#and for how long they could hold it without him having a coughing fit once

[fizz-pop-thwip]

I reckon Steve is clumsy asf

When he's in battle he's so focused on how he's moving his body and what he's doing he isn't clumsy whatsoever. We always see how he's hyper accurate and often achieves exactly what he wants to.

However, I think if he's in a relaxed environment or maybe he's particularly tired it's almost like he forgets his body takes up more space then it used to. He bashes into things when walking by them, hits his head on low hanging things, goes too far when he's reaching for something, tripping over his own feet.

The team teases him for it because honestly it is crazy how someone can be so calculated in a fight but then bash his foot on a table because he wasn't actively thinking about how long his legs were.

[erwinsvow]

Imagine if Rafe let R try a joint

Like, her brains getting all fuzzy and she's even more giggly than usual, and he's just, like enamoured. He thinks she's adorable.

"one hit, that's it-" rafe says, low and quiet in your ear.

you're curled up on his lap at the party, both of you resting on the couch while you observe the scene around you with big eyes. rafe's friends were snorting powder off of mirrors, washing it down with liquor that was definitely harder than the fruity seltzer your boyfriend allowed you to drink. rafe said you couldn't handle anything harder, and you agreed without questioning him, like you always did.

you had pointed to the white lines on the table infront of you and asked him as sweetly as you could if you could try some. kelce overheard you and starts pushing the mirror in your direction, and you look at him with a smile, before rafe stares him down and delivers a tap to your cheek. it's just to get your attention, not really to hurt you, but you feel your face flushing where he touched you when he speaks.

"hey, you don't listen to him, you listen to me, right?" you see kelce in the corner of your eye, taking the tray back and offering it to the girl next to him.

"i know, i just-"

"no, no just anything. y'can barely drink this watered-down crap without trippin' over your feet." he rests back on the sofa, hands gripping your waist and leg tightly. "wants to snort coke. you're funny, kid."

you pout, taking another sip of your drink. you're only half way through the can but your head is starting to feel fuzzy, already. you decide then and there that rafe always knows best for you, but you still want to try the things he tries, show him that you can handle it. the boys next to rafe pass a blunt over you, directly to him. when they blow out the smoke, you start coughing, but watch carefully as your boyfriend takes a long hit. just as he's about to pass it across to kelce, you catch his wrist.

"can i try that instead? please?" you try your best to straighten up, to show him you can take it and that you're not already drunk. "please," you whine, and his friends turn their head to look. you're sure that they think it's silly, the way you have to ask rafe for permission for everything and anything. you don't care, though.

"kid, stop-"

"i can take it, promise. just this time. i won't ever ask again."

that's how you had ended up like this, rafe talking into your ear while he holds the blunt to your lips.

"alright, suck in. long as you can. you're a pro at that, aren't ya?" his words make you lose your concentration, breaking into a coughing fit before you can even try to inhale.

"rafe!" you whine again, pummeling your fists into his chest, still choking on the smoke. your throat feels scratchy but you know that couldn't have been enough.

"what, kid, i gotta do everything for you?" he takes a long hit, and then grips your cheeks with his hand, forcing your mouth open and then blowing the smoke into your throat for you. then he clamps it shut, holds your shoulder while you cough, and passes the blunt along to kelce.

you cough a little, but before long, you're putty in his arms, leaning your head against his shoulder and giggling at nothing. you poke at his chest and then start playing with his chain, then his hair, and then back down to his fingers. he lets you do it, watching you play with his ring and pressing a kiss to your forehead. you're cute like this, he thinks, less shy and not as worried what everyone must think about you. he thinks he likes it, that maybe he should let you smoke with him every once in a while.

"feel good, baby?" he asks in your ear, and you squirm in his touch, pulling away before resting your head again.

"mhm. really good. this is fun. wish it wasn't a crime." he laughs, taking another sip of his beer. you try to copy him, reaching for your seltzer but knocking it over by accident.

"oops," you say with another laugh. "sorry to-wait, whose house is this?"

"c'mon kid, makin' a mess," he groans, picking up the can and watching the fizzy liquid travel.

"sorry, daddy." in your state, you don't realize how loud you said it, but even with everyone's eyes on you, you don't care much, smiling back sweetly at rafe.

"alright, we're leavin'."

[locketsvault]

「 CUDDLING WITH BSD MEN PT 2/4 」

pairings: chuuya x reader ፥ akutagawa x reader ፥ oda x reader

tags: gender neutral reader, no agab mentioned, first person, fluff, cuddling/phyiscal affection

warnings: talks of canon illness in akutagawa, not proof read

other parts: ada ᨒ port mafia ᨒ doa + the guild ᨒ the hunting dogs

a/n: fyi for chuuya I have not read stormbringer so forgive me. oda is also short because I didn’t really know what to say for him. no gender or sex mentioned, no pronouns either!

// chuuya nakahara ⌇˚.༄

⮑ Is there such thing as classy cuddles? Because he gives classy cuddles.

⮑ The word I’d use for him in a relationship is classy, I can’t help it. But I do mean classy in a good way. Physical affection with him started off small, and he allowed you to pace when you were ready for more. I also see him as someone who always has an arm around you, either over your shoulders or on your waist.

⮑ He keeps pda to a minimum, he won’t cuddle you in public, especially in front his co workers. He’s an executive and he takes it serious. I also don’t think he’d want to show you as his weakness, he wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

⮑ Cuddling with Chuuya is oddly nice. Oddly because he seems rough on the outside. He is very rarely little spoon during cuddle sessions, he feels insecure. But he makes up for it, he’s a great big spoon. He’s a warm, very very warm. I can actually picture you in between his legs cuddling him while he has a wine glass in his hand. Now a many things could happen, one of you is talking, or you’re watching something. Either way, it works well with him.

⮑ The downside is he isn’t home much for cuddles. He’s either away for jobs or at work. So unless you’re willing to sit in his lap while he does paperwork, you don’t get your cuddles.

⮑ 7/10, very good cuddles …when you get them.

// ryunosuke akutagawa ⌇˚.༄

⮑ I just want to know how you managed to touch him in the first place.

⮑ Everyone always says he is touch adverse, which I completely agree, but then people usually say that when it comes down to it he hates it and stuff like that. I have to disagree. I think he’s terrified of it yes, he grew up without any form of physical love, but I do think deep down he yearns for it. He craves it and, when he finally gives in, his entire meticulously built wall completely shatters. Which is how I wonder, how’d you manage it?

⮑ I won’t lie, I believe behind closed doors once he’s comfortable with cuddling or touch and he’s quite clingy. You just feel so warm and well— safe. I can promise you though, it will only be behind closed doors. Do not try to be physically affectionate in public, especially in front of his coworkers. At least not for a very long time.

⮑ I like to imagine that after a time, with lots of reassurance about his ability, he will pull you into cuddles with rashomon. Which, I feel like he’d be bad about verbally asking for affection so he’d do that instead. It’s easier on his illness to use his ability.

⮑ Speaking of his illness sadly, it can make cuddling tough. One moment you could be resting in his arms and the next he’s having a nasty coughing fit. There’s been times when he’s be insecure about his illness and not want to be touched anymore.

⮑ 4/10, I love my baby but his illness + his traumas it’s hard for him to be physically affectionate.

// oda sakunosuke ⌇˚.༄

⮑ He takes care of orphans therefore I am a firm believer he knows how to cuddle.

⮑ I mean it too, he takes care of kids physically and emotionally, he’s got dad hugs. If anyone is gonna hold you and it make you feel safe and taken care of, it’s him. And he knows it too. And he has a six sense for when you need cuddling. And sometimes you end up in a cuddle pile with the kids. I don’t make the rules.

⮑ Oda is 50/50 with pda, he doesn’t mind it, especially if it’s something you love. But it does worry him, like Chuuya, he’s afraid of showing you as a weakness and you getting hurt or killed. But if it’s safe, he usually sticks to holding your hand or holding your waist. I can see him holding you close with your heads rested in each others shoulders while at a public theater.

⮑ Private cuddles are common and comfortable. Oh and he’s always the big spoon. He’s always holding you, I don’t really see him as the type to be held.

⮑ 9/10 you can feel all the care in his arms.

main hub ✦ masterlist ✦ to do list

[nectardaddy]

don't ever leave - inumaki toge

cw: mentions of blood and death, anxiety/panic attack, light angst in the beginning

notes: not my fav but it's been sitting in my drafts forever, sorta edited

His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

How does one offer comfort without words?

It was past midnight, and the young man grappled with the very thought alone as he held you. Holding you tightly as if you would slip away at any moment. Violet eyes watched as tears slipped down your cheeks, feeling his heart strings tie themselves in knots at your broken form. You held onto him tightly, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his shirt that he had worn to bed because letting go meant being alone. And being alone made your mind race.

He didn't realize how missions strangled you, how much they choked you until you were gasping for breath even when you were safe. Didn't realize how much bloodshed and trauma his mind had already become accustomed to or completely blocked out - thinking as though if he did such, everyone else must, right?

He was so terribly wrong. Closing his eyes in guilt because that was so far from what you had done, and he hadn't even noticed. He witnessed the outpour of emotions he had long since forgotten when he opened his tired eyes to you that evening. An evening where he went to sleep rather early from the events of the day; an evening were his throat singed with pain and he winced with every swallow. An evening where he thought you did the same as you gave him a small smile before heading to bed.

But you didn't.

Unbeknownst to him, you tossed and turned, the inner turmoil of emotions bubbling up and over as you laid in bed. Tears running down your face in the darkness of the night as you repeated today's events in your mind - all the while he was sound asleep. Texting him to see if he was still awake, but with no reply you held your breath as you walked to his room. Choked sobs leaving your lips as you opened his door, too afraid to wait and knock as someone might have heard your cries.

You only craved the comfort of a man who couldn't even speak to it.

He was confused when he heard the door creek open and quickly shut, confused when the sound of soft cries hit his ears, and concerned when he heard the gentle call of his name. Groggy eyes opening at the noise only to find your shattered frame, haphazardly wiping your eyes and shoulders slumped - oh god why were you crying?

Now he was sat up in his bed, holding you like his life depended on it; because in that moment, he thought yours surely did. Pale fingers running down your back as he believed he shouldn't speak a word, he couldn't speak a word. His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

That you were alright? His words would snap you into a false sense of security, no longer feeling your emotions but shoving them down even further. Ask you what was wrong? You would spill your guts to him involuntarily, whether you wanted to share or not. Even if he were to utter a safe word, his throat was so shredded it would send him into a coughing fit. Then you would care less about your own feelings and more about his well-being. He was at a loss. So he held you. Unwavering in his hold as your tears didn't seem to stop, but wanting nothing more than to ease your mind.

"Sometimes I don't even want to be a sorcerer at all," he heard your mumble, your words jumbled and hushed as you kept your head in his chest. He could only nod gently, hoping you understood that he was listening, as you continued on. "I can't bear seeing you hurt yourself because I'm too weak to do anything."

His heart sunk in his chest at your statement, closing his eyes once more as his mind raced to block out the memory. But to no avail. The mere thought of the blood that pooled in his mouth earlier that day made him sick, and the visceral reaction that came with the thought of harm coming to you was nauseating. It was a thought he desperately wanted to speak to, one of which he only wished to utter the words he wanted.

He would rather succumb death than have you meet the same fate.

As much as the man swore to himself, to his friends, you didn't have such a foothold in his heart, his life would shatter without you in it. He vowed he would never, not in a million years, be so attached to someone he would risk his very own life. But here he sat, voice mutilated and hoarse as he had done just that. Yuuta would tell him it was, morbidly, romantic, but the young man would wholeheartedly deny ever doing such a thing - he was only doing the mission assigned. But he was naive to think such a thing, naive to push his own feelings aside for the sake of ego.

