#the final loss glassy eyes are the worst

[thecubes]

romanticizing the snooker match loser glassy eyes. snooker aftercare pls

#they always look so absolutely miserable the further in the more miserable #the final loss glassy eyes are the worst #aliiiiiii #ronnie lowkey being a bit of a bitch damn #ali looked so completely miserable when ronnie said he didnt play well tonight 😮‍💨 #maybe its a bit true but come on you dont have to say it and especially Not Like That #ronnie. autistic ronnie.

[daevastanner]

It was never a bad day when Azriel collected a kiss from one of his acolytes. The notorious patron Fate of Velaris’s Temple of Memories delighted in the visits that had become far and few between over the centuries.

Citizens of Velaris had once flocked to his altar begging the handsome Fate for one of his famed kisses. Kisses that took away their pain in exchange for a moment of passion with the most attractive Fate in Prythian.

Well, most attractive next to Rhysand, Fate of the Temple of Dreams. Rhys's kiss made dreams come true, although his temple had seen less traction over the centuries as well.

As had Cassian’s, the Fate of the Temple of Courage. Much like Rhysand and Azriel, Cassian’s gifts of courage came at a cost some found too high to pay.

The truth of the matter was that Cassian could grant you courage with a kiss by taking your fear, but the loss of that fear often resulted in a devastating end brought on by foolishness. Rhysand could make your dreams come true, but afterwards, reality was too bitter to return to — dreams always faded, after all.

And Azriel’s price was perhaps the worst of all. He could take the pain you were feeling, but the memory that caused the pain would be lost too. Say you were feeling the grief of a lost loved one. Azriel would take it with a kiss… and all your memories of that loved one with it.

Still, he’d gotten a visit today. A young acolyte named Roslin who had been orphaned at a young age. She’d recently located the mother who had abandoned her at birth, only to find she had another family and did not wish to know Roslin in the slightest.

Azriel had listened intently, lifting his knuckle to her cheek to wipe away an errant tear. He was like a man in a desert, starved for water. It had been so long since someone confessed to him. Since he'd feasted on pain and sorrow and delicious hate.

Finally, at the end of her tale, Azriel made the standard offer. He would take away her pain and sorrow, but she must kiss him.

The weeping woman had sniffed but nodded, acquiescing and inclining her head.

Azriel had leaned closer in the pew, cupping the nape of her neck and pulling her face to his. He let his lips slant over hers and gave her a kiss he was certain she’d never forget. The kiss of a lifetime.

All the while, memories of meeting her mother flooded his brain, sensations of sorrow and closure swept over him, filling Azriel to the brim. A woman with crows feet beside her watery eyes took center stage in his mind, ushering Roslin off her doorstep and into the bitter night.

When Roslin pulled away, he savored the glassy look in her eyes. “Better?” he’d asked, voice low and velvety smooth.

Roslin blinked. “I— I think so. Yes.” She finally met his gaze, brows knitting together. “I can’t quite remember why I came here.”

Azriel gave her a small smile, his hand cupping her jaw, a thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. “It no longer matters. Your visit was appreciated.”

And then she had left. Azriel’s first visitor in ages, gone in just an hour. Her memories would have to sate him until the next foolish mortal arrived. Which could take ages.

He never quite understood why mortals found his asking price so disagreeable—

“Fate Azriel.”

Azriel, who had been staring up at the glory blue stained glass above his altar, turned towards the voice. It commanded his attention. It sounded… furious.

Down the navy carpet that lined the aisle of pews, stood a red haired woman in white robes. Similar to the white robes that Roslin had worn when she’d visited earlier this morning.

The red haired woman’s freckled complexion was reddened, her fists were clenched at her sides. It had been a long time since Azriel had taken someone’s anger. Truthfully, he preferred hatred… But he couldn’t be choosy. Not when he was getting more acolytes in one day than he’d had in years.

“Welcome to the Temple of Memories,” Azriel said, offering the woman a sketch of a bow.

“Take your welcome,” the woman spat, storming down the aisle towards him, “and shove it up your vainglorious ass.”

Azriel’s brows raised in amusement. This was certainly a first. He had encountered angry acolytes before but none had ever told him to… Well, to do that.

The woman now stood at the bottom of the altar, fuming up at where Azriel stood above her. Her large teal eyes were narrowed, nostrils flaring with fury, the pink bow of her lips a grim slash.

Azriel angled his head, he wasn’t known for being charming like Rhysand or good humored like Cassian. The Fate of the Temple of Memories was cold and beautiful and impossible to ruffle. Yet this woman… she rankled him. Just a bit.

“I presume you’d like me to take away this… unbridled rage of yours?” Azriel asked, his eyes combing her from her ivory slippered feet up to her angry eyes. “You know the price. One kis—“

She gestured to her white robes. “And why on earth would a Priestess of the Healing Temple wish to bargain with a Broken Fate?”

Azriel felt his eyes flash, but hid his surprise otherwise. He kept his voice even, “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with both your temple and the term Broken Fate, Miss…”

She sneered, placing her hands on her hips. “Berdara. Priestess Gwyneth Berdara.”

Azriel arched a brow. “Enlighten me as to your faith, Miss Berdara. What Fate do you serve? I’m unfamiliar with the Healing Fate.”

“There is no Fate for the Temple of Healing.”

Azriel thought the way she said ‘Fate’ sounded like a curse.

“We formed when everyone decided to stop serving you all. To help all the unfortunate souls you hurt with your double edged bargains.” She crossed her arms then. “That’s why you’re called Broken Fates. You break people.”

Azriel stiffened but kept his tone bored. “In my experience, mortals are keen on breaking themselves. And besides, all magic comes at a cost, priestess. Or do you perform your healing acts out of the kindness of your heart?”

She lifted her chin, the edge of her lip twitching almost triumphantly. “As a matter of fact, I do. Priestesses hear confessions at no cost and offer counseling in return.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Counseling,” he repeated the word as though tasting it. “Elaborate.”

“The act of offering counsel in hopes that someone may better themselves,” Gwyneth Berdara said primly.

Azriel chuckled softly, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared down at the fiery priestess with amusement. “And your counseling, can it give the fearful courage?”

“It can.”

Her voice held no doubt. Her eyes were fiercely determined. But Azriel continued…

“It can make the dreams you have at night come true?”

She answered without hesitation. “If one has the fortitude, it can.”

Azriel gave her a devil’s smile. “And your counseling can banish memories of grief and sorrow and anger?”

Gwyn advanced up the first step of the altar, forcing Azriel to retreat upwards.

Then, she took yet another step and this time, the Fate’s retreat was almost clumsy. Almost.

Her teal eyes blazed. “My counseling does better than banishing bad memories.” When she spoke again her voice was so low and cold Azriel thought she may be a fellow Fate in disguise, “My counseling arrests bad memories. My counseling makes bad memories into power.”

He’d never admit it, but the hair on the back of Azriel’s neck stood on end. He took in the priestess before him with new eyes.

Her temple of Healing had sounded like a joke. Her title of priestess had made her seem like a servant. Her talent of ‘counseling’ he’d assumed was not dissimilar from a parlor trick.

But no. He could hear it in the conviction of her voice. He could see it in the confident posture of her body. In the blazing tenacity in her eyes. This seemingly mortal priestess believed she was powerful. And belief was delicious to behold.

Still, he wanted to rankle her as she’d rankled him… “You’ve intrigued me, I’ll give you that.” He angled his head, “But how do I know your counseling methods are actually effective? Perhaps they’ve only worked for you because your sorrow is minimal compared to those who come to my altar. Maybe your pain does not compare—“

She must have seen the taunting glint in his eyes, because he did not let his face betray his eagerness to discomfort her. Her whole expression suddenly hardened, then her palm connected with his cheek. A loud ‘slap’ resounded through the temple.

Azriel fought to keep his expression guttered as he turned his head to look at her once more.

But before he could fix her with the glare that usually turned its intended victims into puddles of fear, he found her eyes were watering, her lower lip trembling.

Azriel’s posture relaxed, brows pulling together. She’d accused him of being mercurial, but perhaps they were more evenly matched than she cared to acknowledge.

The priestess gave him a look that could freeze over the Hells. “I’ll admit, there was a time I considered visiting your temple. Collecting one of your famed kisses to take away the grief consuming me.” Her upper lip curled. “Then I heard of your remorseless behavior. Your dishonesty. After everything I'd heard, I decided that yours was a cruel and cowardly way out, and I would learn to be better than the Broken Fate of Memories.”

Her words, they shook with such rage, Azriel confessed himself awed. No one ever spoke to Fates in such a manner. To defy and reject a Fate was to reject a god. Yet still the priestess stood here, staring down her nose at Azriel even though she was nearly a foot shorter.

He had to admit, in the past ten minutes of knowing Gwyneth Berdara, he felt a certain fondness towards her. Her passion, her courage, the deliciously painful past she’d alluded to and her cinnamony ire.

Azriel wanted it. He wanted it all.

“I’ll make you a bargain, Priestess,” Azriel said, gesturing to the front pew behind him. “But first, I wish to know why you came here. It wasn’t simply to berate me for helping Roslin.”

Gwyn scowled at him, pausing and looking the Fate over. Finally, she huffed and stalked over to the front row pew, lowering herself to sit primly.

Azriel fought off a smile and took a seat beside her. He leaned his elbows on his knees, then looked back to Gwyneth Berdara expectantly.

“I want you to restore Roslin’s memories of her mother. She should have them back, and be able to make the decision to keep them. She didn’t know you would steal them from her.”

“Again, I did not steal from your friend,” Azriel ground out. “I collected my payment. It’s not my fault she wasn’t as well-read on the price of my bargains as you are.”

“And again, your cost is too steep. Do everyone a favor and stop taking acolytes.”

Azriel lifted a single brow. “Stop taking acolytes? And what, become mortal?”

She stacked her spine, folding her arms and refusing to look at him. “Don’t be dramatic. To become mortal you’d have to stop taking mortal acolytes and fall in love. I'm not asking you to do the latter, and everyone knows Fates can't love.”

Something unfurled in Azriel then, a deal fit for this arrogant priestess. One that would test her deliciously, and if all ended as it should, her pain and her kiss would be his.

“Here’s my bargain,” began Azriel, “you have 30 days to convince me of three things, and for each one you succeed in convincing me of, you’ll receive one of the three memories Roslin lost.”

Gwyn considered him momentarily. “What things must I convince you of.”

You’re mine, thought Azriel.

Although he spoke aloud as though he didn’t have a care. “First, that mortals are better off without my magic.”

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded resolutely.

“Second, that counseling can arrest grief and pain as well as I can.”

The priestess’s voice was rough. “Very well.”

“And third, why I should forsake mortal acolytes and risk becoming mortal myself. I am well aware I will not become mortal by starving myself of acolytes, but I'd have one foot in the grave as your people are so keen on saying.”

Her brows lowered. “And I don’t have to convince you of all three to earn back her memories?”

Azriel shook his head. “No. As I said, for each instance you succeed, I will supply you with one of Roslin’s memories.”

“And if I don’t succeed?”

“You’re clever,” Azriel said with a soft chuckle. “For any time you fail, you’ll tell me of the memory that nearly made you visit my altar.”

And if you speak of it, you’ll feel the sorrow, and when you feel the sorrow, I’ll offer to take it. And you will not be able to refuse me. No one ever has…

Gwyn averted her gaze once more, studying the stained glass that washed them in fragmented shades of cobalt. She was weighing her options. Eventually, she held out her hand, “We have a bargain, Fate.”

So swiftly, she couldn’t pull away, Azriel sliced her waiting palm with his bladed signet ring. Gwyn hissed, but Azriel slid his index finger over the wound before she closed her fist.

He lifted the blood slick finger to his lips then gave his knuckle a savoring lick, his eyes never leaving her.

Her blood tasted incredible. Like spiced resilience. Like buttery hope. Like brown sugared bravery. Sweet and invigorating.

“The thirty days starts now,” Azriel said, pulling the silk cravat from his collar, the obsidian fabric rippling like liquid night. “We begin at your leave, little priestess.”

She made a disconcerted noise at the nickname.

He took her injured hand and slowly pried open her fingers to expose the still-bleeding wound. He was tempted to have a second taste, but instead wound the fabric around her cut, securing it with a tiny knot on the back of her hand.

When he met her stare again, her eyes were fervent. She pulled her hand from his and shifted as though trying to get comfortable in her pew. “Alright, Fate, I’ll try to explain this as simply as possible since mortal emotions are a new concept to you.”

They certainly weren’t. But she didn’t need to know that. She didn’t need to know he hadn’t always been a Fate of Memories. The priestess didn’t need to know anything at all.

Azriel hadn't planned on listening to her argument. He already knew how this bargain would play out after all...

But then his ears kept perking, her words stirring him from his stupor and prompting questions. Her voice was so passionate, her speech filled with such vigor, that eventually he’d pivoted to face her entirely.

“Why on earth would Roslin wish to remember a mother who didn’t want her? A mother she admitted she’d be better without?” Azriel nearly blustered.

“Because she’s only just started grieving! She hasn’t had time to process the events all put together and form an opinion untainted by her sadness and anger,” Gwyn explained. “She may hate her mother today, but someday she may wish to give her another chance. To mend things. She can’t do that without her memories.”

“Her memories are pitiful,” Azriel drawled. “Breakfast for dinner and the occasional goodnight? The memories of Roslin's mother before she abandoned her are so old, you can’t tell it’s the same woman who just rejected her. The kindness of those memories does not compare to the cruelty her mother just exhibited.”

“People make mistakes, Fate. Especially when confronted as unexpectedly as Roslin confronted her mother. There's a chance Roslin's mother may recognize her mistake and offer her apologies,” said Gwyn amiably. “And even if she doesn't, sometimes people find their happiest endings in forgiveness."

Azriel sneered at that and Gwyn raised a halting hand.

"Forgiveness is hardly the only option. Take me for example. I prefer to take those bad memories and turn them into armor. People can find their strongest protection in never forgiving and instead being aware of signs of danger should they ever encounter another person with the potential to hurt them again. Do you see?”

He'd always planned on letting her score this argument, but Azriel pretended to ponder her question, looking up at the navy ceiling painted with black whirls and swirls. “I will say, I do prefer the armoring method. It’s like when you never forget the color of a venomous snake after it has bitten you. Remembering the bad improves your chances of survival. Something mortals often worry about.”

“Good or bad, memories are valuable, and it does more harm than good to not have them at all. They can help us survive. They can help us live.”

Something about the words sent a chill down Azriel’s spine. It was easy to believe after this conversation that Gwyn was a priestess of a temple of healing. She was as smart as she was hot tempered, and he imagined that was a boon in her 'counseling' efforts.

Azriel laughed softly. “I believe you’ve convinced me, at least in some capacity, of the fact the world would be better if people retained their memories. Even the bad ones would protect them at the very least.”

It wasn't technically a lie. He could see the benefit to a world where a Fate such as himself didn't exist. That didn’t mean he was any further inclined to give up his acolytes, but he could still see it. 

Gwyneth's pink lips parted on a soft gasp. "I succeeded?"

If he'd thought her rage was delectable, then her hope was positively mouthwatering. The way the teal of her eyes glimmered, the pinkening in her freckled cheeks. It was a radiant sight.

Azriel gave a slow nod and reached within the folds of his black, tailored jacket. He removed a vial from within, then unstoppered it. 

Slicing his palm, Azriel carefully dripped his blood into the slim glass container. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwyn watch the crimson liquid fall, the flakes of gold in it catching in the light of sunset streaming in through the cathedral windows.

Once satisfied it was sufficiently full, Azriel plugged the vial and held it out to Gwyn with his uninjured hand. "Give this to Roslin. When she drinks it, she'll gain back the most recent memories of her mother."

Gwyn accepted the vial, suspiciously. "The memories of her mother's rejection, you mean?"

Azriel hummed.

"That's especially cruel, don't you think? To only supply her with the memories that brought her to your altar in the first place?" Gwyn said, tucking the vial into her ivory robes.

Azriel looked at her coolly. "You did not say which memories I should return first. Perhaps you should have been more specific. Besides, if your counseling is as masterful as you claim, you should be able to prevent her from returning to my temple."

Gwyn stood from the pew and straightened her wrinkled robes. "If I have it my way, Broken Fate, no one will return to your temple."

Then she walked in front of his crossed legs and started towards the aisle.

"No one but you," Azriel called, not glancing in her direction, but he heard her footsteps halt. "You still have two more things to convince me of if you want Roslin's happy memories."

A beat passed. Another. Then her footsteps resumed and the doors to the temple shut heavily.

Then Azriel was alone again. And for whatever reason, he felt that loneliness more keenly than he had in centuries.

**Full disclosure: since you guys can probably all guess how this ends, I have no intention of writing more. This was sort of just a fun writing exercise for me. That said, I do know how the story ends and if you'd like to see it continued let me know!**

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #gwynriel fanfic #acosf #acotar fanfic #daevastanner #stephanie garber #once upon a broken heart

[warmblanketwhump]

Can I request a scenario which includes

Infected injury, bruises all over the body, a high fever and stitching up at home, collapsing and dehydrated.

In between semi enemies A and B?

