lumeria (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lumeria) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2016-12-29 08:58 pm
lumeria) wrote in bakerstreet2016-12-29 08:58 pm
( nursed back to health shipping meme. )
shipping meme 
|
When Cassian comes to in what appears to be the medbay on Yavin 4, he thinks for a moment that he's died. His body certainly feels that way - heavy, like lead - but the ache in his bones and, well, his entire body really, is just too real. He feels like he's broken in two places (probably more). He can't move much, not that he wants to at the moment.
But his mind is still sharp. What happened? Who brought him here? He saw the Death Star - he saw his imminent death - and now? How is he alive?
The very last thing he remembers is the bright yellow light of impending death, the quake in the ground beneath him, Jyn's arms, her body against his...]
Jyn.
[He calls out for her, but he knows he doesn't have the strength to say her name much louder. His voice is soft and hoarse. He looks around but his view is obscured by curtains around his bed. Where is she? Is she even alive?
A droid comes over to check on him. Despite the injuries he sustained on Scarif, he seemed to be healing thanks to whatever they gave him.]
But his mind is still sharp. What happened? Who brought him here? He saw the Death Star - he saw his imminent death - and now? How is he alive?
The very last thing he remembers is the bright yellow light of impending death, the quake in the ground beneath him, Jyn's arms, her body against his...]
Jyn.
[He calls out for her, but he knows he doesn't have the strength to say her name much louder. His voice is soft and hoarse. He looks around but his view is obscured by curtains around his bed. Where is she? Is she even alive?
A droid comes over to check on him. Despite the injuries he sustained on Scarif, he seemed to be healing thanks to whatever they gave him.]
( either role. )
[Either role, more likely to fuss.]
[How about helping a Cullen through withdrawals? Or I also have Lavellans and Adaars of various genders if you'd rather have that!]
Let me know if this needs edited. Phone tagging from work. :'>
tevinterpariah
- 2016-12-30 07:08 (UTC) - Expandsorry i'm watching a drinking D&D livestream so if my tags get wonky this is why
sassing_commander
- 2017-01-01 04:16 (UTC) - ExpandThat sounds like fun ngl. I'm just catching up on a show x3
tevinterpariah
- 2017-01-01 04:24 (UTC) - ExpandCredence Barebones | Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them | OTA
hidden_magic
2016-12-30 03:25 am (UTC)(link)
[He does need it.]
[I'd honestly be willing to write him as either, but be prepared for caretaker!Junkrat to be kind of a mess. He'll do his best, though!]
[Up for a serving of cowboy and ninja time, with or without a side of romantic overtures?
I was thinking something after Overwatch's fall while Jesse's on the run.]
I was thinking something after Overwatch's fall while Jesse's on the run.]
(Probably the caretaker, but either role can work and making it mutual is always cool with me. Cross-canon welcome. No Wardens, please.)
( can be either. lacks advanced nurturing skills tho. )
[Likely the caretaker, since he's not exactly human. He might be a bit awkward, though.]
( When it came to people like Peter Hale, you don't just take them to a hospital. Not unless you want to guarantee them a one-way trip back to a place like Eichen House or open the door to a surge of potentially fatal visitors out for blood. Stiles had been (uncomfortably) surprised to learn he had to explain that much to Scott and the others after his return from the Wild Hunt and discovered Peter's lack of healing.
Even with having Melissa at the hospital and a reassurance from Parrish that nothing would happen to Peter as long as he was there recuperating, Stiles doubted the truth behind those words. And all things considered, if it hadn't been for Peter bringing his keys through, who was to say he would have gotten back as quickly as he had? There was no telling and considering some of the words they'd exchanged before Peter'd left, he decided he owed the werewolf something. An apology, at least. And maybe, his life at most.
Scott didn't seem to understand that. And after a while, he realized Lydia didn't either. Both of them, he supposed, had their own reasons for their resistance to helping Peter. That didn't stop Stiles.
It had taken some help from Deaton, but he'd managed to find a place to take Peter. It was a small apartment nestled on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, most of the walls lined with mountain ash shelves neatly filled with books and relics. It was a place that simultaneously put him at ease and made him feel dangerously inadequate among his supernatural friends. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of impact it would have on Peter's own well being, but it was the best they had, a place that was safe and would give Peter the time he needed to heal and get back on his feet without having to worry about someone coming for him at his weakest moment.
That was where Stiles had started to spend most of his free time, even some of his days that were meant to be at school. At first, it was partly out of worry, a small fear that he'd come to the small apartment one day and find Peter as nothing more than a pile of lifeless burned flesh. But once Peter'd started healing - with a lot of help from some new concoction Deaton would conjure and pass to him every week - and could do more than lay there in pain, making some kind of noise that might have been words or a protest whenever Stiles would fight off the urge to faint while simultaneously smearing different things across Peter's skin, it became a habit to visit and tend to the other man.