He didn't want to pull away, but he so desperately wanted to speak to your statement, to ease your mind in some way, shape, or form. The tears you shed made his heart wring and shatter. 'It's alright,' he signed, trying his best as he only pulled away one hand as to hold you with the other. 'I'm alright,' he reassured.

"You can't even speak, Toge," you quipped, your voice harsh as it was filled with tears and sorrow. Within your own words, you found yourself clutching his clothing for dear life. Hoping that if you guarded him, as you did your mind, he wouldn't slip through your fingers. Not whisk himself away through means of being a victor, a protector, because how could one protect if they were gone?

'But I'm here,' he signed, a simple statement that even he reveled in. Sorcery was a sinful business, a lethal business; one of which that broke the spirit, mind, and body. A morbid testament to those who ever dared to join the fray - it was win or die trying. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Usually, the young man wasn't favorable with emotions, never knowing what to do, if anything at all. But it felt natural for his fingers to touch your chin, instinctive for his touch to be gentle and caring as he offered you to look at him. Violet eyes meeting your own troubled ones and pale fingers thumbing away a tear that slipped down your stained cheeks, he gave you a small, tired smile. "M' here," he choked out, his voice hoarse and broken. Seemingly a whisper compared to your own, as he couldn't find the strength to project.

The act made your heart melt within your chest, and few words were enough to set it ablaze. Though it was coarse and fractured, they were the only words you needed to hear in the moment. He was here, he was alive, he was breathing - hopefully now until the end of your days. "Don't ever leave."

@inumakis-boo @inumakisser

I know you'll appreciate this lol

[darkened-writer]

imagine | Star

This is based on a TikTok by @ / hamrikaa , their art piece is so stunning and I hope I can capture the sadness and beauty of it. This imagine was also made with Mitski's 'Star' in mind, so please enjoy.

PAIRING || Astarion x Tav (reader)

WORD COUNT || 881

PART TWO

Old and withered bones, the smell of old wood, and the quiet of night as red eyes were trained on the sleeping body of Tav.

Who knew that seventy-two years could pass so quickly?

As each day passed, their body aged and aged, while he stayed still so young and bright.

Like a star.

But, the years spent together were never, ever in vain, as marriage happened, nights wrapped up in eachothers arms, gentle caresses and whispered nothings. Reassurances and soft kisses on every exposed part of skin.

He never knew how much he need to be touched in a soft manner.

He never knew how much he needed to be held.

If anyone were to tell him back before their journey that he’d find someone to live for, he would’ve laughed in their face.

Their chest rose, up and down, up and down, hoarse and shallow. Tav knew it, He knew it too, it wasn’t long before they’d pass on. It was creeping up on the two of them like a deadly darkness.

The darkness was something that he was used to, but gods, did he want to stay in the sun for as long as possible with Tav.

“My Sweet, wake up…”

Their eyes opened slowly, the muscles frail and feeble, their gaze shaky.

“Would you come with me? Just on the balcony, My Dear.”

“Isn’t it almost sunrise…?”

There was a knowing look shared, Tav’s head shaking, the most movement he’d seen from them as of late.

“No… No…”

They’re lifted up into his arms and carried promptly despite the barely strong pushing against his chest, but they give up, just leaning their head into the crook on his neck until the cool night air hits their skin, eliciting chills. The sky was subtly lighting up, so slow, and yet the pit in Tav’s stomach was heavy.

Astarion couldn’t live without them.

So, he’d go with them.

He sets them down next to him, wrapping an arm around their shoulders, pulling them in as his eyes stay focused on the colors that have started to paint the skies.

Red, Purple, Orange.

“Ideally, even when I was just a spawn, sometimes I thought about walking into the sun to end my suffering. Dissipating into the air, alone, hopeless, missing my old life.”

A beat of silence.

“But…” He looks down at Tav’s resting head, a adoring look in his apple red eyes.

“I was taught, by someone, who was my favorite little travelling companion that… life was worth living for. And, I found myself living for them. Without them, I could never… would never.. Make it another day.”

His voice wavers into the crisp morning air, the dew upon the grass and leaves of trees sending an earthy smell into the atmosphere.

“So, I cherished every single hour, minute, second, and fleeting moment with them because I knew that the day that they were set to die, I’d have no choice but to go with them.”

“Astari–”

“Shh… let me finish, Darling.”

They let him continue.

“I’d move mountains for you to live for another century, to live for ions with me, hand in hand, watching others pass, get old, live their own lives while we continue our together but… our story– our story has come to a close, My Dear.”

His hand shifts to hold Tav’s.

“As I see it, we are a star that has burnt out. We’re tired, aren’t we?”

Tav erupts into a coughing fit, in which Astarion holds them close until they calm down.

The sun begins to rise, slowly, the beams hitting the grass as it slowly moves to cover the entirety of everything, all at once.

“I think we lived well, all things considered.”

He looks down at them, listening to them speak.

“That knife to my neck was quite the impression. And the seduction. But, I knew that all you needed was compassion.”

“You were always a wicked little thing, but your kindness knew no bounds.”

His skin began to flake, a gasp rising from his throat as he held on for dear life, cold hands grasping his lover.

“I never knew love until I met you, and I hope if there is another life after this, we may reunite and continue where we left off, My Treasure.”

A tear fell down his pale cheek, heat radiating from him as he begins to fade into the ether. His head leans down to connect with Tav’s, eyes open, looking into theirs as the last thing he wanted to see before he truly disappears, is the first thing he noticed about Tav. Their eyes.

“See you soon?”

“See you soon.”

The red is gone and now replaced by the view of an empty chair, Tav now sat alone as the sunrise graced their wrinkled skin, but nothing could ever replace the warmth of Astarion. Nothing.

A week later, Tav’s body was discovered curled up on Astarion’s side of their shared bed, a small smile gracing their face, as if satisfied with their life, all the ups and downs, battles won and lost, blood shed and wounds patched up. All of it cultivated to a love that would transcend past their last breath.

Even a dead star can be made anew.

In another life.

[monicahar]

not what it seams...

wanderer x gn! reader, oneshot, comfort/hurt, fluff, he's referred as kuni bc wanderer is just blarhghgg, mentions of cheating and affairs, kuni being insecure, mouchie bday special ! !

anyone with two braincells could obviously tell you were up to something.

the rushed less-than gratifying kisses, cautious and hurried steps in nearly everything you do, nervous glances thrown his way when you think he isn't looking—he'd be as dumb as a rock if he couldn't at least pick up on your strange behaviour.

with how you were leaving your shared inn during the dead of the night, thinking you're being slick without his knowledge—he's growing suspicions now.

just what is it?

perhaps, you're doing errands? but why is it at night and why aren't you bringing him along with you like the usual?

are you in any danger and is unable to tell him? he's worried.

is it an affair? he's scared.

he's tempted to follow you whenever he hears rustling of bed sheets next to him during ungodly hours of the moon's turn, but he's afraid of what he'd come to reveal once he tries to pry it himself.

this is awfully out of character for him—considering he never beats around the bush and just always does what is necessary and whatever he feels obliged to.

as much as he doesn't want to admit it, it's highly likely due to the fact that your relationship is on the line—he could lose you, and he does not want that at all.

if you were truly in danger, you would've long asked him for help or at least told him in a more roundabout way should there be some type of factor preventing you from directly saying it to him. you both have multiple ways of letting the other person know one is in danger, so that's simply checked out.

but abandoning that sentiment would leave with you having an affair.

if he's right about you hogging another partner behind his back, then pathetically enough for him and his pride, he wouldn't know what to do.

just by simply imagining you enjoying life with someone else already has him stumped. he shakes his head to remove the disturbing image in his head whilst an uncomfortable feeling lurks inside his chest.

he can't stop pondering about what is really wrong with you, and it's effectively stopping him from getting a single wink of sleep—aside from the factor that you aren't beside him right now trying to warm him up with your bear hugs.

heck, he should just get this over with. like what you've always said—communication is key. he'll just confront you head on. 

if you turn out to be a filthy cheater, then he should be able to drop you easily. he has no use for a partner that doesn't carry respect for him.

...

—right?

"are you cheating on me?"

he finally drops the dreaded question one day during an unsuspecting lunch with you—saying it as if he was plainly discussing the weather as some mere small talk to share.

when you choke on your food as a response—he does not budge, refusing to look at you in the eye as he stares at the untouched meal before him.

is this cowardice? he holds in a small huff at the thought. is he that attached that he still doesn't wish to part with you even under the heavy suspicion that you're hiding someone else behind your back?

he could feel your intense gaze on him when you calm down from your fit of coughs with a haste chug of water, non-verbally asking for an explanation through your questioning stare as to why he uttered such an accusation.

unfortunately for you, his silence merely grew thicker in return.

seeing as he wasn't making move nor had any intention to speak up any more after the initial vocalising of a cheating allegation, you heave a deep sigh.

“...and what makes you say that, kuni?”

your voice came out more calm and collected than the wanderer...anticipated. a pleasant tone coated in saccharine as to somehow relay that you genuinely want to talk this out with him.

he honestly expected a much more violent response—jabbing a finger at him for even thinking of saying such a repulsive claim, slamming a hand on the table as to being defensive when pressed on a matter of being basically called a liar or being extremely defensive—he's expected a much worse reply.

you asked for what made him say that as a response, a much better retort than he expected, but not the one he really wanted.

“just answer the question. i'm not mad at all.”

not mad he says, but why is he clenching his fists underneath the table, almost trembling in the process?

he feels like he could puke. like a boiling pot of water threatening to spill its contents at how much it seethes in flames.

please answer. he begs in the depths of his tempestuous mind.

he's struggling to hold in his erratic emotions right now because he just wants an answer. a proper one that would decide whether he'd leave this table at this instant or not.

something is violently hammering against his chest nonstop as his exasperation grows.

being too preoccupied with trying to keep his composure and not break down right in front of you, he doesn't notice you circling around his seat until you gently wrap your arms around his shoulder, pulling his back to meet your embrace as you place a soothing kiss atop his head.

“no.” one word, and his tense shoulders refuse to move a single inch under your hold.

you euphoniously whisper all of it, only for him to solely hear and no one else. “i'm not cheating on you.”

the wanderer leisurely cranes his neck to look at your face, scouring your expression in bated breaths as he desperately searches for an ounce of a false truth: a lie.

after a nearly dehumanizing moment, relief washes over him like he'd just went under a spring waterfall—cleansing him of all his pessimistic and obstructive thoughts in one instant.

he finds nothing, but sincerity in your pools.

quickly shifting in his seat to face you fully, he gingerly wraps his arms around your waist as he buries his face onto your clothes, his hands gripping the cloth like it's his last lifeline.

you don't bother to hide your shock as you lightly squeal when he tightens his grip on you, feeling his lips quivering against the soft frabric of your shirt.

suddenly feeling a cold wetness form in your shirt, you raise your hand to delicately caress the tresses of his hair and massage his scalp with your fingers as you coo at him quietly.

listening to his soft cries with his face still hidden away from the world against your body, you frown as you try to think of what possibly made him think this way in the first place. your usually snarky and cynical lover crying like this wasn't a minor matter in any way.

wait a moment, is this because of that...?

“were you awake each time i was leaving in the middle of the night?” you ask straightforwardly, without hesitation as if you couldn't believe it if it revealed to be the truth behind all of this.

he sniffles as he somehow buries himself deeper onto your chest, his voice coming out strained from all his crying—“you weren't being particularly discreet, you know? you idiot...”

