go.”

The possibility quieted Loki. That was not a thought he had yet entertained. He didn't want to.

“There are other things.” Eir continued. “She shows some signs of ill health. It seems she has seen hard times. And then there is the leg.”

“Yes, I knew something was wrong with it.”

“Indeed. That's because it isn't there.”

“Pardon?” Loki asked in surprise. He'd been so distracted, he hadn't even noticed.

“She wears a prosthetic, also somewhat primitive. It appears to be an old injury. She has only about half of her thigh, and the pelvic bones are misshapen. Whatever injury caused this, it shattered her hip, and though it seems the pieces were put back together, they healed imperfectly. Her whole body has reshaped itself around it. She must be in pain very often.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Loki asked. He couldn't stand the thought of you suffering day in, day out. What horrible thing had happened to you? Whatever it was, he would keep you safe from anything like it.

“I can synthesize pain medicines.” Eir said. “Her body chemistry indicates that she had been taking such things, but not for a few days at least.”

“Would an Apple help?” Loki persisted.

Eir pursed her lips, remaining silent for so long, Loki thought she might not have understood.

“You will have to give her one anyway.” Eir said slowly. “But I want to make it clear that it will in no way change the shape of her body. It will preserve what is there, but her leg will remain as it is. We can build her a better prosthetic, but you will have to speak with the Artificers about that.”

“Yes. I'll get the measurements taken as soon as possible.” Loki said. “Something fit for her new station. When do you think she will wake?”

“This anesthesia should wear off within a day.” Eir said. “It's not that powerful. If I knew when it was administered, I could make a better guess. All I can suggest, my liege, is that you prepare what you need for when that happens. It might be as little as an hour, or as long as a day.”

“Thank you, lady healer. You are a boon to our people.” Loki kissed her hand. She gave him a wry little smile. “Take young Bjarkhilde with you. She's eager to be of help, and too curious about our new guest.”

Loki retrieved the adolescent girl, sending her off with orders to fetch an Artificer, to measure you for a new prosthetic leg. He envisioned a creation of high quality ceramic and iron, rich jewels to decorate it's surface. A work of art for you, even if no one else was meant to see it.

The Apple he fetched himself. They were in incredibly short supply, and no more would be grown for some time. He would deliver this in person.

You still slept deeply as he cut the Apple into slices, every now and then looking over at you and wondering. What was your name? What did your voice sound like? What color were your eyes?

Would you love him too?

The spell would not apply to you, only to someone as uniquely damaged as himself. If you had the capacity to love, the spell would not effect you.

He hoped very much that you could love him. He knew these political matches didn't always lead to romance. What was good for the kingdom wasn't always good for the individual. But he desperately wanted to try.

He set the plate of Apple slices on the table beside your bed, along with a covered glass of precious water. It was in greater supply here than expected, but it had to be gathered from around Asgards' new lands. There were no rivers or streams in the area to be diverted. But the water was there, along with all their other resources, if only they were willing to put in the effort to go out and get it.

He left your side only reluctantly, though he knew if you woke, someone would come and tell him. But he had a few other things to do. Industry was primed and ready to explode into productivity in any area he directed it. And there were a great many possibilities there!

Mining was probably going to be their greatest bringer of wealth, especially in these early years of rebuilding. This land had once been heavily volcanic, with towering mountains, and vast lava fields. The records of Midgard and the exploration of his own people had revealed strange riches, rare minerals, all that could contribute to the wealth and beauty of Asgard. All too late for Midgard to take back.

Loki wanted to prioritize the metals, the iron and titanium, and especially the platinum, with which they could create their own components and construction materials. It was too expensive and difficult to continue transporting so many goods to their remote location.

That being the case though, perhaps he ought to concentrate more on increasing the productivity of the local soil. It needed a great deal of amendment and treatment: Loki knew full well that the botanical barrenness of the area was part of the reason Midgardian authorities had agreed to let Asgard settle here. Asgard knew how to transform bare wasteland into something fruitful, and the human rulers very much wanted to see it in action.

It might also be important to focus on acquiring wealth. They had unearthed beautiful gems-bright pink spinels, brilliant peridots, spectrolites, moonstones. There was volcanic glass, mostly in green, but also some strange reds, yellows, and oranges. They had many of the components for porcelain, and other high quality ceramics, and for traditional glass as well. The wealth that could be accrued from these things could alleviate their problems with supply transport.

There were so many things to focus on, but so few bodies to throw at them. It felt like dividing that focus would simply not be fruitful enough to keep them afloat. Things were already difficult, and Loki didn't want to rely overmuch on the charity of humans.

Although, he had just recently made an important connection to a powerful nation. That should help their situation quite a bit. That was usually what these kinds of arrangements were made for. Ending hostilities, securing trade, and so on.

Perhaps he should try to reach out to Thor's friends. Most of them lived in the country he had just tied himself to, and perhaps this gesture of good faith would alleviate their wariness of Asgard's presence enough that they might be willing to help out as well.

But maybe not yet. Not until Thor had awakened.

He entered his brother's resting place, deep in the royal chamber complex, taking a seat next to his bed. He could just barely see Thor, deeply asleep, shrouded by the same golden field that had covered his father when he fell into the torpor that sustained his power.

That force had fallen on Thor now, bestowed from beyond the grave;a final gift-and insult-from Odin to the new Allfather. Although, seeing how helpless, and frankly useless Thor was right now, Loki wasn't sure he even wanted it.

“I wonder if you can hear me?” Loki mused. “Odin supposedly could, but he never responded to anything I said. Well, whatever. I will speak anyway. I want you to wake. I know, I know, I get to rule now, legitimately. And I have proven to be proficient at doing so. But I feel like it would be better to do this together. That other me did say so.”