(It’s okay if you don’t, just love your writings they are good)

thank you very much anon! and thanks for your patients - i know you’ve been waiting a long time for this one :) 

---------------------------------

A’s startled by a knock at the door - they’re not expecting anyone so late, and they can’t imagine anyone paying a house call in this weather.

Sliding on their slippers, they pad to their door and look out the peep hole, but see no one.

Strange.

Still, a nagging feeling in their gut tells them to look a little further, look again, don’t go. So with a hand on their weapon, they crack open the door and peek out into the rainy night.

That’s when they see the figure, leaning heavily up against the side of their cottage, soaked to the bone and clutching their side. and even though it’s dark, the firelight from inside catches the dark shadow dripping from their fingertips to a pool on the doorstep below.

“B?”

Their halfway nemesis responds by crashing to the ground.

15 minutes later, A’s finally got a handle on the situation. Or, as much as you can when your sworn enemy winds up bruised and bleeding outside your door. 

With hands trembling from adrenaline, they’d propped B up against them while tossing a throw blanket over the couch to keep it clean. Then, they’d taken stock of the welts painting B’s skin—in truth, it was harder to find skin that wasn’t discolored and shadowed with contusions. B also has a nasty gash on their side, which is where A’s minimal field medicine experience will have to do. They’re probably too late to stave off the infection, but they’ve got to try and stop the bleeding or else…

A shakes their head, blinking the anxious tears from their eyes. Now’s not the time for that. B’s already taking up their evening—they can’t have A’s emotions, too. So with a deep breath, A gets to work.

It’s nearly an hour of wound cleaning, careful stitching, and bandaging before A can sit back and dare to hope that the worst is past. At the very least, the bleeding’s stopped. On the floor next to them is the remains of B’s filthy clothes, which are now replaced with clean, white bandages. Whatever comes next can only be managed.

And for some reason, A finds themselves praying that they can manage.

Now that the adrenaline rush has faded, they can really look at B. Their hair is longer than the last time they saw them, brushing the tops of their eyebrows in tangles and curls from the rain Their eyes are ringed with purple shadows, and the cut of their cheekbones are deeper than when they last met. In unconsciousness, something in their face looks…younger. Softer.

It’s strange. They usually had nothing more than an insult to throw B’s way whenever they met, or a bitter tally of who was winning in the endless feud between them. Now, they’re counting each labored breath, silently begging for a flutter of eyelids, a cough, anything to prove that the care helped some.

After what feels like ages - finally - something. B coughs, and A’s so relieved that they could cry. 

A shudder ripples through B from head to toe, and they tuck their arms close to themselves and gingerly scrunch up on the couch, wincing as the stitches on their sides flex with their movement. Blinking awake, they flick their glassy gaze to A, a question in their eyes.

“You collapsed on my porch.” It’s all A can manage—and frankly, all they know at this point.

B nods, eyes slipping shut, then back open, a long, pendulum swing of consciousness. Then, another shudder.

“D’you have a blanket?” B’s voice is raspy, crackling on the consonants, like they haven’t had a drink in days, and they hug their battered arms closer to themselves. “...‘m freezin’.”

At first, A assumes it’s the chill from the rain that’s got a hold on B, or even the blood loss. But as they gently smooth the layer over B’s bandaged body, they feel the heat radiating off of their skin, even as they shudder.

Fever and chills already. That’s not good.

Still, A keeps the concern from their voice as they tuck a second quilt around B. “You come here and bleed all over my couch, then swipe my blankets, why don’t you.”

B chuckles weakly, eyes still closed. “You’re the fool who let me in.”

“Touché.”

A picks up a tumbler of water they’d poured for themselves earlier and holds it to B’s lips, easing a few sips of water into them. B greedily gulps it down, stopping only when an overzealous gulp turns into a hacking coughing fit. “Easy. You’ll ruin your stitches.”

“Sorry. It’s just…it’s been a while.” Their eyes flick longingly back to the half-full glass.

A doesn’t have the heart to ask why a plain glass of water means so much to them, so they just tilt it back B’s way until the cup is completely empty.

B’s eyes are half-lidded now, and A presses a palm to their feverish forehead. B tilts their head against A’s cupped hand. “Feels good,” they whisper, even as another shiver ripples through them.  

A searches for a snappy retort, but finds none in their exhausted brain as they push to their feet. “Just...stay here. Don’t move.” 

“Where would I go?” Though still weak, B’s raspy voice is tinged with annoyance. 

A ignores them, instead returning with a wet flannel that they press to B’s forehead. B lets out a soft groan of relief, pulling the blankets tighter to their chin even as they burn up. 

“A....I....I’m sorry...bothering you...” 

“Shhhh....hush now. None of that. We’ll talk later. Sleep now.” 

B’s in no position to fight, and their eyelids fall closed as they drift back to sleep. And once again, A prays to whatever deity is listening that the night has mercy on them both.

#hurt comfort #caretaking #enemies #fever whump #sickfic

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Paradise

I was tagged *checks calendar* a month ago (yikes! sorry it took so long!) by @prolix-yuy (thank you!!) in @boliv-jenta's Seven Minutes in Heaven tag game - and had a lovely little time daydreaming up this situation. This is set way after anything I've written yet for the Angelfish Universe, but you don't have to have read those to read this one.

WC: 866

Warning: brief mention of illness and injury, Ezra's blinding beauty in the sunlight

“You know something? I do believe the tales are true, Angelfish.” 

He let out a sigh as he adjusted his arm, tucking it beneath his head. You turned to face him, blades of the long, soft grass you were laying in tickling your cheek as you moved. When you did, you sucked in a small breath at what you saw. 

Oh, look at him. 

Ezra’s eyes were shut, but just barely, the lids smooth, uncreased, his upper lashes resting atop the lower ones. A smile tugged gently at his lips and you saw them part as he took another deep breath of crisp mountain air. Despite the fact that it was nearly twenty degrees cooler at elevation, the sun’s warmth felt stronger up in Sola’s Vale because you were closer to it. You watched the way the light made the shock of silver in his hair seem golden, the rays picking up the scattered grays throughout his curls to make them shine, too. 

He’s so damn beautiful. 

He was. But you’d known that for more than a decade now. What made your heart swell inside your chest was how peaceful he looked. How healthy and happy he was. It had been a long year and a half since he’d come home from his last expedition down a limb and dust-sick. The damned Green Moon had all but destroyed him, leaving his body ravaged by injury and infection. By the time he made it back to you on Lao, he’d been swallowed up by his once-snug clothes, his worn waffle-knit pullover hanging loosely from his diminished frame. He came home looking nothing like your Ezra. 

Fear had never gripped you more tightly than it did in the weeks following his return to the Dunes. There were nights when his fever spiked, days when he struggled to take a breath without collapsing into a wheezing heap, and your were terrified that his recovery had taken a reverse turn. Terrified that after everything you might still lose him. That you and Cee would be left to drown in the wake of his loss. 

But he was so strong. Fought so hard. 

You swallowed, still silently soaking in the sunlight and the way it bathed his skin, and thought of the small steps he started to make when the worst of the sickness was over. Even with medical treatment, his rehabilitation was slow going, minor setbacks here and there trying Ezra’s patience and stoking his frustration. 

But he never gave up. And now we’re here. 

A trip like the one you were on now would have been impossible even six months ago. The interplanetary travel to Cardovan alone would have taken a hefty toll on him. The heavily wooded planet was located near the center of the Heart, but Lao was all the way out where the Seam met the Fringe, making it a six cycle journey through space. Pair that with all the trekking through old growth pine forests and up into the Solaluna Mountains where the air was markedly thinner, and it just would have been too much. 

The fact that you were there together now proved that he truly had healed. That he was going to be okay. That he’d finally gotten through it. And that made you happier than you’d been since before he left for the Bahkroma sector. 

A light breeze swept through the valley to ripple the glassy surface of the lake your campsite was on, ruffling the dark curls near the crown of Ezra’s head. You rolled onto your side and reached over to rake your fingers through them, the contact making his grin stretch wide enough to reveal a flash of white teeth.

I love this man so much. 

Finally responding to his statement with a sun-drunk smile of your own, you inched closer to him. “What tales are those, Ezra?” 

Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his face to kiss the base of your wrist. You sighed at the sensation, shifting so that you could rest your head on his shoulder. His left arm dropped down to curve around your waist. 

“Those that claim that Kevva’s Paradise can be found right here in Sola’s Vale.” 

You felt his words rumbling through his chest and against your cheek, and you let his voice lull your eyes shut, too. “Oh, yeah?” His fingers traced absent minded designs over your hip, drawing a hum from the back of your throat. 

“Well I for one cannot recall a time in my adventurous life when I have witnessed a more beautiful place than this.” He nuzzled the tip of his nose against your temple and inhaled deeply. “And there’s certainly no one besides you, save Birdy of course, who I would want to share it with.”

You hummed again. “Cee would love it here. We’ll have to come back when she’s on semester break.” 

“Agreed.” He pressed his lips to the side of your head again, curling his fingers around your hip at the same time. When he spoke again it was low and directly into your ear. “But while it’s still just the two of us-“ His teeth grazed the upper edge of your ear, your body responding by slinking even closer to him, a pleasant shiver running down your spine. “Let’s share paradise, Angelfish.”

---

tagging: anyone who sees this and wants to share their ideal seven minute daydream <3

#seven minutes in heaven #thanks for the tag!! #paradise #ezra (prospect) #ezra (prospect) x female reader #angelfish au #ezra (prospect) fic #prospect fic #ezra (prospect) x reader #ezra x angelfish

[unholy-screeching9]

NSFW CONTENT WARNING! 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI.

💋

A request from a few friends of mine! For those who’ve left me a request in my asks/messages, I’ll get to them as soon as possible. But they may take a little while.

Enjoy for now! 💋

King Dice x Reader ‘Homeless’ Headcanons

You and your husband are devastated.

King Dice had never had a loss on his game show. Not one. Single. Loss. Every contestant had won his game, even some of the dumbest souls alive.

The show was simple. If someone were to mess up on a song name or question, Dice would give them a helpline, or hint them towards the correct answer.

For fuck’s sake, all contestants had to do was roll any number on the giant dice machine. Any. Goddamn. Number. Losing was impossible at this stage.

Key word: was.

The mess started with a cup. A kid. A stupid fool who couldn’t even name ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’.

Somehow, the child did the impossible. Not only did he lose the game, he lost at the easiest stage. He rolled the dice too hard, and the machine malfunctioned.

You had never seen your husband so panicked in front of an audience before. He threw every excuse under the book.

“That’s actually a good thing!” “When the dice shatters, you go directly to the prize room!”

The audience didn’t buy it. Dice’s facade failed. He failed. No. He didn’t fail, his contestant failed. He’s only reaping the consequences of his contestant’s stupidity. And it crushes him.

Not many people would understand why Dice tried so hard to get that kid to win, but no one knew what happened behind the scenes. No one knows what goes on in those discussions with his boss.

Not even you.

But when your boss is as pretentious as Dice’s, it’s pretty important to do everything right. Every. Single. Thing. There is no room for error. And even though you disagree completely, according to the higher ups, Dice made a terrible mistake in letting that cup get away.

A mistake that is unredeemable.

You wait anxiously outside Dice’s dressing room for the telltale elevator signaling his return. Your heart pounds in your chest. Your skin starts to sweat.

What if he gets into an argument? What if he gets in trouble? Of course he would.

…What if he gets fired?

Oh God, you hope not. If Dice is fired, you both will lose everything. Dice will have wasted years of his time all for nothing. You’d hate that for him.

Your head snaps up when you hear a loud ‘ding!’ as the familiar elevator shoots up from the ground. You hold your breath as your husband steps out, approaching you.

Before you can ask what happened, his arms are wrapped tightly around you. He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. You hug him back, ignoring the slight shakes in his breathing for his sake.

The ride home is dead silent. The walk up to the suite is silent. No words are spoken until you both finally step into the bedroom, Dice sitting on the edge of the bed and lighting up a cigar.

You open your mouth to ask what was going on. Nothing comes out. You can only stare, mouth slightly ajar as Dice takes a long breath of his cigar, exhaling tiredly.

His glassy eyes lock into yours, and he takes your hands. He squeezes them. You squeeze back, hopeful for the best.

He tells you the worst.

“Doll, I’m so so sorry… I lost the show.”

That was months ago. You both kept the large home for as long as possible with the money Dice had put away, but eventually, that ran out.

You both sold all the furniture you had. Gave up electricity. Gas. Heat. Anything to pay the rent. Eventually, you were both out of luck.

Now, you both live on an abandoned mattress in the alley back behind Dice’s old show building. Cold. Hungry. So hungry.

It’s wet. Musty. The mattress is old, creaky, and full of broken springs. But it’s the best you have.

You both wear the same clothes you had on when you walked out of your former suite. You haven’t changed since.

Your only friends anymore are the rats that sneak behind the alley, looking for their next meal. Finally, something to relate to. You both end up scavenging through the garbage just to get by. It’s disgusting. Sickening. But it’s the best you have.

Your hair is matted. Your face is covered in dust and grime. Your clothes are tattered and torn. You feel gross. But your husband sticks by you, and loves you anyway. You can’t thank him enough.

But honestly, he’s in a similar condition. His once pristine and perfectly primed suit is now wrinkled and covered in various stains. Parts of his clothes are torn off. He only has one shoe, having lost his other one somehow.

His mustache is unkempt, and a thick layer of stubble laces the lower half of his face from lack of grooming. The edges of his head are slightly cracked and chipped away.

You both are absolutely miserable, but at least you have each other. That’s the most important thing to you. You wouldn’t want to go on with this without him, and he certainly wouldn’t without you either. You need each other.

Yet, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re hungry. Starving. You’re cold. That mattress is so uncomfortable, you think Dice is starting to get back issues from that thing.

For fuck’s sake, you both are using newspaper as blankets. When you used to eat caviar for the fun of it, your best meal now is leftovers trashed from a nearby brewery. $8000 wine you both drank on the daily is replaced by questionable water and half drank beer bottles.

From riches to rags. In mere months. It’s torture.

The stress of it all takes a huge toll on your husband, and you honestly can’t blame him. You can’t even imagine the guilt he feels for putting you in this position, even though it really wasn’t his fault. But he blames himself.

And he hates himself for it. Why couldn’t he capture a single kid when he had manipulated thousands of adults? Why couldn’t his boss be satisfied with the many souls he collected, instead of firing him over one loss?

Dice scoffs to himself and shakes his head, sitting up on the mattress and leaning back against the brick wall of his old theater.

You slowly open your eyes and glance over at him as he flicks his lighter, pulling out a spare cigar and lighting it up before taking a long, exhausted hit. He looks so tired. He is tired. And irritated. Angry.

Man, if he had the chance, he’d love to give his boss a piece of his mind.

You sit up as well, slowly resting against him as he smokes. Your nose is greeted by the familiar smell of cigar smoke, which is ironically the best scent in the alley. God, you both need a shower.

He sighs, glowering down at you. He loathes seeing you like this. It makes him angry. If there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve this, it’s you.

“You shouldn’t be here, doll.” He states for the hundredth time since you both lost everything. “You don’t have to stay. You deserve better than losing your life over my troubles.”

You sigh softly, your arm resting over his back as you lay your head against his shoulder.

“No, baby.” You reassure him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not only do I have nowhere to start, but I’m not leaving you behind. You’re my husband. Until death do us part, remember?” You offer a gentle smile, your other hand resting on his chest.

Dice grimaces slightly at the memory of your vows. He knows damn well it’s true, and if the tables were turned there’s no way he’d leave your side either.

He just… he can’t bear to watch you eat from a garbage can. He hates watching you force dirty water down your throat just to survive.

He wishes he could change things.

“I… I’m sorry, sugar. I’m so sorry things turned out this way. I never wanted this life for you.” Dice takes another hit from his cigar, exhaling heavily as he breaks away from your graze.

“Honey, it’s not your fault.” You murmur, your hand massaging his shoulder blades. He groans softly and leans into your touch.

“You’re not to blame for this disaster. It’s your boss who’s the jerk, throwing you out at your prime. The world fucked you over. And that’s not your fault, at all…”

Your hand on his chest traces down to his thighs, and you run your fingers along the tight fabric of his slacks. They slowly make their way towards his hardening groin as you continue.

“I could never hold any resentment towards you for this. I love you, King. So much. You deserve so much better than what you’ve been given…”

Dice moves to reply, but he yelps slightly as your hand grabs his crotch. He’s rendered speechless as you gently squeeze and massage his cock through the fabric, dropping his cigar entirely.

You smile slightly as you start to nip at his exposed collarbone, snuggling him as you pamper him. He groans softly and rests his aching head against yours, starting to move his hips into your hand.

“Shit, dear.. now? What if someone sees us? Oh fuck, right there baby… please…”

You giggle softly and shake your head, kissing his cheek, admiring the way his stubble feels on your lips.

“We’re in a dark alley at night time, and there’s no one around. I think we can have a little fun…”

“Ohhh… a-alright, if you insist. It has been a little while.”

You grin at his approval and immediately pull down his slacks, exposing his cock. Hungry and excited, your hand reaches for it and immediately starts pumping.

You relish in your husband’s desperate whines as you fuck him with your hand, cooing gently to him as he grits his teeth.