“ahaha...” you rub the nape of your neck in slight embarrassment. he never moved nor breathed when asleep so there was absolutely no way you could even figure out if he was asleep or not. a huge misstep on your part. “forgive me, it wasn't supposed to look that way.”

“what was it supposed to look like then?” even in this vulnerable window he's warily let you in, he's still being the sarcastic bastard he is, it seems.

you tut as if it wasn't your fault from the start. “you weren't supposed to look in the first place, kuni.”

you immediately yelp in pain when he pinches a small part of your skin through your clothes, earning him a light demeaning pat to his shoulder for his unnecessary engagement of a teasing action.

“what were you even doing...in the middle of the night at that.” he grumbles.

you hum in content when he finally raises his head to meet your eyes, tears still brimming on the ends of his lashes as his inevitably gaze softens at the sight of you looking down at him with a small smile. “i was visiting a tailor. she's helping me make a gift, discreetly as i asked to.”

cradling his face in your palms, you start to rubs circles on his cheeks, feeling the dried streak of the tears he let out for you. you hold in the urge to pinch his puffy cheeks.

“a gift? for wh—” and suddenly, for split moment—the wanderer felt dumb.

“looks like our special birthday boy forgot something, hm?” you couldn't help the smirk that crept up on your face as realization dawns upon him like a brick.

“i've finished the gift just last night, but it doesn't look the best so i was still hesitating whether or not i'd give it to you because you might not like it—”

“give it to me.”

looking down at him, you realize he's since long pulled away from your hold, staring at you with his indigo hues like a child waiting for his toy to be brought to him.

“... don't laugh, okay?”

he immediately raises a brow at that as he rubs his eyes out of its puffiness. “uh, sure. if it's that bad.”

reaching for your bag at your end of the table, you slowly bring out the gift from its confinements, shoving the gift into his arms as the embarrassment slowly eats up all of your confidence from earlier.

a doll, you gave.

a handsewn doll that looks like you to match the little one hidden in his navy kimono sleeves.

“it's...” he starts, thumbing the small details you added in to make it more convincing that it was supposed to look like you.

[e/c] beads as your eyes, some small chipped material of sorts to accommodate your hairstyle, clothes are spot on save for the small tear on its back... it's so...

panic overcomes your senses when a tear starts running down his face yet again, his eyes widened in surprise and fascination as he stared at the mini you sat on his palm.

“w-wait a moment, why are you crying?! my gift wasn't supposed to make you do that!”

“shut up! i'm just crying because it's so ugly!”

whatever the boy filled with derisiveness says, yet he holds the newly gifted doll so closely and snug to his chest, a smile so miniscule gracing upon his lips that he probably doesn't even notice it himself.

but you do.

—and it's more than enough for you to fully discard the blunt insult he threw at your gift just now.

(not what it seams cause get it? reader sewed a gift for him while it's all just a big misunderstanding? hehehehe hahahahaha😐)

once again HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR BABY SCARAMOUCHIEEE pop a fart rn if you want to kiss him virtually

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Four)

Summary: “I wonder what color your eyes were…” Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him. Word Count: 4297 Warnings: still no smut, triple asterisk denotes a POV change as usual Notes: Happy birthday @kaya-nets ! Here is a surprise midweek update as a little gift, and a thank you for being the first person on tumblr to leave feedback on Dove! It is greatly appreciated, especially since I had a hard today. I hope you had a great birthday! AO3, Masterlist

“It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

Ghost was sure no word had ever sounded so beautiful. To hear someone calling him by his name again, after all this time, was… he had no words to describe it. If he were religious, he might’ve called it a come-to-God moment. But his dog tags said No Preference for a reason, and that reason was that Ghost had stopped believing in a higher power a long time ago.

As he looked at his little dove, holding his tags and giving him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, he thought that maybe he’d finally found one he’d happily worship.

He groaned softly, trying to say hello back, and then gestured at her, cocking his head to the side in question.

“What is it?” She asked. He pointed at his dog tags again, then at her once more. Her brows furrowed in confusion, and he grunted, like that would help her understand what he was asking. Maybe it did, or maybe she just remembered how first meetings were typically supposed to go, because her brows went up this time and her pink lips parted, a rosy blush darkening her cheeks. “Oh! Oh, my name, of course. I’m Lelia Par—Addams. Lelia Addams.”

Ghost caught the slip, and the mix of panic and sadness that flashed through her eyes at it. He couldn’t exactly press even if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He had no desire to see his dove upset.

He tried to say her name, despite knowing it was useless. But it was just so pretty. Lelia. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

That was one of Johnny’s favorite chat up lines, Simon’s voice in his head said distantly, sounding both exasperated and wistful. Ghost ignored it. He didn't know who Johnny was and no amount of trying to force his ruined mind to cough up the memory of him would work. But staying in his dove’s presence, might. She was the reason he’d remembered the name at all.

“Thank you for saving me, by the way,” Lelia said a moment later, handing him his dog tags back. She still looked faintly embarrassed. “Both times… I— I would be dead without you. I suppose not all soldiers are bad…”

Ghost knew that if she were aware of all he’d done, both before and after he’d turned, she wouldn’t think so highly of him. Nonetheless, he would very much have liked to find whichever soldiers made Lelia decide she was better off out here on her own, instead of back on a base, safe and warm and fed. He thought about the way her eyes had looked broken and glassy as she’d spoken about the place she’d come from, and how she’d insisted she’d rather be ripped apart than go back, not a trace of exaggeration in her voice. Whatever had happened to her there must have been hellish.

Ghost wanted to move forward to comfort her, but he’d seen the way she’d gagged and grimaced when he got close to retrieve his tags, slipping them over his head once more. He knew that he smelled something awful, that he always would no matter what he did, but he would at least try to clean himself, for her sake. She couldn’t afford to lose the little food she’d eaten.

There was a stream not far from here, he’d been near it yesterday before he’d decided to investigate all the noise. And he was fast, faster than he had been when he was human. He could be there and back in half an hour, tops.

Lelia, on the other hand, barely looked like she could make it to the front door.

He was incredibly reluctant to let her out of his sight for any length of time. Even just going around to the back of the cabin to dispose of the body earlier had made him twitchy. And if it was just a matter of his smell, he’d wait until tomorrow, when she was rested enough to make the trip with him. But it wasn’t. He could see just how dehydrated she was—chapped lips, dry skin, a constant tremor in her hands… she needed clean drinking water, now. And if he could get some from the stream for her to boil, she would be set.

He would have barricaded the door for extra protection, but it opened outwards rather than in. Shoddy installation job if he’d ever seen one. So instead, he pointed at her, and then at the bedroom. He awkwardly put his hands under his ear and then closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. He bumped his broken jaw as he did, and his teeth clacked against each other loudly.

He heard a little giggle, soft and high pitched. He opened his cloudy eyes to see his dove watching him, a pretty smile on her cherubic face. Her laugh was beautiful, pure and sweet. It was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. The sunken skin around his eyes crinkled a little bit, the only evidence of his smile.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go take a nap,” Lelia said, still giggling, as she headed for the bedroom. She disappeared inside, the door closing behind her. He waited until he heard her heartbeat slow and her breaths grow steady, and then he quietly moved the couch in front of it, blocking her in. He didn't want to risk her waking up, finding him gone, and getting herself killed while looking for him. If she decided to look for him. She might not—just because she asked his name and gave him a sweet smile didn’t mean she cared about him, the undead soldier who’d inserted himself into her life and wouldn’t leave her alone. That was alright, though. Ghost was so starved for human interaction that he’d take whatever he could get. And hearing his name from her lips was more than he’d ever expected.

Even if it was less than what he wanted.

With his dove secure, he left the cabin, making sure he didn't hear anyone nearby. There were a few infected a ways away, but if she stayed put—which he’d made sure she would—they wouldn't smell her. He was more worried about other people, but he couldn’t smell or hear anyone within range, so he felt comfortable enough to leave. Barely. He grabbed the large, rusted pail he’d noticed behind the cabin where he’d dumped the other zombie’s body, and then he was off.

-*-

When Ghost saw his reflection in the stream, he understood why Lelia had been so terrified to wake up and see his face first thing.

He’d known he looked bad, he wasn't an idiot. Just because his eyes were clouded didn't mean his vision was. He could see how disgusting the other zombies looked, and he figured he looked much the same.

None of that had prepared him for actually seeing himself.

Blood and gore covered every inch of him, bits of flesh stuck between his teeth and blackened gums—his teeth, which were permanently bared in a snarl, because his lips had rotted away.

That was the most horrifying part, he thought. Not the grey, sunken skin, the milky eyes, or all the gore and viscera. It was that his lips were gone, and he couldn’t kiss his dove even if she’d let him.

You’re disgusting.

The words echoed in his head, and he knew it wasn’t just about his visage. He shouldn't have been thinking about his dove like that. It wasn't as bad as his earlier thoughts, but just about. He was dead. A nasty, rotting corpse that happened to be able to walk around. There was something wrong with him to even be contemplating doing more than hugging Lelia. That was bad enough. She’d never want him to touch her in any way, she’d shown him that earlier when she’d kicked him while he was trying to check her for bites.

But maybe she would let him get a little closer, at least, if he didn't smell so bloody horrid.

It was that possibility that had him methodically strip out of his ragged tactical gear. He washed each piece in the knee-deep stream, even his mask and his boots. He laid them out on the bank to dry, moved a little further upstream, and then repeated the process with his body, dumping bucket after bucket full of water over every part of him.

The amount of congealed black blood and pieces of flesh that came off was concerning. He just hoped that none of the latter was his own.

Finally, he was done, and he stepped out of the stream and redressed in his still damp gear. Moving upstream for a third time, unwilling to contaminate his dove’s drinking water, he filled the bucket once more and began his trek back to the cabin, moving briskly but carefully so as not to spill.

Lelia was still asleep by the time he returned, and so he put the bucket down on the kitchen table, moved the couch away from her door, and then set about starting a fire. There was a small stack of roughly chopped logs next to the old, wood burning stove, and he placed a few inside. He searched through some of the drawers and found a book of matches, letting out a triumphant grunt, unable to believe his luck.

Except of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

Ghost’s fingers were far too stiff and clumsy to light a match. Fine motor skills were difficult for him, his muscles permanently locked in rigor mortis. Even piling up the logs in the stove had been difficult, as had carrying the bucket. He’d had to wrap his arms around it and hold it to his chest because his fingers wouldn't quite bend enough to grasp it by the handle.

After finally getting one of the matches to light, only to immediately drop it on the floor and burn a mark into the wood, Ghost gave up. He would just have to let Lelia do this part.

He moved the bucket onto the stovetop before quietly walking over to the bedroom. He reached out for the door knob and hesitated for a long moment, before letting his hand drop as he turned back around. She’d closed it for a reason, and he didn't need to see her to know she was alright. Her heartbeat and breathing were loud enough. So instead, he resumed his position as her zombified guard dog, and barricaded her door with his body while she slept, standing between her and anything that could bring her harm.

***

This time, when Lelia woke up, she knew exactly where she was.

The tiny bed in the cabin smelled of dust and old mothballs, but it was still far more comfortable than either a tree hollow or the bed she'd shared with Andrew back on the military base. She let herself luxuriate in it for a moment, exhaustion still pulling heavily at her no matter how long she had slept. Finally, she got up, walking over to the door and opening it—only to startle when she found Simon standing directly outside.