That other him who had come out of nowhere and slashed Thanos' hamstring while he dangled by the neck from the Titan's fist. The other him who had grabbed him, his brother, Heimdall, and a few others who weren't quite dead yet and cloaked them all with invisibility, who had sent them to the escape shuttle with the rest of the survivors, who had hissed to Loki: “Do it right this time, stay with him and do it right!” and, “Odin didn't lie, he just didn't realize he was telling the truth!”, and “Fix yourself, whatever it takes!”

And then was nowhere to be found.

Loki couldn't help but feel like something different was supposed to happen back then. After his other self left, he had felt even more wrong, more empty and out of place.

Fix yourself, whatever it takes.

Well, he was working on it.

“I told you some months ago that I was contemplating taking a bride.” Loki continued. “She has arrived today. It was a little strange, I must admit, but I can't begin this relationship by judging her customs, can I?

I've had rooms built for her. I tried to make them beautiful, inviting. I hope she likes them. I wonder if she is afraid? Humans have many different cultures, but their nobility doesn't seem so different. Political pawns from birth, and they know it. Just like myself. But just because you know you will one day marry a stranger, does not mean it is not still frightening. After all, some human rulers became famous for how poorly they treated their wives. If you saw that a man had his wives killed, and yet people continued sending their daughters to him, would you not dread when it came to be your turn?

I haven't killed any wives. I haven't had any. But I have killed so many of her people, and they cannot have forgotten that. Was she frightened when they told her? She must have come into this thinking she was to be wed to a murderer and a madman. I want to put that notion out of her head as soon as possible, but it would help quite a bit, I think, if you were awake.”

Thor had fallen into this deep sleep almost immediately after they had settled into their new lands. Rulership had fallen to Loki then, and he had spearheaded the building of their new home himself. They had built as close to the Asgardian aesthetic as they could with the materials at hand, but there had still been a lot sacrificed to compromise, lack of time, and the rugged environment of their new home.

Thor had no idea what their growing kingdom even looked like, or the innovations they had come up with in order to survive.

He would be in for many surprises when he finally woke.

He had better wake.

#danceofthespheres #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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pressedinthepages · 4 years

Text

Vorfreude (Part 3)

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Jaskier/Reader

Word Count: 1982

Rating: E

Series Masterlist

a/n: I’ve had a couple of requests to continue this little series, so here we go! I do have plans to do probably one more chapter, though I wouldn’t be against taking it further into the dad!Jask.

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: smut, fluff, pregnancy, vomiting (morning sickness), weird cravings.

The family begins to grow, though not without it’s quirks.

Months have passed, to no avail. Winter has come and gone, gentle flowers peeking through the last persistent remnants of frost. You still bleed like clockwork every month, but not for lack of trying.

Jaskier is stubborn even with the most trivial things, so it’s no surprise that he has made it his life’s mission to have you carry his child. For as long as you’ve known him, he’s been insatiable, but now even you are having a bit of trouble keeping up with him.

Now, you lay awake in bed, Jaskier’s head resting on your chest as your fingers run lightly through his hair. You can feel the moment he wakes, his breathing quieting a bit when his hand gently rubs little circles over your bare stomach. You’ve both gotten in the habit of sleeping naked, since you seem to end up that way more often than not.

Jaskier’s hand moves lower, carefully brushing through the little curls around your core. You hum, a tinge of a groan in the noise. You’re so tired, but Jaskier only tilts his head up and places a sweet kiss to your lips before moving down, settling between your legs. As his tongue laps at your core you look down, catching those piercing blue eyes that are hazy with lust.

“Oh, Jaskier…” you moan as he throws his arm to rest over your hips, effectively pinning you to the bed. His free hand is occupied as well, dextrously curling a finger into your cunt, quickly followed by a second as a sweet warmth envelops you.

Jaskier hums happily against you, and then continues humming, apparently composing as he brings you to your peak. You roll your eyes a bit, a smile coming to your face nonetheless at your husband’s quirks. His music flows through his soul and bleeds into all that he does, and lovemaking is no exception.

Your hips try to buck into his touch but Jaskier’s arm holds you firmly. Jaskier himself, however, is more than happy to give you what you need. A mischievous glint finds its place in his eye, and with a simple quirk of his brow, crook of his fingers, and suck of his lips, you plummet into your climax, slow and sweet, like a book pushed open by the wind, its pages fluttering in its wake.

You feel him hover over you and you bracket your legs around his waist. Jaskier runs his length through the wetness of your core a few times before pushing in slowly. Your back arches into his chest and Jaskier catches your lips with his own, crowding you back into the bed. It creaks with every slow thrust of his hips, the wood old and tired with all of the use it has been getting as of late.

Jaskier hums a quiet whisper of your name into your ear over and over, his thrusts speeding up ever so slightly as his hands rove over your body. Your own loop around his neck, your nails scratching lightly against his shoulders.

“Jaskier, please, let me…” You plant one foot on the bed and shift your hips, twisting the two of you to switch places. Jaskier now lays beneath you, his cock still buried deep inside of you. You brace yourself on his chest and push yourself up, Jaskier’s hands moving to hold your waist as you begin to move.

You set a breathtaking pace, snapping your hips to his as your pleasure builds once more. “Fuck, my heart, I won’t- I won’t be able to ha-” Jaskier’s voice drops off with a low groan as your movements suddenly change, burying him all the way inside as you thrust your hips forward and back, dragging the peak of your core along his skin.

“Go on, love, do it, I need it, please…” you purr, and you watch as Jaskier’s head falls back with a (quite frankly dramatic) moan. His cock twitches inside of you, spilling his seed as your thrusts speed sloppily, chasing your own high. It finally hits you just as Jaskier’s is slowing, a bright release of tension that claims your senses, leaving you breathless.

You fall onto your side, Jaskier pulling you close as he threads his fingers into your hair. He continues to hum quietly as his lips press a kiss onto the crown of your head, breathing in deeply as his heart returns to normal.

“Jaskier?” you murmur, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“Yes, my love?”