“You deserve to be treated like a King, even when you’re not at your best. Please, let me help you out~”

“Ohh, sweetness…” Dice moans out, panting heavily. “Please, please don’t stop. I need this. I need you~”

And boy, does he have you. You crash your lips onto his, pumping his cock faster and harder as he grinds his hips into your hand. He groans loudly into your mouth as he quickly reaches his peak, releasing his load into your hand.

He has a lot more in him than usual, you can feel it. You smile as you lick the juices off your fingers, gently running your thumb over Dice’s slit as you look at him fondly.

“You poor dear, it seems like you have a lot more load in you than usual… let’s fix that~”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, your husband pulls you into his lap, lowering you right onto his throbbing dick. You let out a loud moan as he completely fills you up with his length, gripping onto his shoulders as you adjust.

Dice growls slightly and leans forward, ripping open your top. He hungrily starts to nibble and suck on the exposed skin, moaning as he makes his way down to your nipple. You shriek in excitement as he sucks on it, rubbing his thumb over the other.

His mouth is doing wonders on your chest. His hands are working magic on your skin. The way his beard tickles you drives you crazy. You love him so much, no matter how rough around the edges he is. He’s perfect.

Dice’s hands travel to your sides as he starts to thrust into you, ripping moans and whines from your throat left and right. He feels a lot thicker than you’re used to. Very full. You can’t imagine the amount of load he’s been holding onto.

Soon, you’ll be holding it inside of you.

Excited by the thought, you begin to bounce on and off of him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. In retaliation, Dice reaches up and yanks on your hair, removing his mouth from your nipple and instead crashing his lips onto yours.

Every single groan he makes turns you on even more. Every thrust brings you closer and closer to release, but you hold it in. You want your husband to release first. You need to feel just how much seed he has in him. You need him to fill you to the brim.

No. You need him to stuff you beyond your limits. You need to be overloaded.

It’s been too long since you last fucked each other like this. The last time was in the comfort of your old home, in the silky sheets. On a much nicer, more comfortable mattress. In a much better smelling environment.

But at some point, you get too desperate to care about your surroundings. At some point, you don’t care about how broke you are. How hungry, how cold, how wet you are. How musty it is. How much it smells. None of it matters.

It’s been months since you both have satisfied each other. Months. Dignity be damned. If anyone saw you both, you’d worry later.

Right now, it’s just you, him, and the shitty mattress. And you love it.

You love the feeling of his thick, throbbing cock slamming into your hole. The sounds of skin slapping against skin. Your husband’s husky voice as he moans into your mouth. How hot your insides feel.

And man, does your husband look hot, wrestling his tongue with you as he pounds into you. You don’t mind the sweaty smell, or the ripped clothes. You don’t mind the scratchiness of his stubble. In fact, you actually quite like it.

You like him. You love him. And by god, does he love you.

You squeeze your hands on the sides of his head, rubbing over his pips to try and get him to go harder. In response, he growls loudly and bites on your lip, quickening his pace. Good heavens, you can feel how much he has inside of him.

He’s going to explode into you until he’s milked dry. You’re gonna be full for the next week.

He releases his mouth from yours, groaning loudly as he rams into you.

“Doll-! I’m close! Fuck! FuckfuckfUCK-!”

You brace yourself, but it’s not enough to prepare you for the sheer power of Dice’s release.

His cock practically bursts inside of you. His juices shoot out from him, and god, it keeps on coming. He’s been holding onto this for months. There is so much. You wonder if you’ll be able to hold all of it.

You whimper and whine in pleasure as you reach your own climax, your hands squeezing his shoulders as your own fluids burst out of you, dripping onto your clothes and Dice’s.

Oh well. Your clothes are already stained and beaten, what’s one more?

Holy shit, Dice is still filling you up. He’s grinding against you as he rides out his high, and you feel his seed start to overflow inside of you.

So much so, that your stomach extends slightly.

He whimpers slightly, head resting on your chest. He nibbles down on your skin, slowly reaching his limit. You’re milking him completely dry, and he loves that feeling of satisfaction as he finally releases every last drop of load he has.

You take it all.

Once you both start to come down from ecstasy, you breathe heavily and just hold onto each other. Neither of you dare to move.

Dice’s cock is still inside of you, twitching occasionally. You say nothing about it. In fact, it’s probably for the best that he keeps it there. If he pulls out now, you’ll surely spill some of his juices.

Dice holds you close, rubbing your back and finally chuckling slightly as you keep him warm.

“Sorry pumpkin, I might’ve overfilled you just a tad… please do your best to keep it all inside though. I’m sure it’ll keep you full for a while~”

You moan softly and nod to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

You both stay still for a few minutes, basking in each other’s presence. You take comfort in his heavy breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, and the feeling of his dick still inside of you, keeping warm.

Eventually, Dice gently lifts you off of him, laughing softly as his juices immediately start running down your legs. He realllly stuffed you good.

You pant heavily as you collapse beside him, leaning against him. You’re still leaking. You watch as the white liquid oozes out of you, and begin to close your legs when Dice stops you, removing his glove.

“Not to worry, baby. Here, let me.”

You open your mouth to question, but you can’t even get a word out before Dice’s fingers gently enter your hole, one by one. Eventually, three fingers are inside, effectively closing you off and stopping the leak.

For fun, your lover cheekily starts to pump his digits in and out of you, earning a stream of pleasured whimpers and cries from you. He’s driving you crazy.

Fuck, it feels so good.

You let him continue, gripping onto him and squeezing your eyes shut. He feels amazing. Every single part of him. From his face, to his dick, to his fucking fingers. He’s perfect. Even in this state.

Eventually he stops, but keeps his fingers inside of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging onto him. Your faces are inches apart, your breaths mingling together.

He smiles tiredly at you, and you smile back. You kiss, and rest peacefully against each other.

Even when homeless, with no money, no food, nothing but the clothes on your back and other people’s trash, you both still suppose things could be worse.

As long as you have each other, you’re never truly at rock bottom.

#king dice x reader #cuphead #king dice #the cuphead show #cuphead dont deal with the devil #smut #king dice headcanons #headcanons

[birdybirdbirdbird]

“I really wanted a family, Darlin.”

Steve x Fem reader!!

This is fucking ANGST with little/no comfort, heavy TW for pregnancy and miscarriages, read at your own risk ⚠️

-

-

Steve could still remember when you first had told him that you were pregnant. All he could feel was fear, and excitement. Steve worried that he would be like his own father, that he would be a bad father for his child. He knew you would be a good mother but he? he was worried. He knew how he was, he knew his ‘worth’ compared to others. But he promised you that he would try.

And he was. Steve was there at all your doctors appointments. He was there when their obstetrician told you that your pregnancy was officially labeled high risk. And he swears to god that he felt his heart start pounding with fear when you and him shared a look. Steve truly didn’t know how he was able to keep it together until the pair returned to his car, it was only there that you two clutches each other, crying.

Three visits. You had three visits and every single time Steve felt terrified each time. Feeling the worry every single time leading up to your appointment, while you both silently prepared for the possibility that your OB would find nothing. That this dream that Steve and you had begun to build would burn down to ash, leaving two skeletons behind.

Then; that fourth visit happened. Like usual, you and steve prepared for the worst, only this time, when you heard it? when you both heard that horrible silence? It was worse than anything Steve Randle had ever experienced. The silence was so deafening he swore that you could hear his heart pounding. Everything felt heavy, it took the greaser too long to look at you, seeing your eyes fill with tears, voice wobbly when she thanked her OB for their time.

After that, everything felt dull. Steve stopped caring about cars. Rumbles stopped giving him adrenaline. Kissing you was less sweet. He felt as if he aged twenty years in just the span of just twenty seconds. He often caught himself looking at your stomach, and suddenly he’d feel ill.

It took months until the pair of you seemed ‘normal’ again, though, the topic was still taboo, even for the couple itself. Not a soul would bring up the baby, the miscarriage, anything.

It took until one night, Steve and You had gotten drunk, and you were both laying in bed, cuddling, when Steve finally spoke. His eyes were glassy as he stared up at the ceiling and went,

“I really wanted to start a family with you, darling.”

The sudden wobbly voice made you start to tear up as well, your hands shaking as they gripped Steve’s calloused and cracked ones.

“I wanted one too, I wanted a little girl that you could spoil, or a boy that looked exactly like you,” You mumbled back, looking as his hand traced your stomach in a gentle manner, so soft that you’d believe it to be the air.

Sometimes things just aren’t meant to end in happiness, but You two had eachother, and that was as good as it was gonna get. Steve figured that he could handle mourning the loss of his child, so long as you were mourning for them too. You’ll survive this, but only together.

#steve randle #steve randle x reader #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders headcanons #sodapop curtis #the outsiders #sodapop imagine #Steve randle imagine #two bit matthews #darry curtis

[ibrithir-was-here]

(A little late but i got inspired by a poem while looking for ideas for the prompt and yeah xD Jumping back to toddler Daniel for this one)

Proffer

'Tis said ENJOYMENT (who averred

The charge belonged to her alone)

Jealous that HOPE had been preferred

Laid snares to make the babe her own.

Of INNOCENCE the garb she took,

The blushing mien and downcast look;

And came her services to proffer:

And HOPE (what has not Hope believed!)

By that seducing air deceived,

Accepted of the offer.

------- William Wordsworth, "The Birth of Love"

"Put. Him. Down."

"Oh but Robert, a moment ago you were only too happy to hand dear little Danny boy over to me when I proffered my help. Why the change of heart? Didn't I show up at just the right moment when he was making such a fuss? When you so desired a helping hand?"

If looks could kill, then the one Hob was giving Desire would have done the job several times over, and once more for good measure.

"Pretending to be a grieving mother was low even for you Desire." Hob growled, remembering the sob story Desire's false self had given, and how Hob had felt bad enough for her and the loss she'd suffered that he'd taken up the woman's offer to help calm Daniel down.

"Tell me does it ever get tiring being a little tw-"

"Tsk tsk Robert!" Desire cut in, shaking a finger at him with their free hand as they continued to bounce Daniel, holding the toddler on their hip with the other. "Such language in front of the baby!"

Several other words that would not be appropriate in front of the baby shot across Hob's mind.

"What do you want Desire?" Hob finally asked, his teeth gritted and eyes narrow, wondering if by any miracle he might be able to rush the Endless without endangering Daniel. If the toddler 's safety weren't a concern Hob would have decked Desire already. A fine babysitter he'd turned out to be. Dream has to step out for some sort of dream emergency and not a half hour later Hob hands over his charge to his partner's worst sibling. Just perfect.

"What do I want?" Desire said innocently, as though the question surprised them. "I suppose I just wanted to see what all the fuss is about. You know I haven't gotten to spend any quality time with little Daniel here."

At this Desire lifted Daniel up to nuzzle their cheeks together, and Hob's fists clenched so hard he felt them crack. Daniel was gazing at Desire with a glazed over sort of look that made Hob's stomach churn, and when the glassy eyed baby pressed his head against Desire's chest Hob thought he might actually be ill.

"Awww he likes me!" Desire crowed, snuggling Daniel closer to them and carding their long, perfectly manicured fingers through his downy curls.

"Well when he's all sweet and quiet like this I suppose I can see some of the appeal. He calmed right down when I took him, didn't he?" They giggled as Daniel, worn out from his earlier tantrum and mind fuzzy with Desire's glamour, started to yawn.

"Yeah regular Mother's Little Helper you are, adverse side effects and all" Hob spat, flexing his fingers and thinking he'd very much like to wrap them around Desire's throat.

Desire, for their part, simply continued to grin smugly and bounce Daniel as they sauntered around Hob in a slowly predatory circle.

"It really is annoying how little my charms affect you now that you and Sweet Dream have finally gotten all cozied up. Just think what fun you and I and Danny baby could have playing house right now if you weren't so stuck on Mr. Tall Dark and Dramatic"

As Desire moved behind him they leaned in close to whisper, "And after we put the baby to bed you could wrap your hands around my neck all you--"

There was an absolutely blinding strike of lightning followed by the loudest thunder crack Hob had ever heard. It shook his office so hard that every picture fell off the wall and a crack split through the window from side to side.

It took Hob a few moments to regain both his sight and hearing, and when they did it was to the sound of Daniel crying and the sight of Dream, hair wild, eyes flashing, towering taller than the room's ceiling could surely admit; Daniel held firmly in his arms and Desire cowering at his feet.

"Run"

"Now d-dear Dream I was only having a bit of-"

"NOW"

Desire had disappeared before Dream's "NOW" had finished rattling the walls.

A second later Hob found himself being helped to his feet by one of Dream's hands on his elbow, Dream shrunk down to human size with a sniffling Daniel on his hip, hiding his face against Dream's chest.

Hob rather felt like he'd like to do that himself at the moment, but he contented himself with wrapping an arm around Dream's waist as his love's arm tightened around his shoulders, and wrapping Daniel about with the other, encircling the crying boy within his and Dream's arms.

"Hey hey love, it's alright, you're ok. That was kinda scary huh? All that loud noise? Papa didn't mean to scare you, he was just worried, cuz he loves you so much. You're ok now baby it's ok".

As he continued shushing Daniel, Hob finally looked to Dream; his eyes were still blazing with exploding stars, though the rest of him had settled back down into his human form.

"I felt Desire's influence on him when he slipped into the Dreaming" Dream said, his voice a low rumble so as not to further frighten Daniel, though there was an edge to it like steel. "I am sorry I did not return sooner".

"You got here, that's all that matters" Hob reassured him, dropping his head against Dream's shoulder next to the now quiet Daniel and pulling Dream closer. "We're both alright".

"You might not have been".

"But we are".

And Hob shushed any further argument for the moment with a kiss to Dream's lips, before dropping one onto Daniel's head as well. The baby sighed, snuggling closer to Dream, who soon followed Hob's lead in reverse. First pressing a soft kiss to Daniel's curls, then a firmer one to Hob's mouth. "You are, and I shall keep it so".

"I know you will love, I know you will".

#my writing #endless heirs au #eventually we're gonna get to that second heir just gotta find the right prompt but starting to set it up #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling #dream x hob #daniel hall #desire of the endless #the sandman #the sandman netflix #sandman fic #morpheus

[valaruakars]

Send Nudes 💌

Viktor x f!Reader || 2.2k || NSFW

As the titles says. You slip Viktor your nudes and let the chaos unfold. 

♥ One 👏 day 👏 project 👏 Might edit it on Saturday. Probs not tho.

warnings: voyeurism, masturbation, lil bit of blowjob, idk it’s really not that bad 

Viktor expects a morning much like every other in the lab, and in many ways, it is.

He arrives just before Jayce, with enough time to get the heat running, make coffee and peck at a muffin you’ve sent with him, settling nicely into the day. His partner enters with the usual ‘good morning,’ and today it’s a spirited greeting accented with an eager smile. Jayce immediately jumps into routine, gathering what he needs to set himself up for another day of progress.

As Viktor takes up residence at his desk, hefting his bag onto the as of yet uncluttered surface, Jayce approaches with an easy request.

“Oh hey, before you get started, can I borrow your notes on the resonance equation?”

“Of course,” he nods, rummaging through his bag without a second thought, “Let me— Ah, here.”

Jayce takes the tattered brown book into his hands, cracking it open as he turns on his heel to go. “Thanks, I’ll get it back to you—” He manages one step before he slams it shut and whirls around, shoving it back at Viktor with bizarre urgency, his voice strangled when he says, “Now. Right now.”

Bewildered, he looks down at the notebook now clutched to his chest, then back to his partner, who is red-faced to the tips of his ears. “Jayce, what—” he tries, but is cut off by the heavy clap of Jayce’s hand on his shoulder.

“Wow man, I’m… so happy for you. Just uh, forget I saw anything, okay?” he insists, pointedly avoiding eye contact, “I’ll work on something else today.”

At a total loss for how to respond, Viktor weakly echos “Okay…” to his hastily retreating back.

It takes only the span of two heartbeats before curiosity overtakes him and Viktor is scrambling to see what the hell could have shaken his friend so thoroughly, and oh.

Oh.

Stuck between the pages, rendered in black and white, is you. Several iterations of you, evidently, but the one on top, the one Jayce saw… His face burns. You, lips parted, chest bared, letting your sheer little robe slip down the arms cradling your naked breasts. The worst—maybe best?—part is this: your neck, proudly exposed, is absolutely ravaged with a dark mosaic of marks only he could have left there. It dawns on him, the way your hair is mused and your distant stare glassy, that you undoubtedly took this after he fucked you thoroughly and left.

You are an unsubtle thing, at times ruthless in your pursuit of his affections. And this is so unmistakably you, to turn your lust into something so temptingly beautiful, for if your body is fine art then he is a connoisseur.

And there’s more.

But Viktor quickly, carefully as not to damage them, shuffles your pictures into his vest pocket where they can rest heavy near his riotous heart. You are thoughtful. You are wicked.

It’s going to be a very long day.

And true to form, the hours until evening move at a glacial pace. Little work of the collaborative sort can be accomplished when his partner will hardly look in his direction. It leaves him to simmer on high somewhere between embarrassment that Jayce might think him an absolute pervert and jealously that the wrong man saw your brazen gifts first. Well, at least one of them.

At regular intervals, his fingers itch to pull them out and glance for the briefest moment at how else you’ve posed yourself for his viewing pleasure. But his mind tuts disapprovingly that things like this are meant to be savored and there is work to be done that doesn’t involve a frivolous boner.