“Oh!” She gasped, hand clutching her chest, right over her racing heart. Then, she registered the lack of blood and gore on his face—which looked far less decayed now that it was clean—and the lack of a stomach churning odor wafting over her. He still smelled of death, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before. “You’re— you’re clean!”

Simon groaned quietly. He was staring at her, as if waiting for something. She blinked several times, and then spoke again. 

“Did you— did you do that for me?”

She knew she hadn’t hid her reaction to his stench well enough. She felt a bit bad, but she also couldn’t help but be relieved he'd noticed and decided to do something about it.

Simon jerked his head up and down in a nod, jaw wobbling. He shifted back and forth a little bit, then tilted his head to the side and let out a questioning grunt, milky eyes downcast. He almost seemed… nervous? Shy? Or like he was looking for her approval. She couldn't quite tell. But the thought was endearing, and she smiled at him.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “This is much better, really. I appreciate it.”

Despite the fact that he couldn't really make any expression, Lelia got the distinct impression that he was pleased with her answer.

Simon shuffled back, and then stiffly gestured for her to follow him. She did so, curious, and she found she could remain quite close to him without being overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. She still left a meter or so between them, as was proper. She doubted he wanted her crowding his space, after all.

He led her over to the kitchenette, and then gestured to a bucket on top of the stove. She peered inside it, and found that it was full of water. She brightened considerably, licking her dry lips.

“Can I drink this?” She asked, already reaching for the bucket. She was so thirsty, she’d even drink orange juice, right now. And she hated orange juice.

But Simon grunted, reaching out and stopping her hand with his own. His glove was slightly damp, and she blinked, frowning as she looked at him again.

“You’re wet,” she said, finally noticing that his gear was dripping a little bit. He grunted, ignoring her, and then gestured at a matchbook next to the stove. She stared at it in confusion, not knowing what he wanted her to do, before turning her attention back to the trail of water he was leaving in his wake. “You shouldn't walk around in wet clothes. You’ll catch a cold—”

Lelia paused, looked at Simon’s already dead self, and blushed.

“Well. Maybe you won’t, but still. You’re getting water everywhere. You should take them off to let them dry,” she continued, trying to recover. Simon gave her what she thought might have been an amused look, if the little crinkles around his sunken, milky white eyes meant anything. Though it was entirely possible she was just imagining it. “There’s a closet in the bedroom. I’m sure I can find you something to wear while you wait.”

Eager to escape after her blunder, she retreated to do just that. She heard Simon let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously like an exasperated sigh, but she didn't let that stop her. She let out her own noise of victory when she found a set of flannel pajamas that looked like they would fit her zombie.

When she returned to the kitchen, Simon was in the process of removing his gear. Lelia watched as he struggled with zips and buckles—he was making progress, but very slowly—and took a step closer to him.

“Do you need help?” She asked innocently, never one to just stand idly by.

***

Simon froze, damnable buckle falling from his stiff fingers. It had taken him ages to get all this off and back on again at the stream, but he’d managed. He would manage again… but his little dove was offering to help. To stand close to him, to touch him, or at least his clothes… he knew he should have said no, that she was just being kind and didn’t actually want to get anywhere near him—but she sounded so sincere, and he was so fucking desperate. So he groaned quietly, almost ashamed, as he jerked his head in a nod, letting his hands drop back to his sides.

Lelia set the clothes she’d found for him on the arm of the couch and then approached, starting with removing his helmet. She was so small, she couldn’t reach even when she stood on her toes, and he had to crouch down a little bit, knees creaking.

“You’re blonde,” she said, surprised. He looked down at her. She was close enough that he couldn’t smell anything but her, and it was intoxicating. But not nearly as intoxicating as the feel of her body heat, so near yet so far. He sniffed discreetly, once again trying to place the floral scent on her skin. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that. I wonder what color your eyes were…”

Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him.

She moved on to unbuckling his vest, and then unzipping his jacket once he’d gotten the bulky gear out of the way. Underneath was a plain black t-shirt, the least destroyed item of clothing he had on, but also the foulest smelling. Her delicate little nose wrinkled slightly, and he would have found it adorable if he weren't so embarrassed. He reeked, still, and she smelt so delicious he began to drool again. He reached up to wipe it away, but his dove beat him to it, using the sleeve of the jacket he’d just discarded. She seemed entirely unphased, rather than repulsed like he thought she’d be, just giving him a smile before stepping back.

“No buttons on that,” she said as an explanation. He didn’t dare mention the buttons on his combat trousers, once again disgusted by his own thoughts. He pulled his t-shirt off after a second of hesitation, knowing the grisly sight that lay beneath. Grey, translucent, thinning skin smattered with deep gashes in several places that would never heal. They were accompanied by faded tattoos and dozens of scars, including a patchwork of rough, burnt flesh over his bicep and left shoulder, going all the way down to his hip. He reached quickly for the dry shirt, but Lelia stopped him.

“Your gloves,” she said, staring at his torso with a look on her face that he couldn’t quite read. It wasn't positive, though, he could tell that much. She tore her gaze away a second later, gently grabbing one of his hands and pulling it closer to her as she undid the velcro strap at his wrist. She slipped her fingers beneath the wrist of his glove, and he felt her skin directly against his own for the very first time.

He groaned, resisting the urge to grab her hand and keep it where it was. He couldn’t feel the softness of her skin, his own senses too numb for that, but the heat of it practically scorched him in the most pleasant way. It sank all the way down to his frozen bones, and when it slipped away as she pulled his glove off, it was agony.

She repeated the process with his other glove, and his bare hands twitched as he fought not to clutch onto hers and not let go. Finally, he regained control of himself, grabbing the flannel pajama shirt and pulling it on. It was a couple sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin and stopping an inch or so above the waistband of his combat trousers, but it would do for now, even if he felt ridiculous.

“You’re shivering,” his dove said, frowning. “I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

She turned around and headed back into the bedroom, and he took the chance to shuck off his trousers. It was almost as if the warmth of her touch had reinvigorated his hands, or perhaps it was just luck, because he managed to get the button on the third try, and the zip on the second. He stepped into the too-small flannels just as she was returning with the quilt he’d given her earlier. He tried to avoid taking it—though he felt cold, he knew it was all in his mind—as he didn't want to contaminate it with the smell of death. But Lelia was stubborn, and she just wrapped the blanket around his shoulders for him, so he looked like he was wearing a flowery, quilted cape.

“There,” she said with a pleased smile, before bending down to pick up his gear and head over to the door. He followed her, a silent, massive, undead shadow, unwilling to let her go outside without him. He stood guard as she hung the clothes over the half-rotted wooden banister of the tiny porch, and when she came back in, he grunted to get her attention again before leading her back to the kitchenette. He tapped the matchbook, then pointed at the pile of firewood in the metal belly of the stove.

“You want me to start a fire?” She asked nervously, and he nodded, pointing at the logs again. She paled. “I don't know… I’ve never done that before. What if I burn myself?”

Ghost didn't like the thought of her getting hurt any more than she did, but they didn’t have a choice. She needed drinkable water, and right now, boiling what was in the bucket was the only way she was going to get that. So he fumbled for the book of matches and then pressed it into her hands—and if he let out another pleased groan when her warm skin touched his again, he hoped she misread it as encouragement.

His dove looked afraid, but she notched her chin and accepted the matches, clearly trying to put on a brave face. He let himself wonder at the fact that she had never used matches before. What kind of world had she lived in, prior to the end of it? Based on her nice clothes, posh accent, and utter lack of survival instincts, he imagined it was something privileged, something sheltered. He would’ve scoffed at the thought if he were still alive—pretty little rich girl with a pretty, perfect life. Had the dead not risen, she likely would have never known pain or fear or struggle. It would’ve angered him back then; the injustice of it all. The jealousy. Now, he just felt sad. She deserved a life like that. Not this hell on earth. She was woefully unprepared for her new reality—and she had suffered for it. The men she had had to rely on to keep her safe had put that haunted look in her eyes that spoke of a pain familiar to him, if unnamable. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember. That he couldn’t kill each and every person that had ever contributed to her suffering. But there was nothing he could do about that, now. All he could do was keep her safe, keep her alive. And maybe even make her laugh again.

It took a few tries, and several broken matches, but Lelia finally managed to get one lit without immediately dropping it in fear. She tossed it into the stove, and while Ghost would have advised her to hold it to the corner of one of the logs, first, it did the trick, and the fire caught. He gave her a groan of approval, and admired the way her face lit up with pride, a rosiness dusting her cheeks as she grinned. She was always beautiful, but when she smiled, she looked like an angel. Something far too good and far too pure for this hellish plane and all the monsters that lived on it, both alive and dead.

Together, they watched the water boil. It was about as exciting as watching paint dry, and took only slightly less time due to the old fashioned stove and small flame. He didn't mind, though, as his dove eventually began to fill the silence with mindless chatter, telling him about the meals her private chef—oh, so she’d been rich rich—used to make for her. Ghost was informed very seriously that Román was the best cook in the world and could have had his own restaurant, but he liked hearing Lelia’s in-depth analysis of his meals too much to leave. Ghost thought it was adorable that she believed that that’s why the chef had stayed, rather than the money he was making. Then again, Ghost had stayed because of her too, so maybe there was some truth to her words after all.

When the water was sufficiently clean, he grabbed the bucket and moved it off the stove so it could cool down. Curiously, he didn't feel any heat from it, despite knowing it had to be hot enough to burn. It only made him crave his dove’s touch even more, the only source of warmth in his cold, undead life.

He searched through the cupboards again as they waited, looking for some sort of cup. He found a single dusty mug with a large chip near the rim. It was no crystal champagne flute, like she was clearly used to, but it would do. He handed it over, and Lelia made a face but thanked him nonetheless. She unbuttoned her pink tweed jacket and untucked a section of her still clean white blouse underneath, using it to wipe out the mug. He stared.

Look away, Simon’s voice in his head ordered. Ghost reluctantly obeyed. You’re a vile creature. You don’t get to look at her like that.

Even if Ghost was alive, he'd probably think the same thing. He’d been old and monstrous then. He was dead and monstrous now. He'd never lived a life in which he would deserve a sweet thing like her. But he still wanted, in this life and the last.

So when Lelia smiled at him after drinking her fill of the purified water, lips still wet and shiny, he tried to ignore the phantom sensation of his undead heart pounding in his chest.

[novasintheroom]

004. Sympathy (pt. 1)

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 1.2k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: You catch a cold. Vash helps you out.

Part 2

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

It starts with a sore throat. It always starts with a sore throat.

You clear it. Try drinking more water. It doesn’t go away. Then the aches come. Small, at first. Right between your shoulder blades. You could write it off as soreness from your pack. But then it spreads: down your back, across your shoulders, a dull, pulsing ache in your arms and legs. By noon, you’re shivering and sniffling.

And Vash notices.

He looks back at you frequently. You can’t tell if he’s worried or not; your eyesight wavers in the heat. Only when you stumble and fall does he rush to you and say, “You’re sick!”

You don’t deny it. Still, you mutter, “I can make it to town.” It’s not like there’s a choice. You’re in dune country; there’s no cliffs or caves or outcroppings anywhere near for you to hole up in.

Vash places his hands on your shoulders and looks over your shaking form. Puts a hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up,” he mumbles. Then he looks to the distance, the shining dot of the next town on the horizon. Looks back at you. The light of an idea brightens his gaze. “Alright, up you get.”

Your brain is too foggy to comprehend what he means. He crouches down and puts his hands back, motioning for you to hop on his back. A…piggy-back ride? Embarrassment fills you. “I can make it to town, I said!”