Your hand runs lightly through the coarse hair on his chest as you listen to his heart beating under your ear. You feel yourself start to drift off but Jaskier pulls you back with a whisper of your name.

“What do we do…” your voice is small, only a mumble in the dim light in the room, “What do we do if this never works?”

Jaskier falls quiet, and you can just see the way that he bites the inside of his cheek, mulling deep in his own thoughts. “Well,” he whispers, “we just keep trying, or we could even go to one of the big cities, find an orphanage, I’m sure that there are plenty of children there that need a home too…”

You hum, nuzzling further into his chest as his fingers draw light circles over your back. “I’d like to keep trying for a while,” you reply, yawning as Jaskier pulls you close.

“Me too, my love, me too…”

…

Sunlight filters lazily through the window, spring having now fully appeared in your part of the continent. Birds chirp their way through the air, their song sweet and light in the promise of a warm day. That is, until the peaceful moment is broken once more with the violent sounds of retching.

You are bent over a bucket yet again, emptying the contents of your stomach into it for the fourth day in a row. You’ve been nauseous all week, you’re exhausted, and your breasts feel so terribly swollen that you can’t bring yourself to wear anything even the slightest bit constricting.

Jaskier sits at your back, dutifully holding your hair for you. When you slowly come back up he hands you a rag, letting you wipe off your mouth. You look over at him when he passes you a cup with water, finding him pale and more than a little concerned.

“I’m going to get the healer,” Jaskier says, and you start to sputter your argument once more. You feel fine, just a little off. “I won’t hear any of this today love,” he says, already throwing on his doublet and shoving his feet into his boots. You try one last time, giving him your best doe eyes and little pouted lips, and you see him hesitate at the door.

“No, no, no, no, you’ll not do that again,” Jaskier shakes his head, practically sprinting out of the doorway in his haste. “I’ll not be long, DRINK THE WATER, I love you!”

You huff, pushing yourself up to dump the contents of the bucket out of the window. It is odd, you think, settling back into the bed, I can’t begin to think what this could be…

…

“You’re with child.”

Your mouth falls agape as your breath hitches in your throat. Jaskier’s hand is like a vice on your own, and when you look over to him you can see his beautiful blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. The healer begins to gather her things from where she had laid them out on the bed, leaving out a small mortar and pestle and some bunches of herbs.

She grinds up some of the herbs and adds them to a small bottle, followed by some light, hazy liquid. The healer passed the bottle to you, motioning for you to drink. You do, and immediately feel less nauseous.

“Now, that’s just fennel and ginger mixed with a swallow’s worth of wine, take that once a week for the sickness. Other than that, though, only drink water. The baby needs it, as do you, dear,” the healer says as Jaskier still clutches your hand, staring open-mouthed at her.

“I’m-” he starts, “I’m going to be a father?”

“Yes, dear, and I’m sure the two of you will be just fine.” The healer leaves, refusing the bag of coins that Jaskier had set on the table for her.

“Jaskier?” you whisper, unable to hold back your smile as you look at your husband. The tears fall freely down Jaskier’s cheeks now as he starts to laugh, practically falling into your lap and holding you in his arms.

“This is really happening, right?” he murmurs, pulling back to rest his forehead on yours.

“It all kind of feels like a dream…” you thread your fingers through his hair and kiss him softly, a sweet whisper of your love. You stay like that for some time, basking in each other as the day passes on.

…

“Jaskier…”

A snore.

“Jaskier…” You shake him a bit, nudging his shoulder lightly to jostle him awake.

He groans, rolling to face you. You can appreciate the way that the moonlight glances over the planes of his cheeks and down his nose, just barely kissing the curve of his lips. But only for a moment, for you are on a mission.

“Please, my love…”

Jaskier huffs, squinting open one eye and peering up at you. You put on your best loving smile, your hands resting lightly atop the small mound of your stomach.

“The baby’s hungry,” you whisper, rubbing your hand in a circle over your abdomen. You’ve taken to wearing much looser dresses now, though you have kept the habit of staying naked in the evenings. Not so much for convenience, but because it’s so fucking hot that you may actually die, or so it feels like.

Jaskier pushes himself up with a groan, turning and sitting at your side. “And what, pray tell, is the baby hungry for?” His hand rests atop yours, feeling along where the baby rests just inside of you. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but his eyes are clear and mirthful, teasing as always.

“Pickles...and honey.”

Jaskier’s features crinkle, his brows furrowing and his lips turning downward. “Together? Are you sure-”

“Yes, positive. But it’s too damn hot for me to move.”

Jaskier chuckles, kissing you lightly on the forehead. “Of course, dear. Give me just a minute, I’ll be back.”

You watch as he pads out of the room, ruffling his hair a bit as he goes. You feel bad for waking him up, but that feeling soon fades when he returns with his bounty in hand. He passes over the jar of pickled cucumbers and a bowl of honey, your mouth watering at the sight.

As Jaskier settles back under the covers you tuck in, smothering the pickle in honey before practically inhaling it, a small moan falling from your lips at the instant satisfaction. Jaskier only shakes his head with a smile, pulling the sheet up over his chest.

“You know, I can’t wait to meet this little nutcase, if this is what he’s so intent on eating.”

“Oh,” you say through a mouthful, swallowing before speaking again, “you think it’s a boy?”

Jaskier shrugs, dragging his fingers up and down your stomach. You’re not terribly large, but it’s certainly clear that you’re carrying a child.

“I don’t know, I go back and forth…” Jaskier yawns, his fingers slowing on your skin. You lean over to place a kiss to the crown of his head as his eyes fall closed, and you set the jar and bowl down on your bedside table. You think you’ve probably had enough for the evening, but you can’t really tell. Though, as you watch the way that the moonlight shines over the honey, you feel your resolve waning.

One more pickle won’t hurt.