Regardless, hardly anything gets done before the bulk of the day has passed at a snail’s pace.

He waits fifteen excruciating minutes past seven and then finally excuses himself to dinner like it’s simply an afterthought, but the tap of his cane blatantly announces his hurried, eager pace. Jayce waves over his shoulder and says nothing, hardly looks up from his writing, and thank the gods for it.

You’ve beaten him back to your apartment. Of course you have, since this was so clearly a trap. You’re not trying to hide it, smiling at him in the mirror like you’ve triumphed as you languidly brush out your hair. Wearing that slinky, nearly translucent slip and the very same robe from your picture, spilling off one shoulder suggestively.

“I was starting to think you didn’t quite get the message,” your reflection says without preamble, setting down the brush amongst your clutter of bottles and baubles.

“(Y/N),” he sighs, sliding his coat from his shoulders, “Will you never just… tell me what you want?”

“A little credit please, I can definitely be blunt. But there’s not much romance in that. Besides, if I had said this morning ‘please come home early and fuck me’ you would have forgotten by now.”

“Write me a note next time,” he quips all too carelessly.

“You’d prefer a note?” Your face blanches like you’ve been struck, curdling swiftly into anger as you pivot in your chair to look at him directly, “Seriously?”

“No, no—” he says, quick to amend the implication that he didn’t like what he saw, “That was, ah, very thoughtful. But do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I think I do,” you simper, dragging your eyes shamelessly down to stare at the outline of his cock, “I’m sure it was awfully hard to get any work done today. Did you try thinking with the head on your shoulders, hm?” But you can’t ever take yourself too seriously, snickering at your own little joke.

“I did,” he says dryly, “That was not the issue.” The delicate arch of your brow is prompt enough. “We had collaborative work planned for today, but Jayce could hardly speak to me.”

“Why…?”

“I lent him my notebook.”

“That notebook?”

“Yes.”

“But you took the pictures out first, right?” He doesn’t respond neither immediately nor affirmatively, and your voice pitches up an octave. “Right?”

“How could I have, (Y/N)? I hadn’t seen them yet.”

“Oh. Oh, oops—” you snort, much less mortified than you ought to be, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, “Embarrassing, but at least I had the good sense to put the tamest one on top.”

“That was… tame?”

“Um, yes?” you scoff, canting your head curiously, “I think that’s pretty obvious. Unless… Did you not see all of them?”

“There was no good time to look,” he says softly, finally moving in closer to pet your pretty hair, “And I hoped you might show me instead.” His hand migrates to your shoulder, brushing down the thin strap of your slip as he presses his lips to your temple, whispering, “Why would I need pictures when I can have the real thing?”

When you are bold enough to touch his cheek, turning your head to catch his lips, he obliges you one long, thorough kiss. He seizes the opportunity to slide that paper-thin garment off your shoulders entirely, letting it gather around your waist. Exposed and at the mercy of his cold, calloused hands, you flinch beneath his frigid touch as he moves to cradle the softness of your breast. Whether from the chill or the sweet sensation, you shiver beneath him as his thumb brushes over your nipple; once, twice, until you finally make a lovely, breathy sound for him.

It’s quite flattering the way your body chases his lips when he pulls away, wanting more so involuntarily.

He offers you a hand as you rise to your feet, sending you off in the direction of the too empty bed. You have an awfully confused look on your rosy face, an adorable crinkle to your brow, when he drags the chair you’d been occupying to the end of the bed. How sad, that it pales and you look so stricken when he moves to sit, laying his cane on the floor.

“I—I didn’t think you meant… that.”

“Is this a problem?” he asks thickly, a trace of humor on his tongue. Moving to unfasten his pants, he baits you skillfully, “Are you suddenly shy, lyubov?”

“No,” you mutter, an indignant sound, slinking onto the bed with a huff. You seem mad, but fuck, he can’t help noticing the delicious sway of your breasts as you settle in on your knees. “It just feels like you’re punishing me.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he soothes, drawing out his cock and letting you watch, open-mouthed and entranced, that first stroke of his hand, “Is this not what you hoped for?”

“When I’m not around, sure,” you pout, torn between staring at his hand and his lust-blown eyes, “But I’m here and very willing to put my mouth on you.”

“No, thank you,” he hums, and regrets it slightly for the dry friction he has relegated himself to. A deeply obscene voice in his mind whispers to make you lean over and spit on his cock, but he’s lucid enough to believe that might cross a line into degrading when you already seem cagey. “I would prefer to see the content of your next picture now.”

“Asshole,” he hears you grumble beneath your breath, whispering for you to be nice, my darling in return.

He strokes himself languidly, letting his legs fall wider apart despite the faint protest in his hip. An appreciative little groan falls unbidden from his lips as you arrange yourself, revealing your salacious lack of panties. Your pose isn’t quite as lewd as expected; rather, it’s teasingly sensual as you curl onto your side, knees pulled toward your chest, toes pointed just so, to allow him a complete view of your perfect ass. The peek of your cunt, already wet and wanting, is only a bonus. He wonders distantly if you’re replicating the expression too, your teeth sunk into your lip, a curious stare cast over your shoulder. “That’s two of four,” you remind him helpfully, wiggling your strong thighs temptingly, “Let me know when you get tired of your hand.”

“Mmhm. Next, please,” he says dismissively, loosening his tie where it feels tight around his flushed neck.

You shift up onto your knees once again, pulling the slip entirely off your body. This. This is what he was anticipating. You spread your hips wide and sink into a deep spread, leaning back just slightly to show off your swollen lips and ruefully untouched clit. Your hands reach up to cradle the back of your head, tangling into your hair, and the stretch of your breasts is an exquisite sight. You hum a laugh as you bounce yourself for embellishment, evidently loosening up under his watchful eye. “Oh wow,” you snicker from above him, “You look close.”

“I do not,” he scoffs, but his body is beginning to tell him otherwise, if he listens.

“Consider that I’ve seen what your face looks like when you cum,” you whisper with the dulcet voice of a complete smart-ass. At least you don’t need to be told to take up the last position.

You do that of your own accord, turning onto your hands and knees. But it gets so much worse. You bow your body to the headboard, pressing your cheek down into the mattress, and spread your thighs before him so that, unimpeded, he can see everything. Your hand snakes between your legs, coming to grip the skin right where your thighs and soaking cunt meet, but going no further. Of course, it would ruin the view. But he’s well past that now.

The cord in him is drawn very, very tight. He’s always had an embarrassingly easy time getting off just thinking about you, never mind looking straight at the compromising bend of your body, how devastatingly wet you get for him.

“Come here,” he rasps, voice dangerously close to cracking.

“No, you come here,” you demand, finally dragging your fingers down the drenched expanse of your folds with a sigh.

“(Y/N), pozhaluysta—” he pleads, trying to impart upon you the gravity of the situation, “—I can’t.”

And whether that means he’s too close, literally can’t get up, or just can’t fuck you like that today, it doesn’t matter. You get it. You get it to the point that you scramble off the bed and practically throw yourself to the floor at his feet, hands gripping his thighs reassuringly as you search his face for instruction.

“Your mouth,” he hisses through gritted teeth, and there’s barely time before he’s spilling in thick rivulets across your tongue and down your throat. He is struck by the realization that you’re not just making pleased little sounds around his cock for the hell of it. No, you’ve got a hand cradled between your legs and you’re writhing on your knees against it, coming completely undone alongside him.

“Enough,” he breathes, coaxing your mouth off him. Your heavy head falls against his thigh as the last tremors of your orgasm wrack your body, and he pets your hair, soothes your cheek through it.

Your voice is small, your breathing still ragged when you whisper, “You’re going back, aren’t you?”

“I have to,” he sighs, tucking himself away, “But not yet. After dinner.”

“Oh,” you say, your voice a tight, hesitant thing, “So… am I dinner?”

“No, I was being literal,” he laughs, a soft, resonant sound, “But you’ve been good to me, lyubov. You could be dessert.”

#viktor #arcane #viktor x reader #viktor x f!reader #viktor arcane #arcane fanfiction #reader insert #my writing #40% perfect adderall brain #60% unfiltered idiot brain #100% unedited #and now you know why i don't try to write things in a day oops #nEVER AGAIN

[muffindaddystyles]

Soft dom harry makes subby reader upset subspace?

MEANIE ANGRY H :D BUCKLE UP FELLAS

Y/N's day is been shitty so far. It started with an ache in her lower abdomen from Harry’s morning stiffy bulging against her asscheeks fattening everytime he snuggled into her to hoard her warmth and blankies and to stuff his face in her neck with incoherent blabbering.

She wanted to wake him up with her hand, mouth, hole— anything around his cock and to please him and dull the burny feeling in her tummy -- but -- she had an important workshop at UNI that was must needed to be attended.

The time she managed to knock herself out of her needy and lusty headspace, she was getting late and whirling around the room and closest like a thunderstorm -- burying a snoring Harry under the heaps of clothes and littering the floor with her shoes collection, the kitchen got treated much more worst with maids being not around (she’s used to Harry waking up earlier than her and making her a full course brekkie) after making a laughable ruckus of cabinets all she stuffed her mouth with was a chocolate protein bar.

The stars were still not in her favour. She was grabbing onto her hair until far when she missed the bus (she usually don’t take buses, Harry makes sure the driver drop her off safe and secure) and it started raining leaving Y/N with nothing but a bare head to take all of it as she already left the bus shelter to stop a taxi.

If all of that wasn’t much of a tragedy and humiliating, Y/N slipped the moment she stepped out of the vehicle and on the slippery curbs of the building, she saw her life flashing right infront of her eyes as the papers tucked in her armpit fled everywhere and landed on the rainy mud sadistically along her. It gave her a serious hit in her ankle and completely yanked her hip, still being a stubborn-head she picked herself and went inside despite how many glares the cleaning staff threw her way for bringing the dirt with her feed all over the shiny floors.

She felt bad.

Stupidly bad.

Her workshop teachers were kind enough to accept her late arrival, but her designs for fall got rejected and they’d have been a huge milestone for her to get her dream internship.

Y/N felt awfully, teeny, pathetic and little while slumping into the corner of the bus and holding her breath to refrain from crying these little liquidy bitches out of her eyes.

Reaching back home she was met with pure chaos, bumping into petrified and agitated employs from Harry’s company scurrying out of their main foyer and she could persist but to ask what happened only to be informed in stammers that the staff messed up big and caused a loss of million dollars— making Harry terribly mad and fire people left and right.

It wasn’t a joke at all.

Because once, she steps inside, bag falling from her shoulder as she sighs in exhaustion feeling her muscles stiffening everywhere but one particular spot's hurting wrenchingly— her foggy mind couldn’t figure it out yet. She peeks into Harry’s home office to be met by a very annoyed, aggrieved, furious Harry pacing in his office all whilst with a phone against his ear shouting at someone who was destined to be humiliated today just like her and she pouts gingerly seeing his features skewered tightly into displeasure, the vein that curves along his temple prominent with blood pumping erratically in his body.

His head snaps up at the door’s creak and albeit his eyes softens a little, the kink of brows and the scowl on his lips is still there and he watches her paddle towards him carefully knowing anything at the moment would burst his chimneys out and she wants to be good for her daddy.

“Hi.” She speaks timidly, pout getting more rusty when the greetings not returned and instead he keeps all of his attention on the phone keeping a loose arm around her.

She grumbles, when he gestures down at her to give him a sec and untangles himself from her walking away and huffing and puffing into the phone.

How could he!

She feels so denied and rejected and kicked like it’s done to those affection starved lil puppies.

Her clingy tendencies flying high drunk and wooly. The needy beastie inside her wanting nothing more than take a bath where Harry could cream her back in her favourite berry bubbles, massaging her head and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, then lots and lots of cuddles, maybe he'll be generous enough and let her keep him snug inside her while they watch movie because she had such an awful day.

But, No! He's trying to escape free from her because she’s such a burden for him now.

Her eyes turns glassy, her shoulders slumping sadly and out of nowhere she’s feeling cold and barren as Harry’s voice becomes a wafting fume for her— an indication she has gone under too much.

“Daddy . . .” She stomps behind him, circling his footsteps like a whiny puppy and grapples at his dress shirt gasping sullenly when he swats her dainty hands away and glares down at her in dominance, his tone harsh as he blocks the receiver with his palm and mouths at her with a huff, “Stop being needy fo’ once. I’ve clearly some important issues to care for, Y/N.” Poor Y/N's deathly grip on his shirt loosens sorrowfully and her chin wobbles as she nodded still wanting to be good for him and if it wasn’t enough to give her the biggest heartbreak of the year— he even rolled his eyes at her too grumping under his breath about something how he turned her into a spoiled brat himself.

“Okie. . .” Her voice strangled and small. She shrinks into herself but wasn’t paid any heed from Harry and without another word she leaves him as to be it.

Having a huge breakdown in her room didn’t help at all. A painful headache hitting her like a train as she clumsily strips down, wearing one of his t-shirt heavily drenched in his scent he keeps for her under her pillow anytime she needs it and hides under the blankets with tears still running down her swollen cheeks— slipping into a light slumber from all of weariness and crying.

Once the smoke cleared from Harry’s mind and his capabilities of rational thinking coming back to him, he was reminded of how he denied his baby of his littlest of affection and tenderness when she clearly looked so glum and sad and upset.

He wanted to whip himself in head.

He’s such a twat that he let work come between them.

He curses himself. Making a sprint to his bedroom, knowing he’d find her none other than there and he was right puffing out a disheartened sigh when his eyes falls over his princess buried under all of these layers of blankets, he crawls up towards her carefully not to startle her awake.

Grunting at himself when he finds she’s been crying, he strokes a thumb up her blushy cheeks and her wet lashes, kissing her puffy eyelids and her little sad unhappy pout away.

He frowns. Feeling her feverish and flushed under his hand, “Hey puppy . . .” He thumbs down her throat getting a little fretful when she doesn’t stirs, however she’s such a squirmy little one and he moves the blankets away to let her body cool itself smiling proudly at his shirt swallowing her whole is when she snuggled herself more into her stuffie letting the shirt ride up her thighs and hips exposing a ghastly bruise of red and purples and he frowns not remembering it being there before.

Now. He feels shittier. Wanting to jump of the cliff for being a shitty sadist boyfriend to his only beloved.

“No!” Y/N whimpers loudly, squirming away from his touch as he examines her gently and it sent shockwaves to each of her tissues and lions causing her an undeniable pain.

“Puppy, shh, shh. ‘s just me, making sure if y'okay.” He scrambles closer to her towering her to cradle her face and kiss the tip of her nose—- his face falls drastically and his heart cracks miserly when Y/N pushes him away with a sorrowful mumble not even letting him wipe the drool away from the corner of her mouth as he usually does.

“’M okay . . .” She tries to knuckle the sleepiness away with shivery hands, “No you’re not —...” He’s cut off by her angry pout and her silly efforts to keep as much distance between them as possible, “I don’t need, Daddy . . ‘m big and I could take care of me self.” At her puny waver realization dawns upon Harry and his brows shoots up to his hairline feeling nauseous and terrible for not taking care of his babylove earlier.

He’d have never let her be away from him if he knew she was in her subspace.

“Y/N baby . . . I didn’t mean it, darling —--...” With gentleness he tries to approach her but she wraps her arms around her petite figure in a protective manner, haziness taking best of her and Harry’s chest suffocates into itself, being a dom it’s your responsibility to make your subby feel protected, loved and happy and he even failed at that.

He quickly cups both of her hot cheeks in his nippy palms when she hiccups sadly, a sob threatening to slip out, “Yes you did! You meant it. Said you spoiled me, I don’t want your money, promise! I just want you and y'shooed me away saying Y/N’s too needy . . .” Harry flinches at her words. He never even spared a thought to this negativity that she chooses to be with him for his money because he knows out of all the people she’s the only one who loves him out of the boundaries of status and money.

He realises how stabbing they'd have been to her when she was so sensitive and floaty wanting nothing more, just him.

How deep she has gone if she’s taking her own name in third person.

“’M sorry baby. So sorry. Swear on myself, didn’t mean to hurt my baby, knows tha’ work shouldn’t be an excuse t’ make y'feel unloved—- but those bastards got a tick outta me.” He rambles on frantically. Afraid she’ll think he’s lying and would finally make up her mind to leave him.

“You didn’t?” She asks with so much innocence Harry nearly cries out, “’Course I didn’t! How could I? You could never be needy, Bab. I love you so much and you’re my whole word, forgive me please?”

“You’re forgiven,” She let a small smile flutter up her features, a tinge of gleam in her previous dull eyes brightening the whole room and Harry immediately bunches her up in his lap.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks her, not sure if she still needs space from him and would rather be better without him but she bobs her head shyly and he chuckles softly before touching their lips together into a tender loving kiss and brushes their noses up and down murmuring sweetly coy to her.

