ilya starting antidepressants and getting a lot of initial side effects. itâs bad enough that shane finds him sitting on the bathroom floor at two in the morning.
ilya is sitting curled beside the toilet, one arm folded across his stomach, the other resting against the seat like heâs been hovering there awhile.
shane stops in the doorway immediately.
âbaby?â
ilya flinches slightly at the sound of his voice, like heâd forgotten other people existed.
he looks exhausted. pale in the dim light. his chest rises with slow measured inhales, like heâs trying not to make the nausea worse.
âhey,â shane says softly. âhow long have you been in here?â
ilya shrugs weakly, which means too long.
shane reaches for him, fingers brushing gently against his cheek. ilya leans into the touch for exactly one second before squeezing his eyes shut hard.
âhead hurts,â he says quietly.
shaneâs hand slides up into his hair, thumb brushing his temple. âagain?â
a small nod.
âdizzy too?â
âmhm.â
ânauseous?â
ilya lets out a humorless laugh. âwhat gave it away?â
another wave of nausea seems to hit because ilya closes his eyes briefly, breathing slower through his nose.
shane lowers himself to the floor beside him and ilya lets himself be pulled against his chest.
for awhile they stay like that.
shaneâs hand moves slowly up and down his back. grounding him through each lingering wave of nausea whenever it hits. every time ilya tenses slightly, shaneâs fingers tighten reassuringly against him.
eventually the queasiness seems to ease enough that ilyaâs breathing evens out.
âthink you can stand?â shane asks quietly.
ilya nods against his chest.
shane gets up first, then carefully helps him upright.
vertigo suddenly hits when ilya shifts his weight, enough that he grabs the edge of the bathroom countertop.
shane steadies him immediately. one hand at his back, the other gripping his waist.
âeasy.â
ilya exhales shakily then suddenly looks so worn down.
âsorry,â he whispers.
âhey,â shaneâs voice goes soft instantly. ânone of that.â
shane keeps one arm firmly around him, guiding him carefully to their shared bedroom while ilya stays tucked close against his side.
the bedroom is dark except for moonlight spilling pale across the sheets. shane guides him down carefully onto the bed, then climbs in beside him without hesitation.
ilya folds against his chest, forehead tucked under shaneâs chin while shane pulls the blankets over both of them. his body feels tense even now. wound tight under his skin.
for awhile neither of them says anything.
finally ilya speaks, voice muffled against his skin.
âwhat if the meds donât work?â
âthen we try different ones.â
âand if those donât work?â
âthen we keep going.â
shane says it so simply. like thereâs no universe where he leaves.
âi donât want to feel like this anymore,â he whispers.
shane shifts just enough to cup his face, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye.
âlook at me.â
ilya does eventually.
his eyes look exhausted, shining faintly in the dark.
âyouâve been carrying this by yourself for a long time,â shane says softly. âyou donât have to do that anymore.â
ilyaâs expression crumples.
âwhat if nothing works?â his voice cracks suddenly. âwhat if iâm always going to feel like this?â
shaneâs entire face changes.
immediately.
âhey. no.â
âwhat if iâll never be fixed?â, he says, a single tear running down his cheek.
the words come out so quiet shane almost misses them.
and god, that hurts.
because ilya sounds terrified when he says it.
he pulls ilya closer instinctively, one hand cradling the back of his head.
ilya makes this small strangled sound and suddenly heâs crying against shaneâs shoulder. exhausted, overwhelmed tears that seem ripped out of him against his will.
âhey hey,â he whispers, one hand rubbing firmly up and down his back. âitâs okay. câmere.â
ilya shakes his head hard against his shoulder, embarrassed by it somehow.
âiâm trying so hard,â he says through sobs.
âi know you are.â
shaneâs chest aches so badly he can barely breathe around it.
he presses slow kisses into ilyaâs hairline, his temple, anywhere he can reach while he cries quietly against him.