It made him feel strangely... comfortable sitting on the edge of Peter's bed, chattering mindlessly about anything that might come to mind. Once, of course, he'd managed to overcome the urge to faint or the feeling of lightheaded-ness that came from seeing such severely burnt flesh up close and personal, feeling it under bandages and even his hands as he tended to Peter. That aside, the small room where Peter was laid out on the bed had become a place where Stiles didn't feel pressured to do the mundane things leading up to graduation, deal with Scott and his latest romance, or even watch the way Malia and Lydia fumbled to make sense of their own powers.
Peter, he was sure, didn't feel much of the same safety and connection to this place that he did. It was hard to tell in the beginning without words to say as much, but Stiles tried to make it a bearable place. Over time, the small bed had become covered with his old sheets, his favorite blankets from his own home, and eventually, even a couple of the pillows from his own bed. The more Peter healed, the more Stiles brought things. Books, comics, an old CD player with a variety of CDs Stiles had smuggled from various places, and even a Star Wars poster from the Phantom Menance. Periodically, Deaton stopped by to check to make sure Peter wasn't taking a turn for the worst, brought things that Stiles overlooked in his attempts to make Peter comfortable - things like bandages, clean clothes of the correct size, actual medicine. Occasionally something along the more mystical side to try and accelerate the process.
After a couple weeks, Peter had started forming words. Could sit up and move around without being in too much pain. All things Stiles had been more excited about than he thought he should have been. More recently, Peter had gotten to the point of being able to hold a conversation, sit up on his own, and with help, stand up and take a few steps around the small room. Not enough to be perfectly on his own, but enough that his skin looked mostly normal, a few spots still raw with a burn that they bandaged and treated every day when he first arrived and again before he left, even if most days, he didn't leave anymore.
Three weeks since they'd brought Peter here and only a couple days after Peter's body remembered it had a tongue to voice every clever bit of words he could muster, Stiles burst through the door with his usual hurried clumsiness. Stepping through the mountain ash doorway, he dropped his backpack beside the door, cradling a pair of plastic tubs under one arm. After a few minutes of moving things around, he found himself in the bathroom to fill one of them with steaming water before he entered the room, a wash cloth and towel thrown over one shoulder. )
So Deaton gave this... stuff. Don't ask what it is, because he wouldn't tell me. ( He sighed, holding up a small, glass container filled with shimmering dirt that Stiles still hadn't decided was more blue or purple. ) He said to wash your smelly werewolf ass with it, and it should get you out of that bed within another week. ( He sighed, chewing on his lip for a few seconds before continuing. ) So let's not make this weird, alright?
( He twisted the cap off the bottle, tipping some of the contents into the water - watching as the surface swirled with dark purples and bright greens that dissolved clearly, filling the room with a pleasant scent of a few spices and herbs he couldn't place. Stiles watched the water for a moment before lifting his attention to Peter expectantly, one brow arching as if to say he was waiting for some form of protest or disapproval over the idea. )
Even with having Melissa at the hospital and a reassurance from Parrish that nothing would happen to Peter as long as he was there recuperating, Stiles doubted the truth behind those words. And all things considered, if it hadn't been for Peter bringing his keys through, who was to say he would have gotten back as quickly as he had? There was no telling and considering some of the words they'd exchanged before Peter'd left, he decided he owed the werewolf something. An apology, at least. And maybe, his life at most.
Scott didn't seem to understand that. And after a while, he realized Lydia didn't either. Both of them, he supposed, had their own reasons for their resistance to helping Peter. That didn't stop Stiles.
It had taken some help from Deaton, but he'd managed to find a place to take Peter. It was a small apartment nestled on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, most of the walls lined with mountain ash shelves neatly filled with books and relics. It was a place that simultaneously put him at ease and made him feel dangerously inadequate among his supernatural friends. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of impact it would have on Peter's own well being, but it was the best they had, a place that was safe and would give Peter the time he needed to heal and get back on his feet without having to worry about someone coming for him at his weakest moment.
That was where Stiles had started to spend most of his free time, even some of his days that were meant to be at school. At first, it was partly out of worry, a small fear that he'd come to the small apartment one day and find Peter as nothing more than a pile of lifeless burned flesh. But once Peter'd started healing - with a lot of help from some new concoction Deaton would conjure and pass to him every week - and could do more than lay there in pain, making some kind of noise that might have been words or a protest whenever Stiles would fight off the urge to faint while simultaneously smearing different things across Peter's skin, it became a habit to visit and tend to the other man.
It made him feel strangely... comfortable sitting on the edge of Peter's bed, chattering mindlessly about anything that might come to mind. Once, of course, he'd managed to overcome the urge to faint or the feeling of lightheaded-ness that came from seeing such severely burnt flesh up close and personal, feeling it under bandages and even his hands as he tended to Peter. That aside, the small room where Peter was laid out on the bed had become a place where Stiles didn't feel pressured to do the mundane things leading up to graduation, deal with Scott and his latest romance, or even watch the way Malia and Lydia fumbled to make sense of their own powers.