“Now, could y'tell daddy how y'got this bruise baby? How did ya get hurt?” He coos, brushing her sweaty hair back and rubs her sweet gland behind her ear delicately, “Oh yeah . . . this, was raining and slipped.” She murmurs, hissing a gasp jolting away when Harry glides his fingers gently down her hip bone and fresh tears springs in her eyes as she buries herself in his chest, “Daddy hurts. . .” . “Oh babypie. Daddy’s g'na take care of his love.” He lays her down gently kissing her forehead when she whines for him to keep on holding her, “’M right here darling. G'na prep us a bath, make my baby alright.” Saying this he quickly disappears inside the washroom and next their room’s sursuring with marble tub filling with warm water, Harry throws in her favourite pink coloured bath bombs and rose essences and throws their towels in the warmer coming back with her as he left her to be, he has decided he’s gonna love on her whole night, “My baby’s the best, ain’t she? She’s my bestest girl.” He coos down at her sweetly and slides his forearms under her knees and back picking her up carefully and brings her to his chest securely.

She closes her eyes, biting down a whimper when Harry dips them in the water some it sloshing down the edges of bathtub and it envelopes them and gives a stingy feeling to her bruise before soothing it down.

He rubs her arms, and circles smoothing patterns on her tummy and kisses her a gallons as she melts in his embrace and he let’s her sink into him more, nibbling and sponging wet ticklish kisses on her neck making her purr and become a puddle of softness in his hold while she takes her time to mumble all the bad events that happened to her and he felt so guilty of not asking her how she’s and how her day went when she came to him, in need of some of his lovin.

“I love you so much, bab.” He suckles her earlobe, toying and plucking her bottom plush lip, “Was prick to me love —.. you deserve all my lovin,” He noses at her jaw, not forgetting it to mark it with his pecks and sloppy bites.

“’S okay daddy, y'had a bad day too.” He’s grateful to have her in his life. She cares about him, maybe more than he does for her and he feels himself lucky for it.

“You want me to help you relax?”

“Can I have you?” Her tone bashfully desperate and coy, Harry meanders their fingers together and kisses her knuckles softly.

Considering her wound still being sore and pulp, having sex would be painful for her and she might not grasp it in her hazy mind but Harry doesn’t want to hurt at all.

He plants a little noisy smooch to her shoulder when she nods, she mews and purrs when Harry glides his palm all the way down her body and cups her pussy digging his palm into her mound and coats his digits with her arousal dipping the pads of his fingers into her entrance, “All this wet f'me?” Palming her tits while whispering sweet nothings into her ear when she gasps and closes up on Harry scratching nails into his bended knees.

“Shh, shh puppy, jus' relax hmm? Feel yourself.” With sputtery inhales she does as he says, soon two of his fingers slips inside her and he strokes her pussy and pulls them out making her all whiny and pushes them back with a squelching noise, fucking her with it smiling and stopping when her thighs parts falls again his’s completely.

“Daddy!” She writhes and whines, trembly hands trying to bring Harry fingers back to her pulsating wetness, “You’re the cutest.” He smiles against her lips giving her cheeks several squishes and pats her head loving to see his adorable princess all flustery for him.

On her demands. He slicks his fingers back inside her and caresses the insides of her thighs while she pants and sinks onto his knuckles blabbering out daddydaddydaddy weepily.

“Cum fo’ me, puppy. Feels good? Yeah? My baby feels nice?” He rasps in her mouth, curving and petting the soft spot inside her pussy and sucks onto her upper lip when she moans and mewls loudly gushing all over his finger and he keeps on fucking her till she’s all sleepy and balmy against his chest.

Harry coaxes her tenderly, smoothing his hands all over her twitchy spots and patches sloppy kisses all over her face that makes her all giggly and shy—- the amount of endorphins spiking high in her system.

“Love you so much, daddy.” She mushes puckering her lips into his throat.

“Love you too, pup.”

#dom harry x subby y/n #dom harry x sub reader #dom!h x sub!reader #dom!h x sub!y/n #dom harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles story #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #cute harry #harry styles #harry smut #harry styles fanfiction #fluff #harry angst #hsh

[jb2856]

The Pain of Loss

(T.H.)Peter Parker X GN!Reader

Warnings: spoilers for NWH(sort of), angst, loss of family member, mentions of blood, big sad

A/N: Oh little me and my tortured little soul. I just saw NWH and I thought of my own little scene. Enjoy…?

It was a Friday night, it was only 5:00PM and already pitch black outside. There was the beating sound of rain outside, the frigid cold not doing a thing to help the circulating feel of despair in the air.

You had just gotten home, shaking off the rain and taking off your boots, when you heard it. Tapping, soft and weak on the window, you think it’s the one in your bedroom. Immediately you know who it is, shrugging off your coat, you place it on the hook and quickly make your way to your bedroom, you see his fingers just barely tapping your window, his head resting against the brick of the outside wall. You rush to open the window, and he practically falls to the floor. You quickly shit it behind him. He is wearing his suit, sans mask, covered in gashes, blood dripping, his face beaten. It has you gasping.

“Pete..”

You’d been watching the live cover of his fight, on the news. It had been playing everywhere. They said someone had died. You’d been worried sick your entire way home, only assuming the worst.

You’re rushing towards him, “Peter I was so worried.” Your hands are moving everywhere, checking his injuries. “Are you alright?” When your hands come away covered in blood, your heart starts to race.

He finally grunts out a quiet and pained. “Fine.”

Somethings off. You grab his face in your hands to make him look at you, his eyes are glassy. Tears are streaming down his distraught face. You had been too worried about his possible injuries to even notice his anguished face, or is muted sobs.

“Pete what’s going on?” You look back into his eyes, concerned. He glances away, not wanting to look at you. He’s shaking his head.

His words are stuttered, hardly spoken. “M..M..May... s..she…” he’s shaking his head again, rapidly.

You understand. You shake your head with him, silently telling him he doesn’t have to continue. Tears spring to your eyes. Tears for him, tears for the loss of a wonderful woman. Grabbing his bloodied head you bring his forehead to yours, and he starts to sob loudly. Wrapping his arms around you for comfort. You don’t move away, just wind your arms around him and squeeze as hard as you can.

He’s speaking brokenly, “she..shes…gone.” He’s breathing quickly, unable to catch a good breath. “What do I do…I…”

Your shushing him, “it’s gonna be okay Peter…” you’re crying with him, you don’t know if you even believe yourself.

After about an hour, his breathing slows and his are tears dried, hardened to his face. Exhausted from his fight…from his horrific loss, his limbs weak. You had guided his broken body back with your own, laying together on your bed as he fitfully slept, your hand gliding back and forth on his forehead and in his matted hair. She’s gone. You’re sure he blames himself, you also don’t know what happened really, just what the news showed of his fight, he would tell you in time.

You wished you could make it better, you wished Peter didn’t have so much responsibility, wished he didn’t carry so much weight on his shoulders. For now you do what you can to comfort him, waiting for when he wakes up.

When he does wake, his eyes slowly crack open, dried tears and blood caking them closed.

He blearily looks around, a moment of clarity in his eyes and expression, clouding over in only a moment when the memories come flooding back to him. You start to move, he grabs you tighter not wanting you to go.

“I’m just gonna go get the med kit, baby.” Reluctantly he’s releasing you from the tight grip of his arms, you remove yourself and head to your bathroom to grab the kit you always keep handy. When you walk back in you try to joke lightly, “I might have to become a nurse if you aren’t more careful.”

He huffs. A slight win.

“Sit up.” You say to him gently, helping him up. You wet some gauze and start to dab at his face, clearing the blood. “Are you hurt anywhere I can’t see?” He shakes his head slowly, that means most of the blood isn’t his. He’s also probably healed most of his minor injuries while he slept.

When you’re done checking him over you tell him to go get a shower, clean the blood that’s caked along his torso off. You told him you would clean his suit for him.

He went along with it, not really expressing anything. He’s hiding his pain behind his eyes. You know what this pain looks like. You know him.

——

After his shower he comes out of your bathroom, only clad in a pair of briefs you had put out for him. He slowly walks over to you, you’re sitting in the couch absentmindedly watching tv.

“Hi.” You say warmly…sadly, as he lowers his body to yours, his head resting in your lap. Your hands instantly go to his wet hair. You can feel his breaths start to quicken, uneven heaves of warmth hit your thighs. “It’s okay Peter.” Your say quietly, “it’s okay not to be okay.”

He grips you tighter. You don’t plan on letting go. Everyone has to fall apart sometimes. Something has just been ripped away from him, his soul fractured. His world will be changed forever. His future is uncertain, he isn’t sure where to go from here.

You plan to do everything you can to support him, you wanted to take some of his weight, help him carry it.

It hurts to see the most kind hearted and positive man in your arms, slowly shattering. It’s heartbreaking. You feel deeply for him.

You hear him stutter a whisper into your lap. “P…please…d..don’t…don’t ever leave…me.”

#spiderman nwh #kind of spoilers #nwh spoilers #spider man #peter parker x f!reader #peter x reader #tom holland #tom holland spiderman #no way home #spider man no way home

[eddiemunsonssoulmate]

Harder than the liquor I pour

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: After losing his best friend, JJ has trouble coping with the loss.

Warnings: Mention of alcohol abuse, mentions of panic attacks

Available on: AO3

A/N: Just a short piece because I couldn’t get it out of my head how JJ was gripping his chest during the first episode. Poor boy :(

You hadn’t been able to find him for the last three days.

Three days too many, you were worried about him and had looked all over the island for him.

You checked all of his usual places and he was nowhere to be found. Not even a single sign of him. Hell, you even asked Luke about him but of course that douchebag of a father didn’t know where his own son was at. Something you had expected but the worry in your bones made you do stupid decisions.

The wind was blowing through your hair as you rode your bike through the last bit of light the sun would give you.

The first day that he didn’t answer your text or came to visit you, you thought he maybe needed some space. 

The second day he had been missing you had asked Pope and Kie if they knew anything but they also came up empty handed. Kiara had been grounded by her parents and Pope had been busy helping out his father, both of them trying to deal with the grief in their own way, so they couldn’t help you look. It was unusual but you would just do it on your own then.

Today, on the third day, you grew really worried. JJ was normally obsessed with you, in a good way of course. He kept coming over, wanting to talk to you and even after the loss of his best friend he had been at your house for multiple nights so you could give each other comfort.

And suddenly, no JJ to be found anymore.

You called his name out multiple times, looking left and right of the road, almost hoping you would just find him passed out in some ditch as long as he was alive and you could finally have him in your arms again.

He had been struggling ever since the accident. They hadn’t declared John B and Sarah as dead long after that. It had ripped him apart. You were hurting too but you only joined the Pogues later so you didn’t know them for too long, didn’t grow up with them. You did grow up with Sarah though but didn’t see her often, you had only gotten close when she joined the Pogues too.

You got off your bike, backside starting to hurt from using it all day long. A frustrated sigh left your throat as you pulled around to the Chateau, not in the mood to go home where no one would be waiting for you. Your parents were out on some business trip, thinking you would be okay and they would be back when school started. That’s at least what they had said, who knew when they would really be back.

A frown was forming on your forehead when you saw light at the old house. You threw your bike to the ground and walked over to the entrance, hope swelling in your breast.

“JJ? Is that you?” You asked carefully, not wanting to get stabbed by a robber. Not that there was anything to rob in here. 

“y/n?” The voice came from the bathroom and you walked over there with fast steps. JJ’s voice sounded hoarse and when you saw him, he was kneeling over the toilet, pale as a white wall.

“What happened?” You asked him when you kneeled down beside him. He was just hanging over the toilet, one arm on the top, his face sweaty, hair wet.

“Don’t know, you tell me,” he replied with a stupid grin, eyes half hooded as if he wasn’t really present. A whiff of alcohol came rushing towards you as soon as he had opened his mouth and you coughed.

“I think you had too much, buddy.” You ran a hand through his hair, holding the strands between your fingers for a moment. He was really just covered in sweat. “Come here.”

You reached under his arms and tried to lift him up but he had trouble standing.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled and pushed you away with more force than you expected. You almost stumbled over but were able to keep it together.

“JJ, I was looking for three days for you. Where have you been?” You asked him as you followed his weak figure to the bedroom he used to stay in where he sat down on the bed. Around the room were empty cans of different kinds of alcohol.

“Here, there, everywhere,” he said with a grin and started to giggle. He did act stupid when he had been drinking but you’ve never seen him drinking this much. Normally it was just beer but there was some pretty hard stuff around here and he seemed to have mixed them together in his body.

“You really need to rest.” You chose to ignore his stupid answer, he didn’t seem able to have a normal conversation with you about his whereabouts right now anyway.

“Why?” He asked as if he didn’t know what was going on. As if he wasn’t drunk out of his ass.

“Because you’re drunk as hell, your whole body is covered in sweat, you’ve been missing for three days and you just clogged the toilet with your puke.” You listed these things while trying not to sound mad or worried. He shouldn’t focus on your emotions right now but on his own.

“Oh so that means I need rest? Maybe I just needed to get away for a while,” he said with a shrug and grabbed a full can of beer which you quickly snatched out of his hand.

Within a moment he was standing right in front of you, invading your personal space and looking quite angry. He wasn’t standing straight by any means, swaying a bit.

You clenched your jaw and shook your head. “No more alcohol.”

He growled at you and shook his head, trying to take the can from you.

“y/n, come on. I need it,” he said through gritted teeth and you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Why? Is that what you’ve been doing the last few days? Just drinking wherever you were? It’s not a solution,” you told him with a stern voice, shaking his head slightly to underline your point.

“If you had paid attention in chemistry, you would know that alcohol is definitely a solution.” He grinned smugly at you and this time you were raising both eyebrows in disbelief.

“I can’t even remember the last time you have attended chemistry class,” you huffed out, trying not to laugh out of frustration.

“Maybe I’m just smart.” He leaned down close to your lips but you knew he was just trying to reach around your body so he could get the can from behind your back, so you took a step backwards and heard him growl in frustration.

“You for sure are, I wish you’d acknowledge that more often.” Pope had probably told him that whole solution thing at some point. It at least sounded like something that would come from him. Which didn’t mean that JJ wasn’t smart of course, he really was but often his instinct kicked in before his brain did and he ended up making stupid choices.

“Please, rest,” you pleaded with him and he pouted at you before letting himself fall back on the bed behind him.

His eyes were full of sadness and his face was tired. You felt so bad for him, especially because he would have the worst hangover tomorrow.

“If you don’t, I’ll have to tie you down, you know?” You added the words quickly, not wanting to see the sadness in his eyes anymore. You couldn’t handle it when he was so sad that it was tearing you apart too but sadly, this had been the case too often.

“Fine,” he groaned and lay down, turning his back towards you. 

For a long moment you just stood there before placing the can on the shelf behind you. You then took a few steps forward to him and grabbed the nearby blanket, throwing it over him and putting it up to his neck. 

Suddenly his hand grabbed yours and his warm hand wrapped around yours, cold rings pressing against your skin.

“You gonna stay?” His voice sounded almost unsure but you just let out a little happy snort before giving him a nod which he wasn’t able to see.

“Sure will. Now sleep.” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been strangely quiet this morning. You weren’t sure if it was because he felt bad for last night or because he had a massive hangover. Maybe both.

You really wanted to talk to him about last night though. There was no way to avoid it but first, breakfast.

Both of you were sitting on the porch of the Chateau, not saying a word, just eating the food you had prepared.

“Listen,” he suddenly started and put his milk roll down, only half eaten. 

You tilted your head to the side and stopped eating too, waiting for him to say what he wanted.

JJ closed his eyes and took a deep breath before shaking his head and getting up, walking down to the yard. You followed him quietly, not wanting to push him because you knew how he would get if provoked.

Your gaze followed his, looking toward the water.

“I just can’t...I can’t handle it.” He didn’t need to put any context around his words, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

The blonde boy was missing his best friend, his brother and had troubles coping with his alleged death.

You put your hand on his left shoulder and he took his right hand and placed it on yours, enjoying the comfort in silence for a moment.

“Ever since...the accident. I’ve been drinking more than I should. Alone, when the three of you weren’t there. I just tried to kill these feelings inside of me. All this pain.” His words were dripping in pain and if you’d be looking at his face right now, you were sure you could see tears starting to build.

You slightly moved so you stood in front of him, indeed seeing his glassy eyes but he knew he didn’t need to hold back with you. You loved him and he loved you.

“You don’t have to do this alone, I’m right here,” you said and gave him a crooked smile, trying to comfort him somehow even though you knew it would be hard.

“My chest...it’s been aching. Like sometimes when I’m alone and I think about the whole thing.” He put a hand over his chest, right above his heart, gripping his shirt as if he tried to grip his beating heart. “I start to sweat, I shiver, my heart is racing and I feel sick, I can’t breathe.”

You knew that feeling too well even though you’ve never told him before.

“Those are signs of a panic attack, JJ,” you told him and moved closer, pulling him into an embrace. “Drinking makes it worse.”

“Hm.” He only replied with this sound and was silent for a moment before he wrapped his arms around you too, taking a deep breath.

Your brother used to have a drinking problem in his teenage years and soon after, he had one panic attack after another. You had experienced them oneself a couple of times, the feeling of a tight chest, of not being able to breathe.

It wasn’t something you wanted your boyfriend to experience but yet here you were.

“How do I stop them?” he asked you and leaned back a little to look at your face, not letting go of you in the process.

“Breathing, mostly. Don’t fight it. Call me, I’ll be there for you,” you said calmly, hoping your calmness would somehow go over to him.

“I just wish he was here with me. Us. Both of them,” he sighed and you nodded, standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his nose.