“Not like that you can’t. You’ll fall over dead before we get halfway there.” He says it so matter-of-factly you nod along with him. Catching yourself, you shake your head, then groan with the pain. Vash frowns and leans forward. “C’mon, I can carry you. I promise it’ll be okay.”

You look at that distant twinkling dot and feel a cold shiver overtake you. It’s a bad one, filled with chill and aching and you just want to sleep. A sigh escapes. Well, what choice do you have? Carefully, you grab hold of Vash’s shoulders and wrap your weak legs around his waist. You squish his bag’s strings between your arms to carry it on your own back. Vash grabs the underside of your knees and, once you’re both sure you’re secure, starts marching again toward town.

It’s a grueling hour of this. You feel horrible. You’re sure Vash will stumble and fall at any moment with how unforgiving the sands are, but he continues like you weigh nothing, like he’s done worse. He probably has, you realize, in the haze of your mind. How long has he trekked these sands alone, on the run, carrying his bag with all he needs to survive? You recall the day you saw him without his coat – all the muscle he hides beneath it. It comforts you, in a weird way. Knowing he’s strong enough, fit enough to get you both to the next town…your head slumps to the side, and you allow yourself to retreat into a cloud of sickness and pain.

Only when you’re gently jostled do you come to again. You’re in the grimy lobby of a small inn. Vash is trying to somehow reach for his bag without alerting you, but you’re already up. He looks at you with guilt and whispers, “Need my wallet.”

You suppress a whine as you slide off his back and hand him his pack. No need to make things worse. In the lobby, it is cooler than outside. Goosebumps pimple your arms and you shake and sniffle. He gives you a sympathetic smile and takes your hand. “Almost there, just hold on.”

As Vash deals with the innkeeper, you do your best to slump on a nearby wall and look miserable. You go between too hot and too cold. Sweat beads at your temples, your upper lip, and it’s all you can do to push off the wall once Vash looks over with a key in hand. Your feet drag behind him down the two hallways it takes to get to your room.

The door opens, and you beeline for the first bed you see. Rickety and worn, it feels heavenly to lay down. Your aches are still there, still pressing, but a sigh of relief pushes out of your lungs before going into a coughing fit.

Vash looks at you, worried, while he sets his things down. “I’ll go to the local doc and see if I can get some meds, okay?”

“Ok-“ you break into another cough attack.

Vash comes over and presses his hand to your forehead again. He clucks his tongue. “Take a bath while I’m gone, okay? It’ll help the aching.”

You do. Running the warm water into the rickety bath in the bathroom, the steam clears your sinuses, and a heady sleepiness overtakes you, one you have to fight off. You sink into the hot water. Your skin tingles, blood rising from the heat. It’s heavenly. Letting out a throaty sigh, you submerge your head and let the heat overwhelm. You don’t wash yourself; it’s too much effort.

A knock on the door comes a while later, when the water is cooling and you start to shiver. “Hey, I brought back some meds,” Vash says through the door. You call out a croaky ‘thank you,’ and force yourself out of the bath. Dressed in your pajamas, you open the door with dripping hair.

Vash has shed his coat and is looking through his sack for something on the second bed. Hearing the door creak open, he looks up. “Hey,” he says again, his voice soft and worried. “How do you feel?”

You let out a low moan. “Like crap.”

His lips thin. He looks to his side, where a glass bottle of pills rests. “I got some ibuprofen, some pseudoephedrine, and a couple tea bags. Do you want tea?”

Lankly, you sit on the bed and nod your head. Tea sounds lovely for your sore throat. As Vash starts hurrying around, from bathroom sink back to sack for the tea bags, you lay down on the bed and pull the covers tightly around you. The heat from the bath is fading quickly. Your skin prickles under the scratchy sheets, and you sniffle miserably.

“Alright, one cup o’ tea. Ginger. Sorry, we don’t have any honey.” Vash carefully carries over the steaming steel mug. He waits as you sit up and take it with shaking hands.

“Thank you,” you say, and take a sip. The ginger hits the back of your throat, and you splutter a bit. Then, the warmth soothes, and you continue to drink. Vash smiles sadly as he watches. Distantly, you remind yourself you’ll have to truly thank him when you have the energy. He’s already gone above and beyond anyone else in your life has ever done for you.

You take a few tablets of medicine, gulping them down with some difficulty. Not long after, your tiredness overtakes you, and without realizing it, you fall asleep.

[sfehvn]

new religion part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 2,407 Characters: soft!ascended!Astarion x fem!au!Tav

━─━────༺༻────━─━

  In the small cottage on the outskirts of the city, madness ensued. The screeching of young children rang out as they happily played about the intimate home, and you let out a frustrated sigh from your place in the kitchen. “Girls, papa needs to rest. Please just relax, okay? Why don’t you guys play in the garden?” You suggested, trying to keep the exasperation from coating your words. You pour the contents from your mixing bowl into a pan, looking up at the oldest of the four girls before you. She sat at the table, scribbling into a journal. “Lillian, will you help me please?” The words were a plea, despondent for any form of assistance. The younger girl lets out a frustrated huff but stands to lead the children outside into the back garden without a word.

  Since the eldest of you had moved on, things had been increasingly more brutal for all of you. Typically, house duties were split between the two oldest, you and Alan. With him gone, that meant everything fell on your shoulders. He had been reluctant to go, but once you had encouraged him to do something for himself for once, off he went with your blessing. You wondered why you couldn’t offer yourself the same kindness, but it always came full circle that without you, everyone in the home would fall apart.

  Lillian was barely old enough to help around the home, yet she was already slipping away in the middle of the night to meet with a boy whom she swore she was going to wed. No matter the amount of times you lecture her about the repercussions this could have, she dismissed everything. You don’t know what it feels like to be in love. Lillian would exclaim, but you did. Of course you did. You wanted to yell, tell her how foolish she was being. However, you would never. Remembering how quickly you were forced to grow up in order to care for everyone, you wanted her to cling to her own childhood for as long as she possibly could.

  Your father lay still on a cot in the front room, his breaths shallow and rattling with liquid as he slept. It had been an awful day for him. Bloodstained rags lay beside the cot, reminiscent of his coughing fits and pleas to be put out of his misery. It ripped your heart to shreds seeing him so poorly. Once a man so full of life and happiness, tormented and withered to skin and bone. He could no longer hold himself up, and you were aware that it was only a matter of time before your grief-stricken family would be back in that cemetery, burying him next to your long-gone mother.

  You’re broken from your thinking by the sounds of his bloodied coughs ensuing once more. You quickly abandon the half-made meal, rushing to his side. You dampen a fresh washcloth in the bucket of water that rests beside him, swiping gently at his blood-splattered chin. “You’re okay, papa. I’ve got you.” You reassure, his wet coughs echoing throughout the room. 

  His body loosens up after a few moments and you grab another cloth to lay across his forehead. There was no denying the pain visible on his face, and you frowned deeply at the hopelessness you felt. “Just like your mama.” He murmured and the words elicited him to sputter another cough. You shushed him softly and patted his hand, urging him not to strain himself. “She would be-.” He falters as he attempts to catch his breath. “She would be proud.” You smile glumly at his words and move to collect wash rags that are strewn about the floor.

  The trash can overflows with contents of discarded rags, and you groan inwardly, picking up the bin to toss it in the front garden’s can. You allow the last bits of warmth from the sunset to soak in your skin, making your way down the dirt path to the bin. A shadowed figure halts you, standing at the end of the path. You squint to get a better look at the mystery visitor, and confusion washes over you at the sight of Astarion. “Astarion? Why are you here?” Your brow creases as you approach, dumping the contents of the can into the larger one.

  He steps closer, hands folded over a chest you’d found comfort in many times before. “I couldn’t leave things the way we did.” It had only been but a couple of days since you had left his manor in a hurry, and Astarion had spent every second apart locked in his study. His servants had felt the brunt of his anger and anguish in that time, more than half of them residing in the palace's dungeon for simply being in his line of sight.

  Astarion had to restrain himself from stealing you away in the night and locking you in his bed chamber until you agreed to stay with him after your little qualm. He had tried and failed to talk himself out of his need for you; the absolute burning desire that screamed in his bones for you made it no use. He needed you. He’d considered consuming you just to be rid of these feelings that plagued his mind but had come to the conclusion that would only make his wanting worse.

  A soft sigh leaves your lips, and you glance back at your home, fidgeting absently with your fingers. The squeals of excited children buzzing about the back garden is the only sound heard in the silence as you carefully try to put your words together. “I’m sorry I left like that.” A million thoughts are whipping in your head, a million things you want to say to him. This is all you can manage, though. With a brief pause of hesitation, you continue. “Would you like to come in? I have to finish cooking.” Your words trail.

  There was a tinge of embarrassment ringing in your head at the thought of having him in your home. Not that you were embarrassed by your family, per se, but Astarion was used to wealth and luxury; your quaint cottage exuded everything but that. Silence befalls you, and you’re about to revoke your invitation when Astarion hesitantly nods. He knew better, and he silently cursed himself for accepting. Was he really supposed to go in there and pretend he’s the same as any of them? Pretend like they’re cut from the same cloth? No, he couldn’t. Astarion didn’t meet families. He destroyed them. Left them in shambles with nothing but corpses in his wake. Still, he followed you in. There was something about the way you looked at him with those big doe-eyes that made it impossible for him to refuse you.

  You lead him into the house, shutting the door behind him. In the soft light of the home, Astarion can make out the dried blood spattered over your pale yellow dress: hair a mess and cheeks flushed, bags formulating under those eyes he loved so much. You were being pulled in too many directions and, hells, practically worn thin. His eyes shift around the cottage, taking in every detail of where you live—the house smelt of you and the scent of a home-cooked meal. You made your way back into the kitchen, resuming the forgotten meal you had abandoned to care for your father. 

  Astarion’s eyes rake over the house, taking note of your sleeping, bedridden father. He felt pity. For you, of course. He knew the recourse coming; it didn’t take an expert to see the man was on his last leg. He intended to be there for you to fall upon once he was gone. He steps deeper into the front room, eyes falling on a perfectly painted picture above the fireplace. A smiling family looked upon him: seven children and a couple blessed in their youth. He immediately recognizes you among the group, and his eyes drift to who he assumes to be your mother. You looked just like her. The artist had rendered that same captivating smile he’d recognized as yours on her face.

  “When mom got sick, papa worked day in and day out to ensure he’d have something to remember her face. He was terrified he’d forget it.” You mused solemnly as you approached behind him. “I’ll never comprehend how he managed to afford it. He made anything happen for her, though.” You smiled.

  “You’re a spitting image.” Astarion murmured incredulously, looking down at you.

  You nod, rubbing your hands over the apron tied around your waist. “So I’ve heard.” Your mother was a soft spot for you. You had always tried your best to live as she would since her passing.

  Loud chatter filled the cottage as the children filtered back into the house. “It’s too dark out now, sissy.” The youngest mewls. She couldn’t have been older than seven, and she was absolutely covered in mud. As were the other girls, aside from Lillian. 

  You tsk, ushering them away from the front room. “Go clean yourselves up. You’re tracking mud everywhere.” You scold. The girls hurry off to wash up without paying Astarion any mind. Lillian narrows her eyes at the strange man in her home, scrutinizingly.

  “Hey, I know you.” You ignore her as you enter the kitchen to check the cooking food. Astarion tries to place her in his mind to no avail. “You get around.” She mutters, saying nothing more as she walks to the table to assist you with setting it. He’s left silenced for a beat, wracking his brain for whatever she may have seen, and it clicked. He had been sloppy. Dissatisfied with the meals his servants had been bringing him, cooked or fresh, he’d taken to his own devices. For months, he had found the joy of the hunt again. He frequented taverns, bringing home women who shared some semblance of you. Lillian must have seen him—more times than once, given her tone.