âfour weeks,â he whispers against ilyaâs hair. âdoctor said usually around four weeks things start getting easier. the headaches and nausea pass first. then the rest.â
ilyaâs breathing stutters shakily.
shane tightens the blankets around both of them before pulling ilya impossibly closer, until thereâs barely space left between their bodies at all.
shane keeps holding him long after the crying quiets.
long after ilyaâs breathing finally starts to even out.
every so often he presses another soft kiss into his hair, whispering sleepy little "i love you"s into the dark while his fingers move slow and constant along ilyaâs back.
and eventually, somewhere close to dawn, ilya finally falls asleep still curled tightly against his chest while shane holds him the entire night.
Been super thrilled to find out apparently more people in the fandom want an angrier/more feral Ryland Grace because that's exactly how I'm writing him. Yes, it is an alternate AU with no space travel shenanigans, but there's still anger and grief and anxiety and all of those things make him a more volatile and reactionary man.
Coupled with the fact that he still doesn't swear much, it leaves Simon confused on whether he should try not to laugh or if he should duck when Grace inevitably starts chucking pens and kicknacks around screaming things like "dang" and "heck".
I was just thinking about learning Corbeau's nervous habits and how to quell them, like a hand on his bouncing knee or gently running the back of his tense neck. And then I started thinking about it for all the guys and I knew I had to come to you
Sydni, I'm sorry this took me forever to get to. But I finally got to it.
Lunch with Urbain always felt a little like trying to picnic in the middle of a windstorm. There was energy everywhere, but none of it ever quite settled. Today, youâd managed to wrangle him away from the marble-and-glass sprawl of Quasarticoâs top floor, all the way down to a sun-warmed bench just outside the office building. The city buzzed around you, and Urbain buzzed right along with it, leg bouncing, fingers drumming the edge of his takeout container. He barely touched his sandwich, eyes darting between you and the screen of his phone.
âOkay, so, after lunch Iâve gotta meet with the finance team and then, uh, the board wants a status report? And I think I mightâve lost theââ He broke off, biting his lower lip, blue eyes flickering with that blend of panic and hope that always made your heart twist. âSorry, Iâm justâthereâs so much to remember. I thought being CEO would be, like, more fun? Or at least less⊠numbers.â
You smiled, watching as he gnawed at his lip again, worry etching little red lines along the soft skin. His tousled hair caught in the breeze, wild as ever, the sun catching on his platinum bangs and illuminating the faint freckles across his nose. Even now, with his trademark grin nowhere in sight. He looked every inch the golden boy, just a little more frayed at the edges.
You reached into your bag, fingers closing around a tube of cherry lip balm. Urbain didnât notice. He was too busy worrying his lip, voice trailing off as he tried to remember the next item on his endless list. You uncapped the balm and smoothed it across your lips, thick and shiny, the scent drifting up in a gentle, sweet note in the city air.
He glanced at you, a question forming, but you didnât let him ask it. Instead, you leaned in, cupping his jaw in your palm, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, slow, soft, and lingering, letting the balm transfer from your lips to his, coating the chapped skin with gentle pressure. He blinked, startled, then melted beneath your touch, shoulders loosening, the tension draining from his body as you kissed him again, slower this time, your thumb sweeping across his cheekbone.
You pulled back just enough to see the dazed, sheepish smile blooming on his face, lips shiny and pink, eyes wide with surprise. His fingers came up to touch his mouth, and you caught them, lacing your hand through his.
âHey,â you murmured, voice barely above the hum of the city, âyouâre doing better than you think. Youâre still learning, Urbain. No one expects you to have it all figured out already.â
He flushed, laughter bubbling out of him, sweet and grateful. âYeah? Even when Iâm screwing up the lunch schedule and chapping my lips to death?â
âEspecially then,â you said, grinning. âThatâs when you need someone to remind you to take a breath. And maybe kiss you until you remember youâre not alone in this.â
He grinned, wide and real. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up, careless and boyish as ever. The stress didnât vanish, but it faded for a moment, softened by the warmth of your touch and the taste of cherry on his lips. Urbain leaned in for another kiss, this one clumsy and a little desperate, but sweeter for it, as if heâd just remembered how to be himself again.
âThanks,â he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, voice soft and sure. âIâŠI needed that more than I knew.â
And for a little while, the city noise faded, and it was just you and Urbain, the world slowing down to the steady, unhurried rhythm of your hearts.