“We’ll get through this, okay? Together. Kie and Pope too. When school starts we can’t hide anymore and have to face those looks on their faces. That’s why you’ve been hiding so much, isn’t it?” You knew him well enough to know this.

His jaw clenched and you knew you were right. It terrified you too. Those looks of classmates and teachers. Looks that would say ‘They were friends with dead criminals’ and ‘I wonder if they knew that John B was going to kill Peterkin’ even though none of it was true. Some would even feel pity for them. ‘They lost their friends’ and ‘It must be so hard on them’ but to be honest, none of their opinions mattered. Most of them were shallow people anyway.

You rested your forehead against his chest, trying to get rid of those thoughts of the future. Just like him, you didn’t want to think about it but it was important for him to know that you’d be there with every step you took.

“y/n?” He said your name with such tenderness in his voice that it made you smile.

You looked up at him again and found him smiling slightly.

“I’m so glad to have you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said and leaned down to place a kiss on your lips, a kiss that you immediately responded to.

It always gave you butterflies when he kissed you. Normally he was kissing you roughly, sometimes he bit your bottom lip but this time, it was soft and sweet and almost pleading you not to leave him. 

You wouldn’t.

“I love you,” you said as you pulled back to take a breath.

“I love you too.” He put a hand on your head, patting it slightly. It was a sweet gesture, one he didn’t do too often.

“So no more drinking? At least not alone and especially not hiding somewhere for three days so I get worried sick, okay?” you asked him, it had terrified you too much, thinking he would do something stupid.

“I promise. I’ll always call you before I want to get shitfaced.” He couldn’t keep himself from grinning a little and you rolled your eyes at him with a grin yourself.

“Alright, let’s get the place cleaned up. No need to leave evidence of your one-man-party.”

#jj maybank #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj imagine #obx imagine #outer banks #obx #obx netflix #outer banks netflix #jj fic #obx fic #short #fluff #angst #both i guess lmao

[maaaddiexo]

Too Late | T. Scamander

Mainlist | Serieslist

Theseus Scamander x reader

Warnings: angst, mentions of death

-

It had been two months since that dreaded night in Paris. Where Queenie Goldstein and Credence crossed the threshold of blue fire and disappeared with Grindelwald into the night sky.

Two months since you’d smiled.

Two months since Leta.

Everyone at school had ostracized her. Everyone except you. The girls called her wicked; you called it getting even. They called her dangerous; you called her brave. They called her a lost cause; you called her worthy. You saw it that night in the cemetery, when she sacrificed herself for everyone else. You felt her loss that night and every day after that. Because after defeating the Fiendfyre dragon in the cemetery, everyone had searched out the others, reeling in the loss of someone. But you remained standing alone in the cemetery.

Forgotten.

Everyone had left, gathering back in Nicholas Flamel’s house, drinking tea and eating croissants while you wandered the streets of Paris for hours. Eventually, you apparated back to London, stumbling through the front door of your parent’s house. For two weeks, you stayed hidden beneath your covers, trying to ignore the grief of being forgotten by your friends and losing your best friend. Worst of all, you faced it all alone. 

Until Tina Goldstein appeared on your front porch holding a bouquet of white lilies in her hands with a timid smile. Everything crumbled that moment. You collapsed in the doorway, finally able to share your grief with someone after holding it in for so long.

Two months later, and Tina was still the only one to contact you. You hadn’t been particularly close before that night in late September, but you were now. She’d convinced you to leave your house once a day for a walk anywhere of your choosing and encouraged you to write about your friend, replacing the grief with love. What ended up happening was the two of you walking to a location of your choosing and you’d sit in silence for the most part, writing in your leatherbound journal – dark red because that was Leta’s favourite colour – and Tina keeping you company. It was winter now, and you were returning from an indoor garden thirty minutes away from your house. Tina was on assignment, but you’d promised to still leave the house while she was chasing down leads on Grindelwald.

Like always, the walk back to your parent’s house was quiet, your eyes were puffy, and your nose was running – both from the cold and from crying.

You were halfway down the street when you heard your mother’s voice carry through the air. “Like hell you’re entering this house.”

“Mrs. Y/LN-”

You looked up. A curly-haired boy was standing on your front porch, bundled in a wool coat with red cheeks. Newt Scamander. Your blood boiled and your heart stopped at the sight of him. Anger and grief rolled up in one messy ball. Where was Theseus, you couldn’t help but wonder.

“Don’t you dare knock on this door like you and your brother didn’t break my daughter’s heart, abandoning her in that cemetery up until today. Without a word! Get out of here. I don’t want to see either of you again.” The door slammed shut and Newt’s shoulder’s slumped and he carefully turned, walking down the stairs and then sitting on them, defeated.

You wanted to walk away – you didn’t want to talk to Newt. But it was starting to drizzle and the backyard was fenced in. If you wanted to enter your house, you’d have to pass by Newt. And you weren’t a bitch – you wouldn’t ignore him like he ignored you.

“Hello, Newt.”

The boy stood up – too quickly at that – and stumbled back, groaning when his back hit the lip of the stairs. You didn’t show any sympathy to the boy and moved past him. “You deserved that, y’know.”

“Y/N, wait. Please. Can we just talk?”

Angry tears welled in your eyes and you whipped around. Newt looked like a wounded puppy at the rage in your eyes. “You had two months to “just talk” to me. Nobody reached out to me after Leta – not you, not Theseus. And I get it – you were grieving. But guess what? So was I. I lost her too. And I had nobody. Nobody. The time for talking is over, Newt. Get off my steps.”

~

It was another two weeks until Leta’s birthday and Tina met you on your front porch with more white lilies. Together, you apparated to Paris and entered the Lestrange Mausoleum. Leta’s coffin was obviously empty, but it didn’t make seeing it any easier. Flowers had already been laid on the floor, but the room was empty. Tina placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll wait outside.”

“You don’t have to, T. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

Tina smiled. “I’ll wait. I won’t leave you.”

The words were comforting at first, but then a stab to the heart when she was gone. Theseus and Newt had left you without a second thought. You laid the flowers on the floor, feeling the tears spill onto your cheeks as you leaned forward. You touched her stone, running your fingers over the engraved words. Leta Lestrange. Beloved by all. Except she wasn’t beloved by all. It was just something people wrote, you guessed. 

“Hey, Leets. I, uh, I know what you did that day. I never got to say thank you for it. And, uh,” you blinked. You couldn’t see anything through your tears. “Those girls who called you wicked back at school? They were wrong. You were brave and selfless. And I’ll never forget it, Leets. Never.”

The smooth marble was cold against your forehead and your eyes burned. Salty tears slipped past your lips and onto your tongue. You were breathing heavily and yet no air reached your lungs. At least I’ll be with Leta, you thought. you didn’t know how long you stood there sobbing before you were finally interrupted.

“Y/N.” Theseus. His voice was hoarse and raspy – clear signs he’d been crying – but you still recognized it easily.

You looked at your shoes, sniffling. “Theseus.” His fingers brushed against yours but you pulled away. You’d been close once – two months ago, actually. Secret glances, fingers brushing, and sitting too close to each other at dinner. But that was all gone now. That all disappeared when he’d put himself far before you.

“I’m sorry for not reaching out sooner-”

“Don’t, Theseus. Not now. Not here.” At first, you hadn’t wanted to be angry with him – even though he left you alone in the cemetery. Him and Newt. But the anger started to grow after a week without contact. After three, you’d given up on giving him the benefit of the doubt and concluded that you weren’t worthy enough for a phone call. Two months later and he’d proven that. If you hadn’t come across each other here, he likely still wouldn’t have reached out.

Theseus rolled his lips and nodded, pocketing his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry - for your loss, I mean. I know she was your best friend.”

You sucked in sharply, standing up straight. Those words hurt because they were so true. You gripped your red wool coat tightly and moved past Theseus. “I need to go.”

Tina was outside waiting for you, murmuring with Newt but stepped back when you ran out. It was raining now. Fitting, you supposed. Leta loved the rain. “You ready, Y/N/N?”

You nodded wordlessly and felt Theseus’ hand on shoulder. He spun you around. You were too numb to stop him. His eyes were glassy and sad. “I’m sorry, Y/N. For everything.”

You wanted to accept his apology and let him take you back to his house where you’d curl up in his favourite armchair and laugh with him and Newt and Tina, but you weren’t ready for that. Would you ever be? His actions created wounds that ran deep. You pushed his hand off your shoulder and stepped back. “Two months, too late, Theseus.”

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander imagine #fantastic beasts #love #romance #angst #callum turner #leta lestrange #newt scamander #fantastic beasts the crimes of grindelwald #fantastic beasts and where to find them

[janekfan]

You need to back off + Please come home for some angsty Jmart?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122362

Prompts are getting filled! Slowly but surely! :D

I hope you like it ^^

Jon woke himself coughing with the realization that what he’d hoped were allergies the day before was now full blown body aches, chills and a productive hacking cough. Reaching out for comfort, he encountered only cold sheets and he shut his throbbing eyes tightly against sudden tears, too emotional. Needy. Sick. Not that he wasn’t needy when he was well either, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

Jon gripped a handful of bedclothes, curling on his side in the space where Martin should be and wasn’t. He thought of warm hands and soft kisses testing his temperature and gentle tutting. Martin would fuss over him terribly, plying him with medicine and perfectly steeped tea with honey and lemon for his sore throat. He would want for nothing, of that he was certain, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

And it was Jon’s fault.

No. Not entirely. He was away for the long weekend for an international conference.

But the shouting match they’d had before he left was very much Jon’s fault.

It figured that he would chase him away. Jon was miserable and ungrateful on his best days and like a dog with a bone on his worst. Why couldn’t he just let things go? Why did he have to push and question and needle Martin like that when he knew his partner needed time to think? Was already anxious about being away for so long? Jon certainly knew how to pick the best time for a row. Impeccable timing as usual, god damn him. Another fit crept its way through his tight chest, up his throat, painfully forcing itself free, and he stifled himself in a pillow.

He wanted Martin.

He had no right to, but he wanted him just the same.

After allowing himself just a few moments to wallow in misery, he forced himself up, driving the heels of both hands against his eyelids. It was a cold. It’d been going around the university and he was always early to catch whatever pathogens his students carried with them. He’d been run down and tired the last week and not from finals apparently. He shuffled awkwardly to the bathroom, limping heavily on his bad leg, absently trying to massage the deep ache left over from the worms all those years ago. He let the water run for a moment, get as hot as he could stand it, and with Martin’s voice in the back of his head, resigned himself to the use of the shower stool he’d insisted on. Sagging forward, Jon let the pounding pressure beat heavy against his back, breathing in the steam in the hopes it would loosen the knots tied thick and rigid around his lungs. Washing up took everything he had left and he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed and curl up around Martin’s pillow. Instead he slipped on his favorite of Martin’s jumpers over his pyjamas and took up his cane and made himself tea with honey and lemon and forced himself to drink it even though it tasted wrong. Struggling through the foil of the blister pack exhausted him further but he dutifully downed the tablets with the dregs of his cold cup of subpar tea. Dizzy, nauseated, the room spun around him wildly and he swallowed it down with a sob, laying his hot face against the cool surface of the dining table.

He wanted Martin.

Martin asked him to please not call unless there was an emergency. This wasn’t that. This was some sort of bug and Jon was an adult and he could take care of himself. He shivered. Teeth chattering in his skull and against his better judgement he fumbled for his cell with numb fingers. He thumbed it awake, blinking at the blinding glare. Recents. Martin. Messages. Jon scrolled through them, lingering on his responses. It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough and Martin had asked him. Asked him not to contact him. For emergencies only. This wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t. The screen went dark. The tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, tracing the faint scar there left by some fear or another so long ago and Jon chose to be selfish.

What else was new?

“Jon.” Measured, but not cold like he feared so much it would be but focused enough to cut him off before he could even think to apologize. “You need to back off. I’ve asked for some space and I would appreciate it if you would let me focus on this conference. I’ll be back soon. We can talk then.” He paused and with it, so did Jon’s heart. “I love you.”

“I, I love you.” But he’d already hung up and Jon didn’t blame him.

Shivering with chills, Jon dragged his sorry self back into bed, curling into the duvet and closing his eyes against the woozy rolling of his stomach. The tea wasn’t sitting well and Jon found himself panting, shallow and fast, concentrating on keeping himself together and willing himself to sleep though that plan didn’t seem to be working. Salt flooded his tongue and he lurched for the bin beside the bedside, dry heaving painfully. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his chin.

It wasn’t an emergency.

It wasn’t.

He coughed, wincing and lifting a trembling hand to his throat and pressing against Daisy’s remnant souvenir, imagining the hurt there. A mewling whimper carried on an uneven breath escaped the cage of his fingers. Restless sleep crashed over him, was dragged away from him, uncomfortable, hot and cold somehow simultaneously. Jon picked up his phone repeatedly to call, to text. But he needed to let Martin have this. He wasn’t like him. He needed time and Jon needed to be patient no matter how ill he was feeling, no matter how much he wanted Martin’s reassuring voice. And it was his fault he couldn’t have it.

Jon couldn’t remember a time in his life where he felt this poorly; not even starved for statements, or scarred by numerous fears. Sleep hadn’t been forthcoming after he lurched awake to be sick again and he hadn’t had the forethought to put anything he might need on the bedside table. Objectively, he knew when he ran fevers they had a tendency to spike at night and that if he could just get up to fetch some medicine he would feel better. Subjectively, he was convinced his legs wouldn’t hold him, that he was dying here alone and when Martin returned for his things he would find his body. Panic built and built and built in his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe, stealing the air around him as surely as Crew had when he dropped him effortlessly, eternally through the void and before he knew it his fingers were acting without express permission.

Insistent buzzing next to his ear dragged Martin up from the depths and he groaned in irritation when the rectangle of light blinded him momentarily. He sighed when he could finally see the caller and he supposed Jon had waited as long as he could before giving in and ringing him again. The man was not known for his patience, after all. Martin glanced at his still sleeping roommate, a paramedic out of Brussels, and slipped out of bed to take the call in the hallway.

“Jon.” The frustration was warranted but melted away into concern when his only answer was a strangled, hitching gasp.

“I, I’m s’sorry.”

“Jon, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Y’you want space and, and m’sorry, but I--” A sudden explosive cough caught him off guard; it sounded painful and tight.

“Jon, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m sorry.” His hoarse whisper didn’t hide the wheeze on his breath. “Shouldn’have called, m’sorry.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.” Martin clutched his phone, voice calm and steady, hundreds of miles away from where Jon was falling apart.

“P’please?”

“What, Jon?” He was openly crying; big, ugly sobs in between each shuddering syllable, and Martin was almost at a total loss, murmuring sweet things through the line in an attempt to calm him, until his hiccuping slowed and he asked again and he answered, sad and small.

“Please? Come h’home?”

“Jon?” Tim let himself into the flat, speaking soft and low, lest Jon was asleep. “Martin told me you aren’t feeling so hot.” He pushed forward to the bedroom, sympathy welling up at the sight of Jon curled up so small, face hidden in his sweat-damp pillow. “Hey, bud.”

“Tim.” Raspy and rough, like he’d been chewing on rocks, he finished his identification on a weak cough.

“The one, the only.” When he laid the backs of his fingers against his temple, Tim hissed through his teeth at the blazing, dry heat of his skin.

“M’sorry…” the ghost of an exhale, shaky and slurred, and Jon managed somehow to pry heavy lashes apart to reveal unfocused eyes glassy with fever. Tim stroked messy curls away from his face, heart clenching when he groaned low in his throat, before deep brown rolled back and dislodged more tears.

“Let’s get you taken care of, okay?” But first, a quick status update for Martin, who had called him nearly in tears himself.

“How is he? Are you taking him to A&E?” Tim could almost see the way he was clinging to his phone.

“I don’t think so. Gonna get some water and medicine into him and see how that goes.”

“Tim? Is he okay?”

“He’s sick, looks like the flu and he’s likely been down with it a couple of days.”

“God, he tried to call me and I--”

“Gonna cut you off right there, Marto. This isn’t anyone’s fault. It just happens.”

“I was so upset with him--”

“And I’m sure he earned it. When he’s well again you can talk it out.”

“Tim.” Trembling,

“I’ll make certain he’s alright until you get home. I’ve got him, Martin.” While on the phone, Tim gathered up supplies, thankful that Jon lived with someone with brains enough to keep a stocked medicine cabinet complete with a fancy ear thermometer with disposable covers. Because Martin. Jon didn’t so much as twitch this time. 39.4. “Okay, buddy. Up you come now.”

“Nng…”

“Mhm,” Tim hummed good naturedly, holding the glass of water to chapped lips and going slow. “Good?” He took the unintelligible noise as a yes, allowing him a few more careful sips before slipping the capsules onto his tongue. “There we go. We’ll see how that sits.” He divested Jon of the wash worn wool keeping in all the heat, soothing him wordlessly when he tried in vain to keep it. A clean set of pyjamas would make him feel better and he let the relatively cool air of the room wick away the moisture left from a cursory damp flannel.

“...Tim?”

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

“Why’m’I in...in my pants…?”

“Did your best to sweat through the last set, here.” Tim helped guide loose limbs through the appropriate holes.