  Astarion straightens himself out and assists with the table setting, side-eyeing the young girl every so often slyly. How would he react if she said anything more? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t let you discover any of it. Hells, how could he be so stupid? What did he expect? Fear of everything he had built with you gripped him—fear of losing you. “So, Lillian, how old are you? You say you know me; I don’t think I’ve ever seen you about.” He hums. His tone is sickly sweet. 

  “I’m fifteen, and I’m to be married, so don’t get any ideas.” Lillian says pointedly, and Astarion’s jaw all but fell on the floor at the teenager’s response. This family had a solid track record of leaving him dumbfounded.

“Oh, gods, no. I wasn’t-” Astarion started.

 “Lillian!” You exclaimed loudly, shooting her a stare of distaste. “That’s quite enough.” Your voice was stern, demanding. Nurturing. A side of you Astarion had never had the pleasure of seeing. “Just- just go to the room with the little ones. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” You chose to ignore the comment of marriage—a battle for another day. You turn to Astarion wide-eyed once she’s left, shaking your head in disbelief at the situation. “I’m so sorry. She’s been,” you pause, “Difficult. To put it nicely.” 

  “Don’t apologize, darling. Not a problem.” He cleared his throat. He had a few choice words for the girl, much harsher than difficult, but instead, he bit them back, knowing none of them would be satisfactory to you. 

-

  Less than a seventh day had gone by when your father had passed, succumbing to his sickness. While you knew it was coming, it didn’t stop your heart from dropping to your toes when you awoke in the early hours to find his cold body, stiff and unmoving. Your cries rang through the house despite your better judgment, drawing the neighbor’s attention. You had this planned; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to be calm, not to scare your younger siblings. In the moment, everything in your brain was mush. It didn’t matter what you were planning, what you had accounted for. At the moment, you were that same scared young girl who had just found her mother’s corpse all those years ago. You clung to his hands as he was carried away by your brother hours later.

  Astarion was surprised to see you at his doorstep and was readying a flirtatious quip when he noted how disheveled you looked. Your eyes were bloodshot, cheeks flushed and puffy. “He’s gone, Astarion.” Your voice cracked, and his heart along with it. He said nothing and instead pulled you to his chest, caressing soft hair as painful sobs erupted from you. He hated to see you in so much agony. His first instinct was to hurt whoever or whatever was causing this and he felt vulnerable that, in this case, violence was not the answer. 

  No, instead, he cradled you into his arms and carried you to the bath chamber. He held you while servants filled the tub with warm water, careful hands worked the hem of your nightgown over your head while you stared at a spot past his shoulder; it was as if you weren’t present. Now nude, he places you into the warm water. He combed through your hair while you cried, cleaned your body while you screamed in anguish, listened to incoherent pleas for your father to be brought back.

  By the time your body had calmed, the sun was already setting. He lifted your exhausted body from the water, urging the servant replenishing warm water away with just a look. Once in the bed chamber, he towels water droplets from your skin wordlessly. There was nothing he could say to fix your heart—this time. He lays you in his bed, tucking you to his chest and all but cocooning around you. For the first time in hours, you are silent. He can hear your once-racing heart slow. “I want to stay here with you. I can’t be there anymore.” Your throat was raw, words tired. His heart leaps at the statement, and he’s tempted to take you right there and then. He pushes the thought away and instead tightens his hold around you. “We’ll talk about it when you’re of sane mind, my treasure.”

[bblueraven-and-fandoms14]

Controversial take the AA and Narumitsu fandom are going to flame my ass whatever but as an avid Narumitsu shipper and Miles Edgeworth fan (he's my #1 favorite character of the franchise) I love bastard Phoenix but in the specific flavor of him cheating on Miles with Kristoph during the 7yg. Like. Because tbh Phoenix gets attached and loves (obsseses) over people so readily and easily that once he has very little to loose he decides to try and keep what he does have and he wants both. Why CAN'T he have both he wants both. Is it fair to Miles AND to Kristoph? No but life hasn't been fair to HIM either and it's selfish and he's a horrible partner, he feels guilty so so much, but he can't stop, he can't let go of either because he wants BOTH. He clings to both and refuses to let go. He has so much to give why can't he take a bit, too. Why can't he have them both!!!! Miles is his past and Kristoph could be part of his present and he refuses to let go of any of it. Then he fully learns was Kristoph is doing and plays the game and continues because, yeah he'll bring Kristoph down but he still wants both, even if it's not good for him. So he'll keep both as long as he can. Even if he's going to destroy one of them in the end. Once again life is not being fair and this must be Karma, for trying to grab too much, trying to hold too much in his hands. So if it's going to be over and by his own hands, he will keep indulging as long as he can.

Extra points Kristoph absolutely knows and seethes everytime Miles visits because Phoenix goes away during that time even though he ends up back with him once Miles leaves and why is Kristoph once again coming second? He hates Mile's ass (but he wonders what it is about that man. He is curious, in a morbid way. He wants a taste himself, just to see what of Miles is so good that Phoenix can't stop himself from eating from it even now).

Miles doesn't know at first but he starts suspecting and then he learns about it but he... doesn't say anything. He's a self respecting man, he SHOULD say something for his own self at the least but he. He thinks of everything that has happened. He sees how defeated Phoenix is. He remembers being defeted himself. He remembers he owes Phoenix half his life, really. He is so attached himself, and what would he do without Phoenix in his life? So he decides its fine, isn't it? Because it's partially Miles fault, too. He's not There. He's away too much, all the time, during Phoenix's time of need. And Phoenix is just a man. Just like him. And he wonders. He wishes he knew Kristoph more, and he's jealous and angry at him because Kristoph is dignified and not a bit weird in his likes and idiosyncrasies and perhaps that's the appeal, someone who isn't a bit odd and who is actually there. He remembers that one date he's ever been to, back in highschool. He remembers trying so hard to be likable. He remembers failing at it. He sees how easy it is for Kristoph to do what he couldn't and still can't. And he wonders how it is to taste that in a partner.

Anyways in the end I think they should all kiss idk 🧍🏻‍♀️ (there are two specific things I have consumed in this fandom that have built my hc's for Krisnix, Nrmts, and narumitskris during the 7yr gap and the fic specifically is /it/ like that's lowkey canon to me with some tweaks to fit canon timeline and events and characters).

*coughs* I rambled I just think all 3 could have the most interesting dynamic known to man YES including Miles/Kristoph can you imagine the chaos of that? It's Phoenix's worst and best dream come to life. I think Miles/Kristoph is supremely underrated actually. I think they should all fuck nasty and hate-filled. Thank you for coming to my....uh. Insanity.

(I also love the idea of Miles and Kristoph cat fighting over a man who CHEATS like girls get up omg [all 3 are deranged])

[unreliablesnake]

The bet – part 3 (Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader)

Summary: Ghost is sick and you give him a visit in the infirmary.

Note: Your support means an awful lot, so I'd like to start by thanking you all! Since so many of you wanted more, here's a short part 3.

Warnings: none, it's fluff.

part 1 / part 2

Stolen kisses, well-hidden touches, and longing looks filled your days while you were on a mission with Ghost, and it was exceptionally rare to find the time and place to get a little intimate with him. He tried, though, he truly did, but something or someone always interrupted you.

And then one day you woke up to Price informing the team that Ghost was in the infirmary with some nasty cough and fever. The doctors ordered him to stay in bed, which he could only do there because if he was left unsupervised, he would just sneak out to join the rest of them.

“Can I visit him? Just to see if he needs anything,” you asked Price when you were left alone.

“I know about you two,” he said, giving you a smaller heart attack. After clearing your throat, you put your hands behind your back and gave him a questioning look. “It’s obvious. And since you’re working with me most of the time, I’ll ignore it for now. Anyway, the answer is yes, you can go see him.”

Nodding, you rushed out of the room and went straight to the infirmary. Ghost was lying on a bed, his usual mask replaced with a hoodie and a surgical mask. A soft smile crept on your lips as you watched him sleep, looking as peaceful as he did back home in the mornings. You wrapped your fingers around his hand and leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Oh, honey,” you muttered quietly once you felt his hot skin against your lips.

Price wasn’t joking about the fever. You pulled a chair closer and sat down next to his bed, lips pressed to his hand that you were holding. You didn’t care how careless you were right now, how easily someone could have seen you. All you could care about was his well-being.

After some time you felt and heard him shift in bed, eyes fluttering open. “What are you doing here?” he asked you between coughs.

“Price told us you were sick. I felt like being a supportive girlfriend.”

You could see it in his eyes that he was smiling under the mask. This was the man you were so in love with, the soft, sweet guy who always put you first. Not like that wasn't the same with you. He was slowly becoming the most important person in your life, but this didn't bother you at all.

Now that he was sick, your heart clenched at the sight. Ghost being sick was so unusual, so surreal. He always seemed to be the kind of tough guy who was only bedridden when he got injured on the field, not because the flu or a nasty cold took him out.

When he moved his fingers to lace them with yours, you looked back at his face with a smile. “Anyone could walk in,” he said quietly.

With a laugh, you shrugged. “Price knows about us,” you informed him, and he gave you a worried look in response. “It's okay, since I don't work under your command most of the time, he doesn't care much about it.”

Ghost wanted to speak, but instead he ended up with a coughing fit. Once it died down, he closed his eyes, and tried to take deep breaths. “You should go before you catch whatever this is,” he suggested without looking at you.

Rolling your eyes, you reached for the glass of water beside the bed that had a straw in it, then stood up to get closer to his face. “You need to hydrate. Drink some water,” you told him in a tone that made it clear you didn't want to argue about this.

Finally he opened his eyes again and gave you a tired look. Even if he wanted to argue and convince you to leave, he was too tired to do it. So you won. With a triumphant smile, you offered him the end of the straw.

“Fine,” he muttered before drinking some. “How long are you planning to sit here beside my bed? They told me I need to rest, and honestly, I feel like sleeping anyway.”

“Until Price tells me to go. I'm not leaving your side, Simon, don't even think about it. The nurse can focus on others, I'll nurse you back to health myself,” you added with a smile.

Ghost watched as you put down the glass, eyes barely open by now. “I'm glad you're here.”

[circyexistforcontent]

IMPOSTER AU! BUT WITH AN OBLIVIOUS GOD READER

✿ trigger warnings: cultish behavior, yandere's, mentions of weaponry, attempted murder, religious themes, god reader being an idiot because they don't know someone is impersonating them

✿ notes: the reader is actually the god of teyvat, this isn't an isekai story. so if you don't like it I suggest you scroll by.

It's been a millennium since you have descended in Teyvat. Mostly for the reason you had other out worldly matters to deal with, so you didn't have time to visit your acolytes or take care of teyvat as a whole. So you decided to create a small extension of yourself, Celestia, to observe Teyvat while you were gone.

After unloading your work you decided that a small vacation wouldn't hurt. After all, a god deserves to rest too. Should you make yourself known to your acolytes? You probably shouldn't, some of them can be really...suffocating *Cough* Morax *Cough* and they might be busy with their own respective nations.

You decided to fuse back with Celestia, feeling some of Celestia's memories flood your mind and- oh my god. What the hell happened?

When did your acolytes start a war???

Most of your acolytes died a few centuries after you left. Some of your acolytes were so unbecoming at the time, and all you could feel is disappointment. They swore to themselves they would be peaceful, why did they decide to turn their back on you?