#jaskier x reader #pregnancy #vomiting #morning sickness #smut #fluff

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anasticklefics · 4 years

Text

Game

Fandom: Star Wars

Characters: Finn/Poe

Summary: Finn threatens to tickle Poe to death once they’re alone and then engages in a long drawn game with the crew.

Words: 1 349

Poe couldn’t stop watching Finn’s fingers. So long. So nimble. Always picking at something; a perpetual unrest to the very tips. Blunt fingernails, cleaner than their lifestyle would have you believe. Tapping on the table as Finn thought, thought. Deep in thought, as if he wasn’t aware of Poe’s staring eyes, his warm cheeks.

But Finn knew exactly what his fingers were doing to him. A quick glance in Poe’s direction, catching his eye briefly before looking away. The ghost of a grin on his lips. Poe couldn’t stop watching his lips. The wicked things that would come out of those lips.

“As soon as we’re alone, I’m going to tickle you to death,” he had said and promptly sat down to ignore him until the room emptied out. But it was hours until bedtime and their crewmates were bored. Stomachs still aching for the food that was scarce, and so they needed distractions so that they didn’t have to spend an additional three or so hour period of just waiting, waiting. The game they were playing, so neatly laid out on the table, was a long one. Could go on the entire night unless someone decided to give up.

Poe knew what it would mean if he decided to give up. How his metaphorical throwing of the towel would cause Finn to smirk more than Poe could handle in a room filled with people, and so he kept playing. Kept watching Finn and Rey and Chewie and Jess think through their moves, all the while so utterly aware of Finn’s fingers tapping, tapping.

Maybe he would accuse him of being a sadist once this was over and they could speak freely. Maybe Finn would take it as his cue to wreck him then and there, or pretend to not know what he meant. Pretend to have forgotten to get Poe to start begging.

Poe wasn’t above begging. Finn knew that.

He cleared his throat, pretended to think his move through, before moving his piece quicker than anyone had this whole round. He heard Rey exhale in sympathy for his bad move. To be fair he hadn’t realized he was screwing himself over. He was simply-

“Distracted,” he said when Jess questioned his choices. And then, to amplify his meaning, he added, “Aw, shit.”

Jess snorted. “There goes that game. I think it’s a record.”

Chewie’s player had won the game almost instantly after his fuck-up. Poe would’ve felt a little annoyed had he not been so concentrated on not looking in Finn’s direction at all.

He could still see those ever-moving fingers in the corner of his eye. Could picture the smugness radiating off of him, but when Poe’s timid eyes met his, his expression was soft. Almost curious.

“Couldn’t wait?” he asked later, so much later, since a lost game didn’t equal bed.

Poe groaned. “I genuinely didn’t mean to end the round like that. I had completely missed that Chewie had been standing there.”

“You did seem distracted,” Finn noted. “Anything particular on your mind?”

“Oh no.” Poe pressed a finger to his chest. “You don’t get to lure me into saying it.”

Finn gave a laugh. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I love when you get flustered. It doesn’t happen too often, you know.”

Poe averted his gaze. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You know.”

“I think you overestimate how well I can read you.”

“Stop lying.”

Finn’s hand found Poe’s knee, not tickling, but being just soft enough to get his breath to hitch. “Here’s what I know,” he said, voice lower. “You hate losing, but you hate waiting more.”

“Not true.”

“Shh. Let me finish.” His fingers were gently rubbing at Poe’s leg, one squeeze away from making him jerk away. “You hate waiting, but you hate showing impatience for things you’re excited for.”

Poe groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Anything else?”

“You don’t handle embarrassment well, so you never know how to act when I fluster you.”

“And?”

“And.” Something in Finn’s voice made Poe glance up, catching his grin just in time. “I love flustering you with all my heart.”

Poe’s laugh was ridiculous. All nerves, all high pitched and squeaky. “You’re a sadist.”

“Would a sadist give you what you want?”

“Which is?”

“Oh, I’m getting there.”

“Are you, now.”

“Patience.” His hand had moved upward, sending ticklish shocks through his skin that were just shy of ticklish enough to grant a reaction.

“You said I’m not good at that,” Poe replied, leaning back on the mattress, his back against the too thin wall.

“But are you ready to confess that you’ve been looking forward to it?” Finn smirked at his spluttering. “Thought not. So you better pretend. You can be good at that, sometimes.”

“And what if I can’t convince you?” Poe had tried to say it as a challenge, but all he managed was a timid wariness.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be convinced either way. I know your reactions too well.”

“Tell me.”

“The way you try to seem all relaxed by leaning back, but in fact you’re so tense you’ve nearly dug a hole onto the floor with your foot.”

Poe’s feet twitched at the mere mention of them. “That’s because it-”

“It what.”

“Nothing.” Finn knew his fingers were tickling him, but Poe wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. “Go on.”

“Well, your cheeks are flushed, which they have been since I made my announcement.”

“You still haven’t followed through, you know. You said as soon as we’re alone.”

“Hmm, I like torturing you more. Should I continue?”

“Be my guest,” Poe said, as if his face wasn’t on fire.

“You like to pretend to be nonchalant, but you’re impatient.”

“Maybe you’re just being too slow.”

“And, despite the fact that it embarrasses you like hell, you never protest. Not when I tease. Not when I threaten.” Finn leaned closer, his hand on Poe’s belly now. “And certainly not when I touch.”

The tickling started suddenly, though Poe had seen it coming for the past few hours and shouldn’t have been surprised. With a laugh that he’d practiced - quieter and gigglier to keep from being overheard through the thin walls - he slid down, shirt rising. Finn not on top of him, but leaning over him instead. Finding spots to play with despite Poe squirming into a ball on the too small mattress that they shared. One foot accidentally slamming into the wall, and Finn taking it as his cue to grab for it; Poe’s laughter increasing.

It was all he wanted, and still not enough. It would be too brief. Too gentle. Too many orders to keep quiet. Poe always slightly on edge. But, right now, it was all they had, and it would have to be enough.