“S’cold…” punctuating his statement with a full body shiver, Jon slumped forward into Tim’s chest. “M’Martin’s cross.” Nodding, Tim gathered him up to deposit him on the sofa so he could change the bedclothes. “S’my fault…”

“When he comes home, you can apologize. Get him his favorite takeaway, yeah?” Jon listened intently, watery gaze fixed to Tim’s. “Put up those books of yours he’s always tripping over.”

“He, he. He’s coming home?” Lower lip trembling, Jon sounded too hopeful for this to be the distance of a long weekend.

“Oh, you daft fool, of course he is, of course.” He let Jon cry himself out on his shoulder. “He loves you, just needed some space, you know he likes space to get his thoughts in order. Of course he’s coming back.” Gentle and soft, Tim kept up his reassurances and hoped he’d forget that particular fear. Jon was too used to abandonment and all too accepting that he was the cause of it. That he was unlovable. “Alright, dry your eyes now.” Tim thumbed away matching saltwater tracks after settling him back on the couch cushions. “There we are.” Lord, he looked exhausted, the very textbook image of a bad flu with sore, red rimmed eyes limned with bruises. “Back in a tick, love.”

Clean, cool sheets, Jon tucked between them, kettle cooling off the hob, Tim set himself up on Martin’s side of the bed, getting another read, 38.1, and sending a quick update text before tapping open his most recent gaming obsession. The conference ended tomorrow morning and Martin would be home the same evening. With the next day off, Tim could wait that long. Jon’s burn-scarred hand snaked from under the blankets to grip his joggers.

“Hullo.” Tim tugged his fingers through messy curls. “Feeling a little better, champ?”

“Yeah…” It was still early hours and Jon needed all the sleep he could get.

“Sip on this.” And fluids. Tim levered him up, helping him hold the lukewarm mug of tea in shaky hands and laying him in his lap where he could knead out the knots tying up his shoulder blades until he sank deep.

Familiar voices hummed around him like moths just out of reach, melting together, drifting apart, slipping through his fingers. A door opened, closed, and Jon thought for a moment the Distortion must have him until a familiar palm pressed itself against his forehead. Martin’s face materialized in front of him and blurred just as quickly when tears filled his eyes. Wildly, he dove for him, not thinking about the edge of the mattress and collapsing into him when his legs gave way.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright, love.” Jon pushed his face into Martin’s neck, body numb with relief. “Shh, shh, shhh.”

“M’m’sorry, so sorry.”

“I know.” Martin curled around him, holding him firmly, tightly, running his hand up and down the shallow seam of his spine. Jon didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve how good Martin was to him. And he, he didn’t--

“I d’don’t unders’stand.”

“Understand what?” Jon couldn’t look at him for fear of what he might see, hiding instead in Martin’s jumper. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “Why I came home?” He didn’t speak, shook harder, swallowed with difficulty past the cloying clot of emotion in his throat. “Oh, love. You’re not well and everything’s a little mixed up right now.” Lightly, softly, Martin kissed his temple. “I’ll always come home.” Jon felt needy and childish, choosing to believe Martin and taking comfort in it, in the chaste press of his lips against any skin he could reach. “Back in bed now, you’re burning up. Tea?” Nodding once, Jon couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth again, worried that he’d destroy this tentative peace and so, so grateful to have Martin home and the next time he opened his eyes it was to Martin climbing into bed in his pyjamas, tea already on the nightstand.

“Will you tell me about the conference?” Jon accepted the open arms as the offer they were, fitting himself like a puzzle piece against his side, sick and sweaty and lulled by the soothing rumble of Martin’s voice beneath his ear.

There were other things to talk about, but for now, the two of them, here and now, were enough.

#TMA #The Magnus Archives #Jon Sims #Martin Blackwood #Tim Stoker #Jmart #JonMartin #sickfic #fever #flu #vomiting #panic #insecure jon #fight #argument #not pictured #love #caretaking

[secondhand-trash]

A/N: it’s been a long time without any new bentos but its back uwu I know we usually clown osamu a lot in this series but this one is kinda where we give him the appreciation he deserves hehe also its winter and I just have to write about something winter related so enjoy ouo

Warning: sickness, Osamu being baby

Word count: 2375

(click here to see more of Osamu’s bento)

(taglist in the notes, please go to the link in my bio or send me an ask to be added to the bento taglist uwu)

-

Winter in Hyogo was lovely, by all accounts. Not too chilly, but cold enough for the gentle sunshine gracing on your skin to feel like a blessing from the universe when you walked on the streets. 

It would have been a flawless season if you were to be given the luxury of staying underneath your thick, fluffy futon every morning after waking up until your body was sufficiently warmed up and the worst hours of the day had passed before you finally had to leave the comforting confines of your bed. But alas, you wouldn’t get paid for staying in bed and before the day that such a magical occupation becomes a reality, you still had no choice but to give up on the blissful warmth of your blankets at unholy hours in the morning before leaving for another day of sitting still in a cold office with nothing but lifeless documents as your company.

You let out a sigh as the blaring screech of your alarm kept ringing, shutting your eyes tight to relieve yourself of the soreness lingering behind your vision before turning it off in frustration. The room was still dark, and it would not be until you were ready to leave the door that any light would shine through the curtains.

That was winter work days for you, always making the offer of early retirement all the more tempting.

Rolling to your side, you sucked in a deep breath to brace the impact of what was to come before lifting up the corner of your futon that you would certainly miss throughout the day. The chilly air broke through the trapped heat within the layers. You shivered as you hastily searched for you cardigan that draped at your bed side table, slipping your toes that were numb from the cold into your room slippers. Osamu shifted in his sleep at the sudden evasion to his warm little bubble, curling up uncontrollably at the sudden loss of his heat source as you left the bed.

Wait, Osamu?

“Samu?” you called out for him gently, putting your hand on top of his body that was wrapped up by the blanket that he now occupied entirely. 

“Hm...”

There was a whimper that came from beneath the layers, hoarse and muffled as the man barely moved. 

No wonder why it was so quiet this morning. Osamu was rarely up later than you, always out of the bed at the first alarm to start preparing for the day. You had taken being woke up to the smell of warm breakfast and the sound of pan sizzling for granted with it being one of the few motivations you had to actually open your eyes. 

But right now, he was still in bed with seemingly no intention of waking up. You walked to his side of the bed, clutching your cardigan closer to your body as you bent down to push down the blanket that was covering his face just a little. His brows furrowed at the miniature, a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead as he clenched his jaw. His face was flushed but his lips looked dangerously chapped, the few strands of his bangs that had fallen down matted to his forehead.

“What time is it?” he asked groggily, the clear nasal in his voice making it sound like there was something stuck at the back of his throat as he spoke.

“8:30.” You replied, rubbing your hand along his arm as you took in his expression.

He shuddered at the time, kicking away the blanket but seemed more tangled up by it under his attempt as he shifted and tried to get up. “Shit... that’s so late. Why did I miss the alarm?”

You did not miss the way he nearly fumbled the moment his feet touched the ground, leaping forward to hold him by the shoulders before he could fall. 

You had expected it when you saw that he didn’t get up. Osamu rarely misses his alarm, and the number of times this had happened as a careless mistake on his part was near none after he had the responsibility of Onigiri Miya on his shoulders. 

But you knew your guess was correct when you pressed your forehead against his as he slumped over you. He was burning up, his face and his entire body as it laid on yours despite it being difficult for you to hold up his much larger frame. However, the person who was basically a human furnace in your hold was still struggling to stand back up straight as you held him there.

“Osamu,” you said, patting his back and trying to urge him to lay down, “go back to bed.”

“No...” he replied stubbornly, but ended up sounding more like a child who was trying to sound serious with his voice coming out weak and shaky.

“You are sick, I won’t let you get up like this,” you peeled off his hand that was latched onto your forearm, the lines between your brows deepening when you felt how he was sweating from his palms.

“But-”

“Miya Osamu.”

He let out a defeated whine, succumbing to the way you coerced him back onto the mattress as the dizziness weighing on his head finally took over. He was still mumbling about all the things he needed to do today under his breath as you tucked him back under the covers, reminding you to contact the staff that was supposed to come to work this morning as you reassured him again and again that you would get it figured out for him.

He spoke slower and slower as you fixed the pillow underneath his head, words melting into near incoherent slurs before he finally closed his eyes back up.

You did not move away until you saw the heavy breathing returned to a steady pace, even though the loud inhales indicated that he was still having a hard time. Sighing as you relaxed your hands that had curled into fists at your side when you hadn’t paid attention, you pressed your finger to your own forehead where it felt like his heat was still lingering on your own skin.

-

You had gone back to work as usual after spending too long pacing around that morning to call for a day off completely, but managed to file in to leave early. Just the thought of a sick Osamu being alone at home had you shifting in your seat. What if he woke up while you were gone and tried to force his wobbly body to handle chores? You had never packed up your things as quickly as you did when the clock finally strike at the hour when you were allowed to leave, dashing out near immediately the moment you finished off the work at hand. 

Osamu was still deep in sleep by the time you got back, much to your relieve. He seemed slightly more at ease now than he was when you left the house, the cooling pad on his forehead sufficiently absorbing the heat emitting from him. It had been a long while since you last saw him so vulnerable, his lashes fluttering at his eyelids jumped at the way your finger brushed against his cheek when you reached to check his temperature.

“Mm...you’re home,” he fought his eyes open when he sensed you moving away under his half-woken state. 

“Don’t go...”

You forgot how needy he always was when he was feeling unwell and how weak you were against his glassy eyes. Patting the back of his head, you tried to appease him as you cooed, “Let’s try to get you something to eat first, I’ll be back soon. Ok?”

He did not seem to be happy about the suggestion of you leaving his side, but still, let you go with a whine. Grey eyes stared at you from behind hooded lids, his cheeks squishing against the pillow as his hands curled and released at the corner of the futon he was grabbing onto. “Ok...”

When was the last time you ever stood in front of a stove? You were not completely useless in the kitchen by all means, but the long period of having all your meals being taken cared of by someone who not only knew what they were doing but found so much love in doing so had reduced you to nothing but a clueless cloud as you stared at contents in the fridge. There sat the jelly you had got for Osamu, which apparently was recommended to feed to patients for increasing appetite and reducing heat according to the articles you looked up on your way home. But other than that, it was a territory of unknown to you.

There were several Tupperwares labeled with different dates in Osamu’s scribbles. He had always been smart when it comes to domesticities, making sure that the best before was always marked clearly on the package of everything he bought. The drinks and soda cans were always refilled, which you had clearly taken for granted because the suddenly empty space stood out to you more than ever before. There were a few plates stacked up at the corner with sticky notes on the side and you felt a hollowness in your chest when you saw what it said.

“Monday’s bento.”

Oh baby boy...

You clasped your hand together as you gathered your thoughts, not giving yourself the room to stand around doing nothing. There’s a patient waiting for you in bed, and you couldn’t just let him suffer through a fever with an empty stomach.

You rolled your sleeves up, bracing the winter cold that graced against your arm, before searching in your sea of memories of all the times someone had taken care of you when you were sick.

The sweet smell of rice gathered in the steam, warming up your body with each inhale. You lifted up the lid tentatively and was pleased to see the all the grains had already melted together into a soft, fluffy cloud. The strings of egg added a tint of flavour to the otherwise bland congee. It was all starting to come together, and you let out a relieved sigh to know that at least he wouldn’t have to starve. The mess around the counter was evidence that you had to stumble through each step, the ingredients that you choppily diced up still lingering around the cutting board. 

You thought of the way Osamu always out so much effort into making sure you were well fed each day and all the thoughts he had put into each bento. 

The sheer cheesiness and absolute embarrassment that followed what popped up in your head made you shiver. Since when were you the type of person who could even think of things like that? But still, your hand moved to pick up the knife that was put to the side with the other reaching for the scraps that were left from the cooking.

He would probably like this a lot.

You hope he would like this a lot.

-

“Samu? Are you awake?”

The creek of the door was met with a soft whimper. The man on the bed swung his arm over to the side so his still heavy body could move with him, a small smile crawling onto his face when he saw you.

“Took you long enough...”

“Sorry, it’s been a while since I cooked anything,” the wooden tray landed on the bedside table with a clank. He tried to get up on his own, but the shaking of his arm had you rushing to help him at once. He looked sheepish as you lifted the cover of the pot, mixing everything together with the spoon before handing it to him.

Osamu was always touched by food, but maybe the lack of taste in his mouth all day had done a number on him when he had to choke back the urge to sob when he smelt the warm steam filling his nostrils the moment you opened the lid. 

“Is that a heart?” he was grinning ear to ear as he pushed around the congee with the spoon.

“Yes,” you huffed with a defeated laugh under his knowing stare, “now hurry up or it’ll get cold.”

He looked up at you, and your heart nearly skipped a beat when he pouted. 

“Feed me,” he demanded, his voice sweet and like a kid as he held out the spoon in his hand.

You knew he would be all over it. You let out a soft tsk as you took the spoon back in your hand, sitting on the small space next to him on the bed as you scooped up some of the rice.

Osamu felt a warm swell in his chest at the way you carefully blew against the congee, one hand cupping beneath the spoon before bringing it to his lips. His head was still pounding, and the dryness felt nearly painful as he had his first bite of real food of the day but he loved, simply loved the way your eyes never left him for even just a second.

The congee warmed him from within, and he indulged in the leisure of laying against your shoulder while you babied him. 

He latched on you when you were about to move away, rubbing his face against you as he whined. “It’s cold without you.”

“I need to get this in the sink or else it’ll be hard to clean up-”

“Nooooooo,” he held out for the last note of his voice, burying his face at the crook of your neck, “do it later...”

“You’re such a child when you are sick,” you joked, pushing away his bangs and caressed his jaw with your thumb.

“Yeah?” he muttered, leaning into your touch, “Good thing I have you here to take care of me then...”

You sighed, knowing that there was no way you could win when he was acting all clingy and cute like this. He let out a satisfied hum when you climbed under the covers, wrapping your arm around his waist while tugging his head against your shoulder.

“Get well soon, you big baby.”

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu imagines #miya osamu imagine #miya osamu x reader #miya x reader

[whenwordsmakesense]

I guess I'm on a roll with giving you prompts but I just really want to see what sentences will inspire you to write that Time Travel Fix It AU again lmao 😂😂😂 "What the hell are you doing?! Stop that!!!"

Lmao, I am actually enjoying these <3

Also, this one might... offend some people? Like with the age-gap, I guess. Here, Stiles is 14, Derek is 20 (so it's like... hmm, six years after the last time travel excerpt, but the situation is still mostly the same with, y'know, everyone being suspicious of Sterek). Also, no, this isn't underage as Stiles and Derek are actually older. Time-Travel stuff, xD.

You don't have to read this if you don't want to, so I'm just gonna put the rest under the cut so that only those who really want to read can read.

Thanks for the prompt!! This is THE scene I've been imagining—and re-imagining—like, daily, for weeks. Glad to finally have it out of my brain and into words, though the details might change when (I don't know when exactly) I end up writing this fic down.

That Time-Travel Excerpt 2

"What the hell are you doing?! Stop that!"

Talia Hale's voice echoes in the warehouse, a sudden noise that tips Stiles off of his axis with the intensity of it. Voices—voices of his mom, dad, the whole pack—start clamoring in his ears, a never-ending wave of derision and fear licking up their spines and to his soul, even though he knows what he's doing.

He's done it for so long enough that it's almost second-nature by now.

His hands shake, though, as he puts them on top of Derek's abdomen—bloody and poisoned from the stray bullet, the last one the hunter fired before Stiles used his magic to throw that man away and into the wall behind with a painful smack.

He looks into Derek's eyes. They're glassy, the blue in them more prominent right now than they are normally. "It's going to hurt," Stiles informs him.

"Of course it's going to—" someone shouts at him, maybe Laura or Talia; their voices are similar enough that it's easy to mistake them. If they could stop him, they would, but they're still inside the mountain ash barrier, and the humans are all locked in chains, still. Stiles will free them once he's cured Derek.

Derek tries to give him a smile, then with an action too swift for his bloody and beaten body—not that it's stopped him before—puts his weight on his elbows, and Stiles moves with him, his fingers digging in a little deeper in the hole—the bullet in his hand almost going back in the hollowed space where the first bullet had gone in.

They're barely an inch apart, now, Derek's heavy, labored breath ghosting on his too young lips. Like Stiles always wants to be; he never wants to be apart from his love, his Alpha. His Derek.

"I know." Derek tells him, and Stiles lets out one tear that he'd tried to hold in. They've faced worse; hell, they've survived so much worse.

So much worse.

But maybe that's the reason Stiles hates this so much. He can't lose anyone again, especially not the one he's tethered to.

"Come on, love," Derek encourages him, and Stiles closes his eyes; he hates this part the most. His fingers catch on fire, and so does the bullet. Derek's breath hitches, the fear of flames still a constant even though it never technically happened this time; it's a ghost of a memory that won't ever leave him, and Stiles hates that he is the one that most reminds his beloved of it.

Before Derek can scream—it's painful, and habit or not, it always hurts, there's no immunity to nightmares—Stiles catches Derek's lips with his own. It's different, kissing like this; they haven't made a habit of it. He might be mentally 30, and Derek 36, but Stiles still looks young. They're consenting adults, technically, but they've got the wrong bodies for it.