You decided once you descend to Teyvat, you will give them a lecture about promises and being truthful to your words.

You made sure to be careful when transferring a piece of your consciousness to Teyvat. Transferring a small piece of your power was hard enough without accidentally exploding the vision holder, if you brought even a fourth of yourself to the domain it will collapse. You can feel the familiar sensation of entering a world, feeling the breeze slowly brush past you as the sunlight beams above your form.

Monstadt, what use to be a frozen wasteland now became a city flourishing with people and plant life. Based on what you can remember, Barbatos, your little wisp friend, has now ascended to godhood and has dominion over Monstadt. You can remember how happy your little wind wisp would be every time you come to visit him after a long day of answering prayers and managing the constellations. He always loved head pats, and he fits in your pocket too.

Maybe you should visit him first, just like in the old times. You started walking through the forest, greeting every slime you walked past and every hillichurl that would see run towards you. Some have even offered you trinkets! Though you sadly couldn't wear it since it was on the brink of breaking apart, you promised to cherish it for centuries to come.

Sunlight shines through the end of the forest, but as you made your way to the exit an arrow whizzes through you. Not even getting the chance to make contact with your flesh (it's not like this form even has flesh), you saw a figure above a tree branch before it gracefully landed on the ground. You saw that they were holding a bow.

"Stay where you are, imposter!"

'Imposter?' You thought, what was she talking about? "Excuse me Amber, but who are you referring to?" Amber seem to be tense the moment you said her name. She prepared her bow again, making sure it's pointed to your head.

"How do you know me? And I was referring to you. You're trying to impersonate the Divine Creator." You made an 'aah' sound before waving dismissively, giving her a care free smile.

"You must be mistaken, you see I AM the Divine Creator. I know I haven't descended for a long time and this might be sudden but I promise I will make up for all the time I was go-"

Before you can try and reason more with Amber, an explosive plushie was thrown at you.

[imtrashraccoon]

I'm sure you all expected what this chapter would be about and I had no doubt in my mind what it would be when I first saw the prompt list. It definitely turned out better than I thought it would and I am very proud of it.

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Horror - Good Soup

Word Count: 2,457

You woke up with a sore throat and your muscles feeling incredibly achy. No sooner had you tried to get ready for work did you dissolve into a coughing fit that only made you feel even worse. So while you were hesitant to do so as you did need the money, you had to call in sick.

You'd gone straight back to bed after that, although you at least managed to snag a box of tissues before doing so. That's where you stayed for several hours, although you were unable to actually fall asleep for long as you kept sneezing and coughing.

You were stirred from slumber by a steady knocking on your front door. With a groan, you hauled yourself out of bed, dragging a blanket with as you trudged towards the door. Truthfully, you weren't even thinking clearly and just wanted to tell whoever was bothering you to go away so you could go back to bed.

Your mysterious visitor turned out to be not so mysterious afterall. You swung open your door, probably looking like you just got run over by a truck, to find a mildly concerned Axe. For a moment, you just stood there trying to figure out why he was outside your apartment, before it clicked that today was the day he usually visited.

Before you could even get out a single word of explanation, he'd scooped you up and marched into your home. You tried to protest and squirm out of his grip, but all your attempts were futile and he continued to hold onto your body tightly. He then placed you on the couch with a shocking amount of delicacy, like you'd break if he didn't.

"you're sick."

You narrowed your eyes and scrunched up your nose at the obvious statement. "No kidding...I feel sick." Your hoarse voice sounded a lot harsher than you had intended it to but you just felt so awful right now.

His bonebrows furrowed and he hesitantly reached out to touch your forehead. His phalanges felt warm for once and you suddenly became aware of how much you were shivering all of the sudden.

Crap... I must have a fever too...

Axe shook his skull and sighed. "i know basically nothin' about human sicknesses..." he muttered. "is there anythin' i can do to help make ya feel better at least?" When he withdrew his hand, you let out a quiet whine and tried to follow, although you couldn't without getting up again.

"I dunno... I'm not really hungry, just tired... Even if I was, I don't think I could eat much of anything with how much my throat is killing me..."

"have ya eaten anythin' yet today? or even drank anythin' for that matter?" he asked.

You slowly shook your head and looked down at your bare feet. Even though he wasn't saying anything, you could feel the disappointment radiating off of him and you felt more than a little ashamed. Rather than scold you for not taking care of yourself properly though, he lightly flicked your nose, catching you by complete surprise and you recoiled in shock.

Then just like that he was back to a more positive mood. "good thing i found ya then. don't worry, lil' chip, i'll take care of ya," he said with a smile.

You started to respond but was interrupted by a sneeze that left you rifling for a tissue for your nose. By the time, you'd retrieved one from the nearly empty box you'd almost forgotten was by the tv, Axe had left and then returned to the living room without you noticing.

He'd retrieved most of the blankets you owned, save for the ones currently occupying your bed, as well as all but one of your extra pillows. He proceeded to arrange them underneath and around your body until you felt like you were laying on a cloud. Then, he set about layering the blankets over you and tucking them in as well, so that you were soon sufficiently insulated.

"give me a minute and i'll make ya a tea for your throat, okay?"

You nodded and he left without any more words. While you were still cold, the blankets and pillows were helping to warm you up quite a bit and a hot tea would also do wonders to chase away the chill.

It didn't take Axe long to bring back a hot mug of the strongest herbal tea you owned. Previously dubbed by you "The Sick Tea", it smelled and tasted of black liquorice, as well as a bunch of other herbs, which you absolutely despised but it was proven to be effective at getting rid of sore throats. So you only ever drank it when you were doing really bad, like today.

"ya don't have a lot to work with in the fridge," he commented while handing you the tea.

You waved your hand flippantly and at the same time took a sip from the still scalding hot mug. You immediately regretted doing so, but your throat already hurt so what was one more thing.

"It's fine, I get paid at the end of the week anyways. I'll go grocery shopping then besides, you really don't have to make me food, you know?"

He gave you an uncertain look but didn't protest. Although, you got the sense that he wasn't happy with the idea of you possibly going without, especially in your current condition, just to save money.

He exhaled through his nasal cavity and looked back in the direction of the kitchen. "fine, but i'm at least goin' to make ya somethin' that'll help ya get better." He turned back to you and narrowed his eye sockets in a way that made it clear that he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

You didn't have the energy to argue and besides, he had made great food previously and it had healed your finger. Maybe it could heal what you suspected was a bad cold too? There was only one way to find out.

"Mkay, just nothing with dairy as it's not good for sore throats," you said.

Axe chuckled and gently moved some strands of hair out of your face. "no worries, lil' chip. just rest for a while, okay?" He gave your head a small but still affectionate pat and winked.

"Well, I was planning on running a marathon later but if you insist..." you responded with a smirk. Being sick definitely made you sassier than usual it seemed.

He gave you a mildly amused smile and went to return to the kitchen. "i insist that ya get proper rest, just leave everythin' to me, okay?" he called over his shoulder.

You were so tired that you just barely managed to finish the tea before falling asleep again. Thankfully, you'd had enough mental clarity before you did so to put the mug on the coffee table so it wouldn't break.

You woke up a few hours later to the amazing smell of chicken soup, apparently Axe had kept his word afterall. You'd basically had no appetite all day but now, you kinda wanted to try even a little bit of his food just to see how good it was.

Luckily for you, Axe soon poked his skull into the living room to check on you. He smiled warmly when he saw you were awake and momentarily disappeared before returning with a larger mug this time.

"how are ya feelin'?" he asked.

You shrugged and struggled to sit up under the weight of the blankets. "Still pretty bad if I'm being honest..." you muttered.

"i figured..." He set the mug down on the coffee table and helped you get into a more comfortable position before sitting next to you. "i made ya some good soup though if ya want to try it."

You chuckled and lightly bumped your head against his shoulder. "Forgive me for this, but I'm dying to try it..." you said dryly.

He chuckled as well and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He also handed you the mug of soup so you wouldn't have to move to get it for yourself. "nah, it's fine, i ain't offended."

You took a small sip at first, just to check if the soup was too hot or not, but it was in fact the perfect temperature to both consume and ease your still sore throat. It was easily the best chicken soup you'd ever had and yet it was simple. The chicken and vegetables had been deliberately cut into small pieces to make it easy to chew and swallow. The noodles were the perfect texture, not too mushy, and the broth was slightly thicker than most soups were too. It tasted like he'd laboured over it for hours, even though you knew he'd likely whipped it up rather quickly.

You couldn't help but let out a hum of contentment as your eyes fluttered shut. This was just what you needed right now after eating nothing all day.

Axe stayed close to you while you continued to slowly sip at the soup, gently rubbing circles into your shoulder with his knuckles. He said nothing but just continued holding you close and providing what comfort he could in this moment.

When you'd finally finished consuming the last of the amazing soup, he took the mug from your grasp and set it next to the other on the coffee table. He then wrapped you up into another bear hug and slowly rocked you back and forth.

"I've never just drank soup like that before... It was fun actually, thank you, Axe..." you murmured softly.

"i'm glad," he hummed. After a moment of silence, he asked, "do ya have any medicine ya need to take?"

"Maybe? I don't keep much on hand besides pain killers and stuff for cuts. There might be some cold medicine in the cabinet in the bathroom though."

With a frown, you turned your head to look up at him. "Aren't you worried about me getting you sick? I mean, I'm grateful you've done all of this for me, but I'd feel awful if you got a cold too."

Axe shrugged and stroked your cheek with the back of his knuckles in an affectionate way. "nah, don't worry, lil' chip... i can't catch human sicknesses anyways. you just focus on gettin' better soon, okay?"

You didn't know if you fully believed him but you also really didn't know much of anything about monster biology. So, you decided to just go along with what he'd said for the time being.

It was impressive how well Axe seemed to be handling this situation, considering how upset he'd become when he found out you'd accidentally cut yourself. Not only had he remained calm, he'd also gone out of his way to help you. You'd never had anyone show you this much concern before now either, at least not anyone you considered a friend.

He stayed with you for a while, far longer than his usual visits lasted in fact. For most of that time, you two watched whatever garbage happened to be on the tv. He seemed especially interested in cooking competitions and so you ended up watching a lot of that. He had a lot of experience cooking and often pointed out the small mistakes the contestants made before the show even did. It was pretty fun and you felt like you'd learned a lot, although with how out of it you felt, you weren't sure if you'd remember any of it.

It was almost pitch black outside before either of you realized what time it was. Axe quickly checked his phone and you noticed his bonebrows furrow slightly in concern when he saw the time.

"Do you need to be somewhere?" you asked.

He nodded slowly, "yeah... i don't want my colleagues or boss to start wonderin' where i am." He glanced at you and smiled before adding, "i'll come back tomorrow to check on ya, it's a promise..."

You felt your heart swell with joy. He didn't need to be so kind and you found yourself once again wondering if friends normally go out of their way to do this sort of thing for each other. It seemed like a thing people who were really close would do or treat each other. You didn't know, but the facts were that he seemed to really care about you and was willing to go out of his way to make sure you were alright.

When he went to stand up, you grabbed his arm and gave him a quick hug. "Thank you Axe...for everything..." you murmured against his hoodie.

He chuckled and hugged you back. Before standing up again, he gave you another pat on the head and a warm smile. "you're welcome... get better soon, lil' chip."

He then disappeared before your eyes, leaving you wondering if you'd dreamed up everything in a delirious state. But no, you could still smell the delicious scent of the chicken soup he'd made for you wafting through your apartment and there was still an indent in the sofa cushions from where he'd been sitting moments before.