Corbeau
You slipped through the door at the edge of noon, arms full of lunch. Fresh bread, a lacquered box of onigiri, something sweet from a back-alley bakeryâhoping to coax him out of the storm he always carried behind his eyes. But Corbeau was already in the throes of battle: reports scattered across the desk, a mountain of grunt rosters, and a ledger bristling with crimson tabs. He sat rigid in his high-backed chair, sharp suit pristine, but the muscle in his jaw flickered, and his fingers, long, elegant, usually so precise, kept raking back through his dark, wave-streaked hair.
He didnât notice you at first. His glasses caught the light as he hunched forward, reading a report, then tossed it aside with a soft, venomous curse. His hand went to his hair again, twisting a lock and pulling it taut, tension bunching at his temples. You set the lunch down without a word, crossing the room on silent feet. The scent of bergamot and ink lingered around him, sharp, cool, and so very controlled.
He startled a little as you came up behind him, but didnât protest when you laid your palms on his shoulders. âI brought lunch,â you murmured, voice gentle, as if soothing a wild Liepard. âYouâve been working yourself to death.â
He shook his head, the motion stiff, but you didnât let him argue. Instead, you leaned in, letting your fingers drift up to the back of his neck, finding the corded tension just at the base of his skull, where stress pooled and hardened. His hand, still tangled in his hair, trembled faintly.
âStop,â you said softly, catching his wrist before he could twist another strand. âLet me.â
He let you guide his hand down, his long fingers uncurling, resting against your palm. You cradled it gently, then slid your other hand into his hair, working slow circles into his scalp, smoothing the wildness back from his forehead. The movement was deliberate and tender, tracing the wave-shaped locks, soothing each tensed root until the urge to pull faded, replaced by your steady, grounding touch.
Corbeauâs breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. His eyes fluttered shut behind those angular glasses, the sharp lines of his face softening, the shadows retreating. You kept your hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slow arcs against the knots, your other hand carding through his hair with gentle persistence.
âYou work too hard, Beau,â you murmured, close enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. âEven you need to be cared for sometimes.â
He let out a low, reluctant laugh, a sound rarely heard in this office. âIf only my subordinates could see me now,â he murmured, voice rough, but no longer fraying. âThe mighty Corbeau, undone by a gentle hand.â
You pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, letting your lips linger. âPerhaps theyâll be jealous then,â you teased. âNot everyone can have a loving and caring girlfriend like me.â
He leaned back further into your touch, tension melting from his shoulders, the urge to fidget, to pull, twist, and control, quieted by the steady rhythm of your care. For a moment, he was simply a man, not the syndicate boss, just yours to soothe and care for.
When he finally opened his eyes, they were clearer, the storm receded. âStay,â he said, low and certain. âLunch can wait a little longer.â
You smiled, hands still buried in his hair, and stayed with him in the hush, your presence the antidote to every poison in his veins.
You passed him a pastry and coffee, slipping onto the step beside him. He thanked you with a quiet smile, lifting the croissant with careful fingers. But when he reached for his cup, you caught a flash of redâa strip of gauze wound neatly around his index finger, another on his thumb. You frowned, thinking of oven racks and sharp knives. âRough morning in the kitchen?â
Grishamâs expression didnât flicker. âA small mishap, nothing more. The almond paste was particularly stubborn today.â
You accepted the answer, but something about the way he held his hands, the careful way his right thumb pressed into the pad of his left palm, set a spark of worry in your gut. You watched as he absently rubbed his cuticle, then quickly tucked his hand beneath the fold of his napkin, fingers tight. He changed the subject, asking after your day, and his voice was smooth, but a little too quick, like a page turned before the ink was dry.
It wasnât until Griselle breezed past, ponytail swinging and eyes bright with mischief, that you got the truth. She leaned in, voice pitched just for you: âHe does that all the time, you know. Worries himself raw. Wonât stop picking âtil he bleeds. Used to drive Lysandre mad back in the day.â She winked, then slipped inside with a tray of cups, leaving you with a new lens on Grishamâs quiet injuries.