Finn, all too aware of how he couldn’t satisfy this hunger in Poe as long as they were still surrounded by people, knew exactly what to do to get as close as he could, though. Pinning him down with his body, his forearms holding down Poe’s feet while his fingers raked over the soles. Zeroing in on the spot beneath his toes before quickly turning back to focus on his ribs. Getting his worst spots in quick succession and leaving Poe twitchy. Soon, once he’d gotten Poe all warmed up and hypersensitive, he would attack a single spot for minutes. Poe never knew which spot in advance, but despite how ticklish he thought it was before Finn, it always turned out to be worse after him.

All the while, he would tell Poe to be quiet, but his palms would never help. Poe would have to keep quiet on his own while Finn did everything in his power to break him. They’d done this too many times for Poe to still get this flustered by the mere thought of it, but Finn was nothing if not persistent.

And in the end, Poe would never beg for it to stop and Finn would never go far enough to force him to.

#tickling #ticklish!poe #tickle fic #finnpoe #stormpilot #star wars #mine #game #ana's fics

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fandom-necromancer · 4 years

Text

1151+1153. “Shut up and kiss me.” “Stay with me forever.”

This was prompted by the awesome @anxiousmessofaperson! Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: mentioning of severe injury, temporary character death (both for an android))

An android’s processor was always active. Always running millions of tasks, calculating and pre-constructing. And the processor of an RK900 was the most advanced ever created. That allowed him to analyse their planned tactic for today’s mission over and over again, thinking of all possible outcomes and complications, and simultaneously preparing his partner a coffee. He gladly helped the human and would likely do anything for him. Unfortunately, Gavin Reed had only ever asked for a coffee. Nines had joined forces with Tina for that reason, but even his best friend wasn’t able to have a serious talk with him. Still, they would not back down. If Nines could be anything then persistent.

He continued to let two sugar cubes fall into the thermos and started stirring. He should get back to them, but he decided to linger as he overheard Gavin and Tina speak to each other. Apparently, he had taken too long for the human and he had decided to pass the time with a chat. ‘Did you ever think of dating an android?’, Tina asked, and Nines immediately had his hearing amplified. ‘Hah! Why are you asking?’ Of course, Gavin would evade the question and laugh it off. ‘Found someone?’ ‘Maybe.’ Nines could practically hear her smile. He knew a specific receptionist had caught Tina’s eye. But that was their secret. ‘But don’t you chicken out now. Would you?’ ‘Pff… You know, I would have given a clear no just a few months ago. But with the revolution and all… Maybe? I don’t know, I would have to know one for that first, I guess.’ ‘Hmm… You know Connor?’ ‘Are you shitting me? Plastic Detective sent by my brother’s phcking empire? Hell no. Never. I mean, he looks alright and all that but… Hey, I would also have a buy one get two deal going whatever his relationship with Hank is. And… no, I’m a disaster myself, I don’t need another one.’ ‘What’s with Nines then? You know him, too. And he basically has the looks of Connor but sharper.’

Needless to say, the coffee was forgotten by now.

‘Nines?’ It stayed quiet for some time. The laughter: ‘Come on Tina! That’s Nines.’ ‘And?’ ‘Have you seen the tin-can? He’s all cold calculation and his missions. Hadn’t I known him pre-deviation, I would have said the thing’s still a machine.’ ‘He has a lot of emotions, Gavin and you know it.’ ‘Yeah, anger and fury and an overall sense of not-my-phcking-problem. That’s not emotions, Tina, that’s a defence mechanism. It’s not like he could feel anything that is nice, it’s not like he could be earnestly passionate. And it’s not his fault, I mean, he wasn’t built for that. But I need someone who, you know, wants to be with me because of these feelings, not because it’s what I want.’ ‘I think he likes you a lot.’ ‘Maybe. But it’s not like he would suddenly shout “I love you, shut up and kiss me! Now!” He’s a machine for all it’s worth, Tina. He doesn’t feel anything.’ Nines had to concentrate a good fraction of his processing power to keep his LED on yellow and his hand from crushing the brushed steel of the thermos in his hand. ‘A machine that’s phcking late. Tell him I’m in the car once he decided to re-emerge!’

Nines shook out of it, screwing the lid on and walking out to Tina’s desk. ‘Oh god, Nines, you heard all of it, didn’t you?’, Tina rushed to say. ‘Shit, I’m so sorry! He’s just embarrassed, I’m sure. He knows you feel a lot. And he’s wrong. I just… I was too quick to ask him something like that.’ ‘No’, Nines interrupted her. ‘He is right. I would never shout that.’ ‘But only because you are shy and thoughtful, and he is brash and aggressive! Don’t lose faith, he is just an idiot. But I know the only reason he is like this is because he thinks he isn’t worth you. Give him time and he will be convinced you mean it!’ ‘If you say so. I’m sorry. We have a mission. And I’m late. I should go.’ He left for the front door and Tina watched him walk away. Only then did her gaze stray to her desk and a familiar thermos stand on it. ‘Hey, Nines, you-‘ She looked for the android, but he was already gone. ‘forgot something…’

They pulled up to an abandoned Cyberlife store amidst the abandoned district of Detroit and Gavin killed the engine. ‘Ready, tin-can?’, he asked joyfully. ‘Of course, Detective.’ ‘Oh, so we’re back to “Detective”? What did I do wrong this time?’ ‘Nothing major’, Nines answered as neutral as he possibly could. ‘You just talked.’ ‘Watch out, toaster!’, Gavin mocked, holding a hand to his chest. ‘It sounded almost like you had a sense of humour!’ Nines stayed silent and exited the car. ‘Oh wow’, Gavin sighed, following his partner. ‘So, we are particularly pissed together. What’s happened? Someone hurt your simulated robo-feelings?’ Nines looked the man dead in the eye. ‘Only some prick I thought was my friend.’ Gavin squirmed under his gaze, but like so often laughed to hide it. ‘What, you have friends?’ Nines looked away. ‘You know, sometimes I question that myself… Let’s go, we have work to do.’ ‘Yeah, fine, how do we do this?’ ‘We have worked out a plan together. You know how, Detective.’ ‘Okay, okay! Goddamn, whoever it was who pissed you off, I guess he won’t live long.’