Stiles drinks in each of Derek's groans with a fervor; he would take away every bad thing from Derek if he could, even make him forget his memories from a time that never will be so that he can have his best life. But Derek doesn't want that; Stiles would never take away Derek's choice like that.

Derek grips him back, tight at his hips and leans forward until all they're doing is licking into each other's mouths, the bullet between them almost forgotten.

"I love you." Derek says, lips bitten and swollen when they part—only an inch apart. Stiles stares. Derek's eyes are coming back to their usual starburst colors. "I love you, Stiles."

Stiles smacks him on the chest. "You asshole," his voice is raw, unfettered from his usual grip on his emotions as he realizes just how close he was to losing Derek, again. It hasn't happened in a few years, but the fear is the same: he can't lost Derek. He can't. "You-You could have died, you fucking martyr! I thought you were over that!" He keeps hitting Derek on his chest, barely aware of the pack behind them getting restless and confused.

Derek takes his small palms in his big ones. Kisses them softly, whispers, "I couldn't have let her die, Stiles," and Stiles understands. Laura might not be their biggest fan, but she was Derek's Alpha, once. The only one he had for six years, when all he knew was rage and grief and loss. "That hunter was aiming at her and I—"

"Couldn't help yourself. I know, I know, Der, but you could have died and you promised me you wouldn't and you promised we'd be alive we'd die together and I can't lose you please please please not you—"

Derek doesn't stop him. He lets Stiles cry and and spill, because it's better if he doesn't bottle things up. Derek cradles him in his arms, murmurs reassurances and just keeps touching him to let him know that Derek is alive, that Stiles isn't alone, he has someone.

Slowly, Stiles stops crying. It takes a few seconds, but he gathers himself. Derek wipes away the tears with his hand, and Stiles leans into it.

Derek kisses his forehead. "I wouldn't ever leave you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Stiles."

It's a tender moment; oddly, these only come after Stiles' worst fears have made an appearance. But it's broken, when true to the usual trend, it's broken by a scream.

Though this scream is far less of a definite death thing and more of a Candace-has-fullproof-evidence-of-her-brothers-doing-something-they-should-not-be; Derek obviously thinks the same, because when Stiles looks into his eyes—he's seen them a million times, but they still manage to catch him off-guard with their ethereal beauty—there's mirth chasing the spark of colors.

"Mom! I TOLD YOU THEY WERE MORE THAN JUST FRIENDS!" Laura's voice echoes in the warehouse, and is accompanied by Stiles' wet giggles and Derek's muffled laughter.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #sterek time travel au #thankkss soo much <3 for the prompt!! #this is a q

[mari-beau]

GIVE ME A REASON: PART FOUR - A Rogue One Fanfic

So this part/scene got a little out of control. Ironically, since I only had the base idea of when it would take place until I started writing it. You can also find/read this story on AO3 now.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Title: Give Me A Reason: Part Four

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Jyn Erso POV, Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn (mostly pre-ship?)

Spoilers: Rogue One; Episode IV A New Hope

Setting: Post-Rogue One AU (Cassian & Jyn live); Also during/post A New Hope

Warnings: Some sappiness?

Words: 2,978

Story Summary: Jyn’s entire universe has been turned on its head, so maybe she’s clinging a little too hard to the one thing she feels certain of (strangely enough) as she tries to figure out her place in the galaxy. And maybe she’s being a little overprotective of a wounded captain.

Also can be found on AO3.

...

“Ms. Erso, it is time for you to vacate the infirmary.”

Jyn jerked, jarred from sleep and reaching for the knife she no longer had on her person. Her situation settled back around her surfacing consciousness, calming her immediate fight-or-flight response but keeping her on edge.

“No,” she told the medical orderly droid. “I already told the doctors, medical staff and you lot that I’m not leaving Captain Andor. I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

“Yes. You were most clear regarding your intransigence, Ms. Erso.”

Droids had the worst attitudes. Shouldn’t med ones be programmed with a better bedside manner?

“But the bed is needed,” the droid went on when she just wanted it to go away so she could wallow in the overwhelming mix of emotions drowning her; loss, guilt, relief. “There are numerous incoming casualties from a skirmish in the Za’dan sector.”

Jyn scowled, but didn’t budge.

“What difference does it make if I leave? It’s not like I’m taking up an extra bed.” As if to prove her point, she shifted closer to Cassian in the infirmary cot, making her already petite body take up even less room.

“Captain Andor is to be processed for discharge. So you will keep your superfluous vow that he won’t wake up alone. Even though he wouldn’t be alone anyway. There are medical staff and med-droids present.”

Jyn was too alarmed by the droid’s revelation to mind the griping typical to its type.

“You’re discharging him?!” Jyn shifted, pushing herself up to study the unconscious man.

How well she knew every bruise and injury visible and many hidden by the white medical tunic and pants. She’d passed out herself from exhaustion as they began treating her injuries, but as soon as she’d woken up, she’d bullied, threatened and pleaded until they brought her to Cassian, making her wait outside the operating room, only able to watch as they finished the surgeries and treatments. They’d let her curl up in a chair next to the Bacta tank they’d stuck him in afterward, and no one even questioned by the time he was relocated to an infirmary bed when she climbed in beside him.

She’d seen the bandages, bruises, burns and scars. And she knew how they’d changed as the hours, the days had passed. Barely days, just three days since Scarif. Were they insane? They were just going to turn him out, in his condition?

Apparently, they were.

The med-droid was already injecting him with something, and Cassian was rousing. Jyn’s heart beat faster and she practically held her breath, on her knees on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with anticipatory anxiety, clutching at her kyber crystal with one hand. His past few hours of sleep had been strained. He’d been unconscious but also tense, in pain. She’d felt it in the rigidity of his muscles, the periodic hitches in his breathing.

“Did you give him more meds for the pain, too?” she asked the droid. How could they ask him to get back on his feet when he was in so much pain just lying still?

“Yes. And the stimulant should keep him awake until he gets settled back into his quarters.”

Jyn sagged in relief slightly until Cassian came crashing back into reality with a gasp and a jerk, and bewildered, began to thrash. She threw herself on top of him, placing her hands on his shoulders to hold him down, hoping he wouldn’t hurt himself worse, but understanding how confused and frightened he must feel.

“Cassian, It’s Jyn.” As if that would make a difference to him, if he even remembered her upon waking from a days-long practically-a-coma, someone he’d only met far less than a week ago and since had suffered devastating traumas. “You’re safe. You’re on the rebel base on Yavin 4. In the infirmary.”

Almost instantly, he went still, calmed, like a switch had been thrown. But she supposed the man did have quick reflexes, was highly adaptable to various situations. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made it so long as a rebel spy.

“Jyn?” His eyes found her face. They were a little glassy and unfocused but were still, well, captivating, dark, intelligent and expressive. “What happened?”

“We did it.” She shifted back to kneeling beside him, gave him a smile, a genuine one albeit bittersweet. They had succeeded in their mission, but at a tremendous cost. “The plans to the Death Star were received by the fleet.”

“Are they planning an attack?” Cassian pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing and inhaling sharply, making Jyn picture the freshly healed surgical incisions that were doubtless strained by the movement.

“I…” Jyn had never thought to ask. The moment she realized they weren’t going to die on that beach, making sure Cassian survived had become her only concern. “I don’t know.”

“I should report to Command.” Cassian moved to get out of the infirmary bed, but Jyn stopped him, grabbing his arm to hold him back. She shimmied across the bed and hopped off it to stand in front of him.

“If they needed any more information or intel, they would’ve asked me.” It sounded plausible, even though if they’d tried it, she couldn’t rightly say she would’ve cooperated (they hadn’t listened to her the last time she tried to convince them of the truth), but especially if it meant leaving Cassian’s side. Even for a moment. How had someone else become her primary, her only concern, that she now cared only for his welfare? “And you’re not in any shape to help. Give yourself a little more time to heal.”

She reached for him as he was already trying to stand, stiffening and wobbling for a moment when he was fully upright. But Jyn would support him without him needing to ask, slid her arms around his waist and tucked her shoulder under one of his arms. He leaned into her, likely without even realizing it. From what Jyn could tell, Cassian was an independent sort of person, like herself, but unlike herself, was not too proud to accept help, being more of a team player than she ever had been.

His fingers went to pinch the bridge of his nose and his eyes squeezed shut. He took a long, deep breath, swaying a little.

“How far are your quarters from the infirmary?” she asked.

He sighed. That close, was it?

“Can you make it? If I help you?” Jyn looked around, but the droid had already stripped the bed and skittered off. She would go find whatever he needed for assistance because maybe he was a little proud, too, and had sacrificed a good portion of his independence by leaning on her. She waited, letting him decide, despite her wanting to wrap him up in soft warm blankets in a fluffy bed of pillows and keep him safe.

“Let’s try it. I should probably find out how bad the damage is sooner than later.” His expression had gone tight and unreadable, and her heart broke to think of the justified fear he must be feeling, that he may have suffered permanent damage that could affect the rest of his life, that might take away his purpose of serving the rebellion.

“They healed the blaster wound easily, but you’ve got an impressive scar,” she said as he took a tentative step, using her like a crutch, not questioning why or how she knew his wounds and medical diagnosis and treatments. “The fractures in your vertebrae and ribs probably haven’t completely knitted yet but the prognosis is good.”

Well, this wasn’t so bad. His weight was a burden making her own steps difficult, but Jyn didn’t begrudge it, not when it meant he was alive, and on his feet even. And they were already at the infirmary door. The medical staff hadn’t given them even a second look, but Jyn steeled herself for the possibility of stares as they entered the rest of the base. She couldn’t care less but these were Cassian’s fellow soldiers and he deserved their respect and not pity.

“They replaced your hip and part of your femur,” she said when they entered the hallway.

“Is that why it feels like I’ve been sliced open from my ribs down to my knee?”

“They sealed you back up.”

A light chuckle escaped him. “Things could be worse, then.”

They could, they really could. If Jyn were to make comparisons, it wasn’t just the fact that they hadn’t died on Scarif like it seemed they should’ve, but this situation she found herself in, saddled with a wounded spy (by her own choosing), on a rebel base, a Death Star out there somewhere in the galaxy… It was still the best place she’d been in since… Since she was abandoned by Saw at 16? Since her mother had died and her father had been taken?

Part of her that enjoyed the warmth of Cassian’s body beside hers, the feel of his wiry flank beneath her hand, the smell of his skin, even the weight of him he placed on her shoulders, that part proposed that this was the best situation, the best time in her entire life.

How pathetic did that make her?

She enjoyed dragging a severely wounded man around some giant old ruins half-reclaimed by the jungle converted to a military base… sort of base… The Alliance was so loosely confederated, everything seemed slapped together and piecemeal.

But hopefully the medical facilities had been up to par… They had seemed nicer than anything Jyn had ever experienced. But that wasn’t saying much at all.

“You need a minute?” she asked, finally realizing Cassian’s steps and breathing had become labored. She maneuvered him towards a wall and leaned up against it with him, nodding to a passing rebel soldier of indeterminable rank and unnotable appearance.

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you’d left me on Scarif,” he said, his voice low, quiet and pained as he almost-panted, sagging against the ancient stone wall.

“No,” she said. “You don’t mean that.”

“I was ready to die.”

She didn’t want to hear this. The meds and the strain were making him say things. She told him as much.

He shook his head.

“Listen to me, Jyn.”

What could she do? What could she say? That she didn’t want to hear how he valued his life so little, that he’d throw it away just for the slim chance of providing an opportunity for the rebellion to destroy some Imperial weapon, a terrifying one, but one weapon of many. She-

“I felt peace. For the first time in my life, probably.” His voice had gotten even lower and quieter, almost a whisper, wistful even. Jyn didn’t dare look at him, had to concentrate on breathing normally when she felt his fingers slip into her hand. It was easier to consider her unsolicited affection for the man when he was giving no indication of whether or not he returned it. “And I think it was because you were there. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I didn’t feel alone.”

Oh, Force. He was getting delirious, saying things that, from what she knew of him, he would never share even if he did feel them.

“Come on, let’s get you back to your own bed.”

He didn’t say anything else as they traversed several more halls, and Jyn wondered if she’d hurt his feelings by not responding to his raw, quiet confession. But he continued to lean on her without any hesitation and the silence between them felt comfortable. It was strange. He’d made her so tense in the beginning, the way he watched her, how secretive he was, so guarded. But somehow, somewhere along the way, she grew to not only feel comfortable with Cassian Andor, but to trust him as she’d never trusted anyone else before.

And she thought, maybe he trusted her in return. He followed her on a suicide mission, let her support his injured, vulnerable self on Scarif, let her drag him off that cursed planet, and now lead him across the rebel base, passing by people who really amounted to the only family he’d ever had.

There weren’t many, however. And none stopped. Or stared, too much. The med droid must have been right about the incoming survivors of the skirmish, everyone seemed a little rushed and mission-oriented. Or maybe there was more going on…

“Stop. Stop.”

Jyn immediately froze.

“Are you okay?” she asked, shifting beneath Cassian’s weight to try to get a good look at his face. “Do you need a break?”

“We’re home,” Cassian said, his eyelids sliding nearly shut before they shot open again.

“Oh,” Jyn said, ignoring the way something fluttered inside of her over his choice of words. “Which one?”

“Left side of the hall.” He indicated the door directly to their left with a nod of his head. The stimulant must be failing to combat the pain meds, and his body’s need to rest, to heal. Because he was getting heavier and more slack in her arms.

They staggered over to the door to his quarters and he was at least coherent enough to punch his code into the lock. His room was by no means large, barely larger than Jyn’s cell on Wobani. But at least he didn’t have a cellmate, er, bunkmate… Well, not officially…

She basically dumped him on the narrow bed, which he didn’t seem to mind at all, making a groaning sound of relief and taking several deep breaths, his legs hanging awkwardly off the side. Not knowing what else to do, she bent to lift his legs and slide them onto the bed, forcing him to lay down in a less uncomfortable position. She pulled the white slip-on infirmary shoes off his feet and tossed them in a corner, feeling only a flash of contrition over sullying the pristine room. It was so austere, even with two of the walls comprised of the old stone of the ancient temple. It could’ve been anyone’s quarters. No. That was wrong. It’s nondescriptness, everything hidden away in the meager storage units, only Cassian would keep his personal space in such a spartan manner.

“Cassian…?”

He mumbled something she took to imply he was listening and not passed out yet.

“Do you have extra bedding? A blanket or something?” She could do without. She had, many times. But it would be a little bit better than sleeping on the bare hard stone floor.

“No… Jungle moon… Already too hot… Why?”

“I was going to sleep here, if you don’t mind,” Jyn said. Why was this an awkward conversation to have? Why was she so afraid he’d say no, send her away? “On the floor.”

His eyes opened and that furrow formed between his brows as he studied her with a gaze that seemed to be having trouble focusing. But then he was scooching over until he was almost touching the wall.

“I think this is a nanometer larger than the infirmary cot,” he said. “What do you think?”

Jyn tried not to smile as she kicked off her own flimsy infirmary shoes and climbed onto Cassian’s bed to stretch out beside him. Something inside her sighed, content. She didn’t let it out.

“I don’t know…” she said. “But I guess if they made the infirmary beds nicer than the barracks, they’d have sick rebels all the time.”

A chuckle escaped through his nose.

“I don’t think they usually offer an ángel as a companion, either.”

“What?” Jyn shifted onto her side to study his face. His eyes were closed and he seemed content. The pain meds must be working.

“My mother was a believer in an Ancient Festian religion that worshipped a creator god. I don’t remember very many specifics...” Jyn didn’t dare breathe out, afraid of interrupting the story, softly spoken with hints of nostalgia, sharing a childhood memory, an intimacy she knew Cassian permitted, well, probably no one. “Except, there were these creatures that did the creator’s bidding, guiding people, aiding them, saving them… Angeles… I don’t know the word in Basic…”

He looked at her, and her apprehension about breaking the spell ebbed. Cassian knew full well who he was talking to, even if the pain meds had loosened his tongue, broken down the rigid walls he kept around his private self.

“I don’t know the word, either,” Jyn said. “I’’ve never heard of such creatures, mythical or otherwise.”

Cassian laughed, a soft little rumble that was accompanied by that rare smile of his that was brighter than a yellow dwarf sun and warmed her just as well. But, “What’s funny about that?”

“You…” His hand found hers, fingers sliding against her palm to curl around hers, engulfing her smaller hand. He shifted to face her, wincing a little, but his expression was soft if serious and . “Jyn, you saved me, guided me, are still coming to my aid… You’re my angelita…”

Oh, shit, he was so tired and drugged up he was becoming incoherent. Hopefully, he wouldn’t remember saying such emotional things- oh.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her knuckles, making her swallow a gasp of surprise, and fight the sigh when he held her hand to his chest as he lay back, his eyelids finally losing the battle and sliding shut.

Oh, Cassian…

“Don’t worship me,” she whispered to his sleeping form. “I’m nothing worth venerating.”

Of course, was she behaving any different when it came to him?

They were quite the mess, the two of them.

She wriggled her fingers in his hold until she was able to interlace them with his and feel the warmth of his palm against hers. Jyn closed her eyes, immersing herself in the quiet, safe moment.

#fic: give me a reason #Rogue One #fanfiction #rebelcaptain #cassian x jyn #Cassian Andor #Jyn Erso