You waited, letting the silence stretch between you, the city noise drifting in from the curb. When Grisham finally looked up, you reached for his hand, catching it before he could tuck it away again. Your touch was gentle, thumb brushing over the fresh wrap. He stilled, sharp eyes searching yours for judgment.
âYou know you can always come to me, right?â you said softly, voice edged with warmth but no accusation. âYou do so much for everyone. You should let others do something for you, once in a while..â
For a moment, he hesitated, pride and habit warring behind his glasses. Then he exhaled, long and slow, letting his shoulders drop as you unwound the gauze. The skin beneath was red and raw, the cuticle chewed, but you only pressed a kiss to his knuckle, soft and deliberate. You reached into your bag for a little tin of balm, smoothing it over the sore skin, careful and thorough. Grisham watched, color rising high across his cheeks, his posture melting into something looser, his free hand trembling in his lap.
âI⊠Itâs a difficult habit to break,â he admitted, voice gone soft, vulnerable as youâd ever heard it. âI never realized you noticed.â
âWell, for a while I thought it was just general mishaps in the truck. But I started getting suspicious when youâd come home with more fingers wrapped,â you said, finishing the wrap with a new, clean bandage, your fingers lingering against his palm. âNext time it gets too much, come to me, alright? Let me help before you hurt yourself.â
Ivor was standing where he usually was, watching his students spar but his hands never stilled, knuckles popping, one after the other, the sound sharp as thrown pebbles in the city hush. You wandered over, drawn by that familiar staccato.Â
The girls were running drills, and Ivor, though outwardly relaxed, cracked his knuckles again and again, tension rippling through his massive frame like a restless Machamp. When you sat beside him, he grinned, but his hands kept moving.Â
Left, right, back, twist, pop.
âIvor,â you said gently, reaching to still his fidgeting hands, âyouâre gonna run out of knuckles if you keep that up.â
He blinked, sheepish, then let you take his hand. The size of it amazed you every time, callused but warm, the palm easily engulfing yours. You started massaging his fingers, slow circles over the joints, kneading the thick muscle at the base of his thumb. The tension bled away beneath your touch, his knuckles relaxing, his breath coming a little slower.
âThat feels good,â he rumbled, a little shy beneath all that bravado.Â
A soft smile touched your face as you worked your way up, hands gliding over his broad wrist then kneading the dense muscle of his forearm before tracing the pronounced lines of strength and effort that years of training had carved into him. His skin was hot beneath your palms, his arm heavy but yielding, the muscle shifting under your touch like a coiled spring finally unspooling.
A slow, contented sound vibrated in his chest. He shut his eyes, tipping his head back, wild blond hair falling even messier. âWow. You got magic hands, huh? If you keep that up, I might fall asleep right here.â
You grinned this time, sliding both hands up to his biceps, which were broad, iron-hard, but softening as you kneaded deeper, coaxing away the tension. His breath hitched, a flush rising on his tanned cheeks. The chatter of the dojo faded, your world narrowing to the heat of his skin and the quiet gratitude in every little sigh he let slip.
You leaned in, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his shoulder, then another at the corner of his mouth, right beside the little mole. âYou donât always have to be hard as steel,â you murmured against his skin. âEven the strongest need to take a break and relax sometimes.â
Ivor turned to you, eyes bright with surprise and delight. Then, in one swift and exuberant motion, hooked his big arms around your waist and swept you up off the ground. Your breath caught in a startled gasp as your feet left the cracked pavement and you instinctively flung your arms around his neck, holding tight, laughter bubbling up as his wild golden hair brushed your cheek.
He held you close, grinning wide enough to light up the entire Jaune district, his chest rumbling with that deep, happy laugh. âWith you? I could get used to that,â he crowed, spinning you once in the golden afternoon light before settling you against his shoulderâsafe, weightless, and fiercely cherished in his embrace.
The dojoâs shouts and clatter faded around you, replaced by the security of Ivorâs armsâsteady and unyielding, but warm and gentle as his smile. For once, the restless cracking of his knuckles stilled, all his restless energy folding into the simple, joyful strength of holding you close.