They climbed through a broken window and slipped into the store. It was completely empty, the pedestals for androids on display were barren and only a lone dead android laid in some corner. Well, his torso at least. Where the rest was, not even Nines could reconstruct. They strode through the shop, Nines taking to whichever corner he hadn’t looked at that was also farthest from Reed. They suspected a Red Ice lab somewhere around this shop. All their evidence led to a graffiti that was used as a marker for it on the outer wall. ‘Hey, Nines, has this phcker been moved recently?’ The android decided to ignore the undignified way the Detective referred to a dead body – he had done far worse today – and knelt down in front of the unit. ‘Yes’, he pressed out. ‘Figured. His clothing is raised up. He has been dragged.’ Nines nodded and scanned the body’s shoulders. ‘Fingerprints’, he murmured. ‘Belonging to Axel Bernhardi. Was at the station once already. Attempted theft of an android. Served community service for three months.’ ‘Great. Any clue to-‘ ‘The android has been moved recently’, Nines interrupted and Gavin grunted. ‘Fine. Any clue to where he is then?’ Nines inspected the android’s clothing closer. ‘The body had been pulled from two directions. First up, then from the back into the direction of the wall.’ ‘What?’ Nines stood up and pulled the android away, unveiling a narrow whole with a ladder underneath. ‘Phck, is he still there?’, Gavin whispered and after a quick scan Nines nodded. The human took out his gun and was about to climb down, but Nines held him back. The Detective might have been a total idiot today, but Nines wouldn’t let him slide ass first into danger. He pushed off his white Cyberlife jacket, wriggled himself into the narrow space and scraped along the walls downwards. He heard Gavin following him but concentrated on climbing and listening to any noise from underneath him.

They found back on solid ground in a room that had been excavated by handheld machines. It was newer than the building above, likely dug just to house the lab. They stood in front of a curtain made from milky plastic sheets. Light flooded from behind it covering everything in a cold glow. Someone was moving behind the curtain, Nines suspected it to be Mr. Bernhardi. He held his finger to his lips before taking his own gun and taking position in front of the curtain. Gavin stood behind him ready to jump on his notice.

Nines counted down from three with his right hand, then they both entered, shouting: ‘DPD, away from the table!’ The red-haired man was shocked to the bone and stared at both of them speechless. Thankfully he stepped back from the table and another step into the room. Only then did Nines have the chance to scan the room and regretted his manoeuvre immediately. The first thing he noticed was an escape route dug into the water drainage system of Detroit. The second was a big red button on the wall. The third that the man was side eyeing the button and the fourth that it led somewhere behind them. All of that was detected in the same second Mr. Bernhardi decided that attempted theft wasn’t enough to his folder. He jumped to the side, pressed the button and darted out of the room into the sewers. Gavin reacted fast enough to shoot but missed and Nines had reacted even faster than Gavin had, throwing himself on the Detective as behind him the bomb went off. The impact made them scoot across the floor and ripped apart Nines entire back hull, but the human was okay, Gavin was okay. And he himself was okay too. Technically. For the next few seconds. Enough to realise the structural integrity of the room was failing. He picked himself and the Detective groaning underneath him up and ran to the escape route. The room would collapse every second now, but the sewer system would hold out. He managed to get himself to the edge of the room as it collapsed and Gavin had recovered enough to pull him out after him before the rubble slid into the canal. ‘Oof, that was close…’, Gavin panted, adrenaline still flushing his body. ‘Hey, tin-can, you okay?’ No. The seconds that Nines had been okay had run out now. The little rivulet in the canal was quickly more Thirium than water and Nines couldn’t even begin to process the damage warnings coming into view. ‘Ga…vin…’ ‘Shit! Nines!’ The human was immediately next to him. ‘Nines! What’s wrong? Hey, Nines!’ The android wasn’t capable of clear thoughts anymore. All he knew that there was so much damage, so much, so much. He felt the Thirium depleting and his systems running burning hot as a result. He knew he would shut down soon and he wasn’t sure he was repairable. There were so many warnings and notices… He didn’t want to stop existing. There was so much left to do, so much left to say. Despite everything he still wanted to tell Gavin what he felt and hopefully the human would allow it. Gavin… Where was he? Was he still there? Had he left him behind like the useless piece of plastic he was? Was he off chasing the criminal, Nines’ death only a footnote in some report? Maybe repairing him would be too expensive. But Gavin would want that, right? They were a good team, right? ‘Ga…vin?’ His hands searched for purchase and they grabbed something, although Nines didn’t know what that was. He hoped it was his human. ‘Stay… with… me…’ He heard laughter over thick static and held onto it. ‘Heh, for how long, toaster. Come on, get your ass up, we have a criminal to catch!’ Nines imagined how it would be to simply do that. It would be wonderful. Gavin sounded scared. Why was he scared? Too many questions, too many thoughts. Only one that counted: ‘Ga…vin… stay… with… me… forever…’

[Warning: Core temperature critical.] [Commencing emergency shutdown.] [Unit deactivated.]

The machine above him was busy. Multiple arms fastened to an enormous joint in the ceiling moved back and forth, getting rid of old bent metal and torn plastic and gathering new parts for assembly. Under Gavin’s dull gaze lights flickered and wires were reconnected, Thirium-tubes were sealed and refilled. Gavin saw it all and noticed nothing. He was too deep in his thoughts, the only thing he really felt the android’s hand in his.

Tina had told him everything.