You eventually dragged yourself out of the pillow nest to bring your mugs into the kitchen. You'd wash them whenever you were feeling better, but for now, you just wanted to go back to your actual bed.

To your surprise, the kitchen was spotless, and if it weren't for the dishes that had been left in the rack to air dry, you wouldn't have known Axe had even done any cooking. It was possible the whole room was even cleaner than you'd previously left it too.

You couldn't help but wonder if there was any leftovers from the soup he'd made. Upon checking your fridge, you discovered that, yes, there was a large pot of the soup in the bottom, that definitely wasn't yours. However, the rest of the appliance had been stuffed with several other tupperware containers of various ready to eat meals, all of which were labeled and seemed to be food that would help you get better quickly. There were some other groceries as well in case you wanted to prepare something for yourself, but you estimated there was enough food here to last you a week without doing so.

You stared at the fridge in shock and disbelief at what you could clearly see with your own eyes. You even opened and closed the door a few times to double check. Despite how crappy you felt, your mind felt surprisingly clear in this moment.

You knew he saw you as more than just a friend now.

So what was he to you?

[ca1e70]

she hates him. in this exact moment, she hates him. with his fingers down her throat and his hand holding her hair back, his own prescription pills are dangerously close to touching her tongue once again, and she hates him because she thinks he hates her for what she did.

he doesn't. not yet, at least. right now he's just scared and worried and upset and a little angry at her insistence to keep his antipsychotics down. they're still in the grace period of ingestion she doesn't need to go to the hospital. the grace period where he can piece together what was scattered on the bathroom floor with what he pulls out of her vomit and avoid a psych phonecall of his own.

she bites his fingers. he pulls her hair and digs in deeper. she doesn't even remember why she did this. why she's fumbling despite the assault to find more pills, finger tips snagging and palming them for later. as if he will turn his back on her for long enough to dry swallow them.

"youre like a fucking dog, throw up"

maybe she is. she always thought of herself like a cat, if she had to be any animal. calculated and adamant about her boundaries. only accepting of affection when she wanted it, when it fit her curated checklist, when the other person deserved it, but he was right. she was like a dog. she begged and pleaded and got into the trash when her owner was gone because any attention, even bad attention, was attention. she overdoses on his medication so she can be the most important thing in his life right now. she drinks herself sick, stupid, stumbling into his arms when the event allows so she can feel what it's like to be cared for. she doesn't like the now bloody fingers in her mouth. she likes when he rubs her back and holds her close and uses a wet washcloth to wipe the wine-filled bile from her chin so it doesn't stain. she stops fighting and lets it come up in his lap and over his hand. he's relieved, rather than disgusted. he lets go of her and she can feel herself tumbling eight stories onto bedrock bottom.

"how much did you take"

"I don't know, I didn't count," she coughs it up, wiping her mouth with the heel of her palm. Everything burns. "A handful?"

"a handful. great. good measurement"

is he mad? he sounds mad. he's worried, maybe frustrated. focused as he tries to count out the white pills fizzling in her throw-up. she tries to help by counting out the seven she has in her palm, but he reaches out to grab them from her like they would burn a hole through her hand if she held them a second longer, so she moves to put herself back together. her nose is running and her eyes are watering and her face is flushed and that isn't attractive. no wonder he's focused more on the pills than her. this is just like when her mother was more upset with the damage to their silverware and the fact the electrician couldnt come by to fix the kitchen wiring until friday. she didn't care that her daughters fingers were blackened, that her veins felt electrified. that she waited for hours until the woman came downstairs to jab that fork into the socket just to ensure she was there for the whole performance.

he looks handsome when he's focused. he looks better when he's focused on her, but this is close enough, for now. this isn't the time to think about the way he looks at her when shes underneath him with her hands in his hair instead. has he looked at someone else like that? is she second-best? third? is she just the only girl disturbed enough to hike her skirt up for him, or is she just the easiest? she's hard to stomach, she knows that, so there must be something in her he can't live without. he wouldn't have manhandled her like that when he came home.

"I could be dead by now. I thought you were good at math."

his jaw sets the same way it does before he punches a stranger at the bar in the face. she almost wants him to do it. to hit her. to let her corrupt yet another subsection of people he knows in his mind. another opportunity for him to think of her.

he doesn't. he keeps counting, carefully peeling each tablet off his jeans and dropping them into the empty bottle from the bathroom floor. she watches him for a while and she steals the lid from next to the toilet, so when he's done, he has to ask her for it back.

[starlostastronaut]

DAY 07 | BUT A TROUBLEMAKER GIRL

PAIRING: seo changbin x reader

GENRE: crack, fluff

WC: 0.76k

CW: attempt at humour, playful banter/insults (they're besties so its fine haha)

PROMPT: "your hand looks heavy, can i hold it for you?"

i picked out the prompt and my first thought was "from how many things can i make fun of?" lol. so this is where it ended. i honestly have no explanations for this, so just enjoy haha <3

title from troublemaker - olly murs

general masterlist here

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"Your hand looks heavy, can I hold it for you?”

You almost choked on your drink when you heard that. When your cough had eased enough for you to be able to speak, you managed to get out a strained “What?” before you launched into another fit, though this time it was a laugh.

“Have you calmed down now?” Changbin grumbled after having to listen to your laugh for another few minutes. If you were to ask him, he would swear the last two minutes were only pretended, because no human could possibly laugh for that long.

“I’m sorryyy Binnie,” you said, wiping imaginary tears from your face. However, upon seeing his unpleasant expression, you straightened your back and stopped the charade. "Yeah, I’m done. Sorry,” you muttered, this time truly meaning it. You didn’t think he took it that seriously, but apparently he did after all, which made you feel genuinely sorry. Sometimes you would simply take your jokes too far without realizing it. “It’s just… since when do you use pick-up lines?”

In the years of knowing Seo Changbin, you had never heard him say a single pick-up line. Sure, Changbin never passed up an opportunity to shamelessly flirt with just about anyone, but he never resorted to something so “primitive” (as he himself once said) like pick-up lines. That was more up Bang Chan’s alley.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Chan-hyung swears it works. He said the fans go crazy whenever he uses one.” He gave you a curious look. “You’re our fan too. Why didn’t it work?” he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. Despite the situation you found yourself in, the sight of him sitting like that opposite you was just so adorable. Of course, you would never admit it to him, but the thought was still there, making you smirk before you caught yourself.

You opted for standing up from the couch and going to refill your glass, not wanting your face to betray you, given the fact that Changbin was taking this situation seriously, at least to a certain degree.

“My dear Changbin, you’re forgetting one very small but also very important detail,” you called from the kitchen. While waiting for a response, you opened the fridge to take out a bottle of juice.

“What, that I’m not Chan-hyung?”

“No! Well… I mean yes, but that’s not my point,” you yelled back and put the juice back. Walking out of the kitchen, you stopped at the door and leaned your side on the doorframe, with a clear view of Changbin still pouting in the other room. He didn’t exactly look like he had figured it out yet, so it was up to you to give him the hint. “Do you know what the difference is between me and a regular STAY?”

He shook his head and looked up at you, waiting for an answer.

“I’ve met your dumb asses.”

With a smile on your lips, you watched Changbin’s reaction. As if it were slow motion, he furrowed his brows in confusion, but then it got replaced by annoyance. “Yah! What do you mean by that?” he shouted, but there was only pretend anger present in the tone of his voice. You got pretty good at guessing when he was joking, and right now you were sure you were both on the same page.

“That any fan who would spend just a day in the presence of any of you would think twice before falling for you,” you answered with an innocent grin and drank from the glass, making it seem like a neutral conversation. Which it was, theoretically. There was no real malice behind your words, you just enjoyed teasing your best friend.

“Or you just have poor taste, because Stray Kids are totally boyfriend goals,” Changbin retorted, raising an eyebrow as if saying “what’s your response to that, huh?”

But you were ready for him. You two bickered so often that your replies were basically autopilot. Without missing a beat, you scoffed. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.” With a victory smirk, you watched Changbin freeze. He was trying to think of some witty reply, but it seemed like you got him there.

“Wait a minute, doesn’t Jeongin have that friend from school who is also a STAY?” Changbin asked after a moment of silence. You just looked at him, head tilted to the side and confusion written all over your face. “Let’s call them and settle this once and for all,” he explained, already standing up and going to his room for his phone.

taglist: @stayconnecteed @saintriots @vivioluh @ivaneedssleep @jazziwritesthings @darkypooo

©starlostastronaut 2023 | do not repost/translate my work without permission

[skyward-floored]

Warriors tugged his scarf up again and hacked another series of sharp, rough coughs into the fabric. His sigh more like a groan after catching his breath once the fit was over.

His head swam slightly, but he pushed through it and swept his bangs off his face. He wasn't sure, but his hands were either frightfully cold or he was on the border of running a temperature.

"Hey, hello! Wars!"

He was startled out if his introspective daze by the hand waving in his face.

"All good? That sounded nasty and like it had to hurt," Twilight offered up one of the waters from the group.

"Thanks, I've got mine," if, and a big if, he was sick it would do no good to have it go around over a shared water canteen.

"Morning crud," Wars shrugged after he took a swig of water. It burned something fierce and eroded some of his confidence as well as his forced smile. "You know how it is."

"Mhmm, sure," Twilight didn't sound overly convinced.

The group trudged on a while longer, though Warriors fell into a daze around the sharp, stabbing coughs that just seemed to dig deeper and deeper into him behind his sternum.

"Oh-kay that's enough of that," Sky clapped his hands and spun to face the lagging half of the group- which seemed to only hold Twilight, surprisingly Time and Wind, and Warriors himself.

"Time for a break. Wars, sit." Sky doled out commands effortlessly and Wars could do naught but sit numbly down beneath a tree.

"Did he just-?"

"Yep. He used his knight voice on you," Wind snickered and elbowed Wars' side, elicting another string of coughs and a groan.

"Sick, Captain?" Sky was standing in front of him, blocking the light. It looked like Twilight was just behind him, the tattle tale.

"Hardly," he waved off the gravely crunch to his voice, "Probably just the tail end of whatever it was a week ago working it's way out at most."

"Uh-huh."

Wars went to retort again and found himself with a face full of Wind's hand on one cheek, Sky's on his forehead, and Time sneaking the back of his fingers to the other cheek. He felt his face flush at the attention, and with a bit of indignation.

"Hands off," he batted them all away, albeit gently and with no bite. The jig was up, it seemed.

"It is okay to ask for down time and to rest," Sky had crouched in front of him now, "you know that, right?"

"We won't be upset as long as you take care of yourself, Captain," Time frowned in a way that reminded Wars too much of the little gremlin boy he knew of Time from the war. Wind was in on the concerned frowning, more of a brotherly pout really, to really pile on the lesson that he is cared for here.

Twilight seemingly disappeared, either to avoid accusation or to busy himself with the site set up.

Oh, but, hmm, must be more out of it than I thought, Wars thought to himself. Wolfie had trotted over and began to nudge his way under War's arm to settle his warmth and weight across his stomach and chest.

Sky gave Wars' hair a ruffle and gave a quick headshake to Time and Wind when they moved to get up.

"Stay here and keep him resting. Hylia knows he won't let himself," Sky gave a soft smile. "It is okay to need a break and a rest, please take it."

---------

Woe your coughing be upon Warriors and also the blorbos r cuddling you too.

anon wait you can’t just drop this here and leave without revealing yourself ANON COME BACK THIS WAS VERY SWEET AND JUST WHAT I NEEDED AND NOW I’M CRYING YOU’RE SO SWEET AND LOVELY