Itâs very important to me as a (disabled person) that when people are drawing or writing about Simon that they include his amputation. I donât personally have an amputation but seeing and reading about people accepting a characterâs disability still matters to me.
Kon meets him on the rug to grab his shoulders and stop him in place. âYes, bleeding out will do that.â He lets TTK envelop him andâ âDo you have an honest-to-god head wound right now?!â He gently presses a hand to his crown. âAre you concussed?!â
Tim winces at the volume. âYeah. Both. Prolly.â
âAnd, what, you drove here?âÂ
Tim shrugs. âI missed youâŠâÂ
Kon blinks. âWhatâs wrong with you? Actually, donât answer that.âÂ
BACK AGAIN i cannot stay away from this au it's just too much fun and this prompt is delicious thank you so much anon <3<3
There's a loud whooping in his ear piece, followed by breathless laughter.
"I got the last one!" Max cries, clearly very high on the adrenaline rush. It makes George smile, despite it all, the way Max so clearly enjoys the thrill of the fight.
"Last kill has to call in clean up," George replies, trying hard to keep his voice steady. Max makes indignant noises in his ear but George is almost certain Max had been in the process of contacting them before he said anything so he ignores it. His jacket was discarded somewhere before the fighting really kicked off and he picks through the bodies and miscellaneous detritus looking for it. He'll feel a lot better with it on. Maybe then he'll have half a chance at getting home without Max noticing.
"George, are you coming?" This time Max's voice comes from around the corner rather than in his ear, and George scoops up his jacket in the nick of time.
"Yeah, steady on." He awkwardly shrugs his jacket on and feels a sense of accomplishment that it only takes him two tries. Max pokes his head around the corner and grins at George.
"Did you see my trick shot?"
Again, it pulls a smile from George (perhaps a slightly loopy one). Max is bonkers with a sniper in hand, and simply killing a target normally grew boring for him a long time ago. Always desperate for a challenge, Max has been setting himself harder and harder trick shots of late. George is impressed every single time, but he doesn't like inflating Max's ego too much and usually just points out that Max is jeopardising the mission by adding an element of unnecessary risk. To which Max tells him he's a boring goody two shoes that should pull the stick out of his ass.
It's their thing.
"Mate, hard to miss. You covered me in him."
Max's smile is all teeth and it makes George acutely aware that Max kills people for a living. He steps over another body and wobbles his way across the room to Max, hoping that any unsteadiness looks like he's just trying not to slip in all the blood. Which he really is trying to avoid. Max is poking at someone with his foot which is fairly par for the course for Max but right now it's making George feel a bit queasy. He clears his throat.
"Should we get going then?" George barely stops himself from slapping his hands on is thighs.
Max gives him a funny look.
"We need the documents still, George. Did you forget the mission already?"
Ah, yes. The reason they killed all those guys. He blinks aggressively, trying to ignore the increasing brain fog.
"Of course I didn't forget," he mutters. Max side eyes him, and George realises he isn't being very convincing. "I was testing you actually."
This makes Max scoff, and George isn't sure if he should be relieved or offended that Max buys that reasoning. He takes a shallow breath and settles for relief.
Carefully, they pick through the carnage, looking for a briefcase they know was in the room before all hell broke loose. George's vision swims if he bends over for too long but he's trying really hard to ignore that. Max seems far too focused on finding what they need to find to pay too much attention to George, which is unsurprising and really helping with the goal of not letting Max realise what has gone on. George is determined not to let Max know he's made a mistake. And taking a knife to the side is definitely a mistake. God only knows the amount of ridicule he'd receive for that little slip up.
"I think I found it," Max calls from across the room. It makes George jumpâhe'd definitely been spacing out a little bitâand he hisses as the involuntary jerk jostles his side. Without thinking he presses a hand to it. He realises what he's done almost immediately and hurries to wipe his sticky, incriminating hand on his trousers.
"George?" That's Max again. Saying his name. He should reply.
"Mm?" is all he can really muster. Thinking is getting really hard. So is seeing for that matter.
His side hurts.
The last thing George hears before the world goes dark is Max yelling his name.