Every talk she had with the tin-can, every carefully selected detail Nines trusted her with over time, every little thing Nines liked about him and every minute gesture he had failed to realise as Nines being friendly to him. Tina had told him Nines liked him. Had a crush on him. Kinda. It was weird to think of the android in such ways. He had never shown any signs of affection towards him. Or maybe Gavin had just never bothered to look for them. If he was being honest, he couldn’t really believe it. The android was… Even if Nines had been a human, he would have been way out of his league. He was a functioning person; he didn’t look out for a new disaster to dive into and didn’t create them if he didn’t find one. He was kind, in his own way. He never spoke or emoted much. But…

God, Gavin had taken his extremely slow pace, his careful steps as a sign the android wasn’t interested in anyone at all. He had even told him he didn’t feel anything, that he was simulating everything and… “Stay with me forever.” Shit.

‘Hey… errr… tin-can…’ He took a few breaths, following the mechanic arms. There were fewer now. Nines back was nearly fully restored. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me. But I’m sorry. For all that I’ve said. I just… I never thought… I… I’m a huge idiot, okay?’ He couldn’t keep his composure and a part of him hoped Nines couldn’t hear him. ‘I am a dumb, dumb human, who only understands what someone wants if they push it into my face so hard it hurts, and you were so gentle with… with everything. Phck I didn’t notice any of it and you were trying so hard to be perfect when this asshole right here can’t handle perfect and I should phcking go, because you don’t deserve someone like me and-‘ ‘Gavin.’ There was an impossibly faint pressure on his hand from where the android was squeezing his. Gavin couldn’t do anything but stare at the smile on Nines’ face. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t talk, he could only stare. ‘Shut up and kiss me.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #RK900 #Gavin Reed #why am I recently like Fluff: have a sentence Angst: Here have a novel #I guess I'm stressed so I can write this one better at the moment #there will be fluff days coming again I jsut don't know when #and it's kinda fluffy in the end?#Me torturing my favs AGAIN #Gavin: he will never shout he loves me buhu #Nines: No I will not #Nines: I will whisper it most tender when I've come back from the dead tho

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

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I would love to see a Kyoya x Renge fanfic where Kyoya nonchalantly flirts with Renge and her not taking it seriously, thinking that he's just playing a character to get on her nerves until he admits that he does like her like that and she freaks out? I think this pairing has a lot of potential that isn't really explored in the Ouran fandom and I do think there's a possibility of Renge falling for Kyoya for himself and not as a living trope and Kyoya having interest in Renge for her quirkiness.

Hello, Anon! Thank you for your patience! :3 I love the idea of Kyoya and Renge; I really would’ve loved to have seen their relationship fleshed out more in the manga. I hope you enjoy this little story! ^u^

Shortbread Cookies

The silver platter of shortbread cookies rattled slightly in Renge's hands as she bumped the door to the retrofitted music room open with her hip. Balancing the try on the splayed palm of one hand, she waved jovially to the myriad of students and hosts lounging on the expensive sofas and armchairs.

"Hello, everyone! I brought shortbread cookies! <3" she announced ecstatically. During her time as the host club's manager, she had been practicing a multitude of skills, including baking. This was the first time that she'd delivered batches to the host club while it was in session, but seeing as the handful of first-year boys she'd cornered as guinea pigs didn't keel over foaming at the mouth, Renge was confident in her improvement. Humming happily, she traipsed over to one of the coffee tables and set the platter of cookies down. A few of the guests wandered over, curious, and sampled her flower-shaped handiwork.

"Ah, Renge, these are delicious!" a younger girl with a bob cut exclaimed after munching on one of the buttery cookies. Renge cooed shyly and clapped her hands to her pinkening cheeks, but secretly relished the compliment. The air around her rang with similar praises, making her wiggle her hips around in delight.

"Thank you; thank you!" Renge sighed magnanimously. "I am glad my labor of love is so well-received…" Renge’s pleased smile fixed on her face as someone suddenly came up behind her. They gently gripped her upper left arm with one hand, while the other stretched beyond her to retrieve one of the shortbread cookies. With a startled squeak, she whipped her head around to see Kyoya daintily bite off the end of the cookie.

“You’ve improved,” he remarked placidly. A pink hue rose to Renge’s cheeks, surprised at his sudden appearance and interest in her handiwork. Renge then pouted dourly at him, narrowing her eyes as she watched him finish the cookie with far too much vainglory.

“You shouldn’t tease me, Kyoya,” she huffed as she leaned down to retrieve the tray of cookies. It made her blush a little, because he was standing much too close for comfort. Her hip bumped against his as she bent over. He regarded her with lidded eyes as she straightened up and puffed out her cheeks exasperatedly. He must be teasing because he never complimented her, not without mischievous intent.

“Who said I was teasing?” he countered smoothly, plucking another cookie from the tray as she stomped off. Renge’s cheeks burned with anger and mortification; how could he tease her and look so damn sexy doing it? Mitsuki yelped when she slammed the tray down in front of him, but soon recovered to dive into the sweets with zeal. Renge flopped down on the sofa and crossed her arms vexedly. Renge had, of course, come to separate Kyoya and the otome character she’d fallen madly in love with, but Kyoya still derided her endlessly with honeyed words and false flirtations. She peered out of her periphery to find him reclining over the back of a couch, chewing on the shortbread cookie and smirking insolently. Renge’s cheeks flushed, and she tore her gaze away, furious at the heat that pompous grin alighted in her body.

I don’t know how anyone can fancy that jerk! she thought haughtily, flinching at the airy giggles of the girls who gaggle around Kyoya to fawn over the bespectacled boy. She grabbed one of her cookies and shoved the whole thing in her mouth, chewing angrily to dissipate her ire. “Handsome devil,” indeed. Pouting, she sunk against the back of the couch, wishing the fluffy fabric would just swallow her up and save her from Kyoya’s persistent, heady gaze.