Peter, he was sure, didn't feel much of the same safety and connection to this place that he did. It was hard to tell in the beginning without words to say as much, but Stiles tried to make it a bearable place. Over time, the small bed had become covered with his old sheets, his favorite blankets from his own home, and eventually, even a couple of the pillows from his own bed. The more Peter healed, the more Stiles brought things. Books, comics, an old CD player with a variety of CDs Stiles had smuggled from various places, and even a Star Wars poster from the Phantom Menance. Periodically, Deaton stopped by to check to make sure Peter wasn't taking a turn for the worst, brought things that Stiles overlooked in his attempts to make Peter comfortable - things like bandages, clean clothes of the correct size, actual medicine. Occasionally something along the more mystical side to try and accelerate the process.
After a couple weeks, Peter had started forming words. Could sit up and move around without being in too much pain. All things Stiles had been more excited about than he thought he should have been. More recently, Peter had gotten to the point of being able to hold a conversation, sit up on his own, and with help, stand up and take a few steps around the small room. Not enough to be perfectly on his own, but enough that his skin looked mostly normal, a few spots still raw with a burn that they bandaged and treated every day when he first arrived and again before he left, even if most days, he didn't leave anymore.
Three weeks since they'd brought Peter here and only a couple days after Peter's body remembered it had a tongue to voice every clever bit of words he could muster, Stiles burst through the door with his usual hurried clumsiness. Stepping through the mountain ash doorway, he dropped his backpack beside the door, cradling a pair of plastic tubs under one arm. After a few minutes of moving things around, he found himself in the bathroom to fill one of them with steaming water before he entered the room, a wash cloth and towel thrown over one shoulder. )
So Deaton gave this... stuff. Don't ask what it is, because he wouldn't tell me. ( He sighed, holding up a small, glass container filled with shimmering dirt that Stiles still hadn't decided was more blue or purple. ) He said to wash your smelly werewolf ass with it, and it should get you out of that bed within another week. ( He sighed, chewing on his lip for a few seconds before continuing. ) So let's not make this weird, alright?
( He twisted the cap off the bottle, tipping some of the contents into the water - watching as the surface swirled with dark purples and bright greens that dissolved clearly, filling the room with a pleasant scent of a few spices and herbs he couldn't place. Stiles watched the water for a moment before lifting his attention to Peter expectantly, one brow arching as if to say he was waiting for some form of protest or disapproval over the idea. )
Edited 2016-12-30 22:21 (UTC)
you know this isn't going to be shippy, also welcome to hell
styxiedust
2016-12-30 07:38 am (UTC)(link)
[Storms blowing through Japan isn't unusual, especially not in certain seasons--they can just be dealt with in a routine fashion.
When you're a ferry woman, though, simply hiding inside and waiting for the storm to pass isn't an option. Botan and her coworkers have had to traverse some choppy skies to get through those who have been unfortunate enough to have to be ferried during this time. This isn't a problem because they're all very good fliers.
Usually they're good fliers.
Unless something happens like getting struck by lightning.
A strange thing happens when a spirit being gets struck by something like lightning in their incorporeal form--it jolts them terribly even if it doesn't kill them, they lose their senses and shut down.
Botan was one of the one in a trillion that was unfortunate enough to suffer that this day. After being struck over her intended destination, she fell hard, rattled through trying to right herself and crashing to earth. Did she hit a roof? Not sure. It doesn't matter anyway, she ends up rolling off of whatever she hit and falling to the ground anyway--the half corporeal state she was in made a loud BANG noise, the final stopping point leaves her in an alarming state of "a very battered looking woman lying face down on the sidewalk." If she was conscious or able to even focus, this would be a very bad thing since humans can see her, and who in the world can explain this?]
When you're a ferry woman, though, simply hiding inside and waiting for the storm to pass isn't an option. Botan and her coworkers have had to traverse some choppy skies to get through those who have been unfortunate enough to have to be ferried during this time. This isn't a problem because they're all very good fliers.
Usually they're good fliers.
Unless something happens like getting struck by lightning.
A strange thing happens when a spirit being gets struck by something like lightning in their incorporeal form--it jolts them terribly even if it doesn't kill them, they lose their senses and shut down.
Botan was one of the one in a trillion that was unfortunate enough to suffer that this day. After being struck over her intended destination, she fell hard, rattled through trying to right herself and crashing to earth. Did she hit a roof? Not sure. It doesn't matter anyway, she ends up rolling off of whatever she hit and falling to the ground anyway--the half corporeal state she was in made a loud BANG noise, the final stopping point leaves her in an alarming state of "a very battered looking woman lying face down on the sidewalk." If she was conscious or able to even focus, this would be a very bad thing since humans can see her, and who in the world can explain this?]
Page 1 of 4