Her irritation melted after enjoying some tea with Mitskuni. The childish third-year scampered off to treat some more patrons, so Renge remained on the couch, sipping at the scrumptious Earl Gray swirling in the lavender-patterned teacup. She hummed contentedly at the smooth warmth spreading over her tongue and closed her eyes to savor the bodied tea. She cracked an eye open when the couch dipped beside her, and her serene smile disfigured into a scowl.

“Kyoya,” she clipped tersely. He smiled amusedly at her while he poured himself a cup from the last dregs of the teapot.

“That’s not the type of expression that’s becoming of a lady,” he said with a slight jerk of his eyebrow. Renge curled her lips down to scowl so hard her pink gums flashed at him. Kyoya chuckled animatedly and threw his arm back around the back of the couch, regally sipping from his teacup using the other. “Why are you so irate? My compliment earlier was genuine.” Renge poked out her lips and stared critically at the dark-haired boy.

“Really?” When he nodded, she relaxed a little bit. So he really liked them, she thought with a teeny smile. Kyoya flashed her that devilish smile that seemed kind but masked his inner devious nature, but Renge entertained the idea that he was actually pleased with her progress. “I’ve been practicing…”

“Indeed. They’re a hit with the guests.” Renge’s silver platter was now emptied, with only a few small crumbs decorating the mirror-like surface. Most of the guests had left, for the deeper end of the afternoon was steadily creeping in. Still, a few small groups clustered around conversing amiably about Renge’s cookies, which made her squirm victoriously on the sofa. “You’ll have to bring them again sometime, Renge.” The girl squinted as she once again regarded him suspiciously. “What?” he chuckled, seeming slighted.

“You’re teasing me again.”

“Am I now?” he smirked with glittering, lidded eyes. Renge puffed out her cheeks at him at his facetious answer. She immediately released the air when he unabashedly scooched closer to her, setting the teacup down on the table though it was still half-full. She chuckled nervously when he pushed a swathe of her honey-brown hair behind her ear, his fingertips just barely caressing the reddening skin of her cheeks. Renge had been sitting close to the arm of the couch, so when he placed his hand firmly on the armature, Kyoya caged her in with his long, tall form. “That’s news to me.”

“Y-you’re doing it right now, Kyoya,” she whined loudly. “It’s been months since I came here; I’m not still hanging around because I think you’re some dating simulator character, okay? I like being here! So please stop antagonizing me over my silly mistake,” she pleaded. Renge knew that her obsession had been foolish, and she’d paid for it with humiliation and humility. No one else thought she still needed to be punished for it, so why did Kyoya chaff her so? It even made her a little sad, because out of everyone, she strongly desired Kyoya’s approval, as the one she’d pointed her misguided affections to. She bit down on her bottom lip as it threatened to wobble. “I’m sorry for how I treated you before; don’t you get that?”

“Of course I do.” His eyes widened with surprise, and Renge’s followed suit. “You really don’t think this is about that, do you?” Renge rubbed her sweaty palms against the yellow fabric of her uniform dress.

“I don’t know,” she answered timorously, looking unsurely down at her slightly quivering hands. “I guess… Even though what I want more than anything is your validation… It’s hard to imagine you’d ever really like me after the stunt I pulled,” she admitted quietly. The adapted music room had emptied, leaving Kyoya and Renge alone. Perhaps the other hosts had read the room (or, more likely, Haruhi had and ushered them out) because they’d disappeared into the adjacent rooms. When Renge became aware of the fact, a prickling flush swept over her body and made all her hairs stand on end- but not in a frightened way… more in an excited one. Kyoya smiled roguishly and grasped her hand to bring it to his mouth for a light, delicate, princely kiss that contrasted his knavish manner.

“I’ve found that I quite appreciate your idiosyncrasies, Renge. Believe me when I say that my dalliance is quite heartfelt. I don’t have any ulterior motives, aside from winning your favor, of course.” Renge smiled stupidly as her brain struggled to unravel the essential point behind Kyoya’s flowery words. A pink flush slowly crept up from her neck until her entire face glowed the color of fresh carnations.

“K-K-Kyoya?” she squealed in alarm, flapping her free arm wildly against the back of the sofa. “Are you saying-? Are you saying-?” The notion was so utterly ludicrous that Renge just couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Kyoya grinned wickedly, his eyes glittering like chips of onyx behind his glasses.

“How about I take you on a date tomorrow evening?”

With a squeal, she flopped back against the arm of the couch, nearly losing consciousness. Her head whirled, spinning the music room around her, and she desperately fanned her burning hot face to stave off slipping entirely into the darkness. She could practically hear the steam billowing from her ears as her brain overheated and spun into overdrive. She stared hazily at the white ceiling, until Kyoya leaned over her, pressing her body between his knees. “Renge? Do I need to call an ambulance?” he inquired gravely. The stunned girl managed to shake her head.

“N-no, I’m all right… O-oh, my heart is beating so fast!” Renge wheezed when she put a hand on her breast and found her heart palpitating so violently it was liable to break her ribs. Kyoya’s knavish smirk returned.

“I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Th-that’s acceptable.” He patted her cheek before disappearing from her line of sight. She lamented the loss of his weight on the couch when she felt the cushions shift back into place with his departure. Renge laid the back of her hand against her forehead, feeling the heat slowly drain from her face. She then exclaimed delightedly and flailed about like a flopping fish, simply so overcome with happiness that she couldn’t contain herself. She hopped up and grabbed her cookie platter, clutching it to her chest as she rushed out of the music room.

I wonder if he’d appreciate it if I brought him more shortbread cookies? I’ll make some! Lots and lots! With a skip in her step, she headed down the hallway, daydreaming about the wonderful evening yet to come…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork

#kyorenge #kyoya x renge #renge x kyoya #kyoya ootori #ootori kyoya #renge houshakuji #houshakuji renge #ohshc #ouran high school host club #ohshc fanfic #ohshc fanfiction

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