#and now I sound like I’m dying when I cough

[c0rvidfagg0try]

Me standing over here projecting my disabilities onto fictional characters like a proud dad showing off there son who got 3rd place in baseball

[cirambay-stories]

Sitter

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (reader is in college, Joel in his early 50s), no outbreak, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving).

Word count: 6.8k

“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.

“So like, I’m�� sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”

You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.

“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.

“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.

“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”

“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”

You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.

“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?

Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.

You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.

It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.

You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.

You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.

Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.

You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.

“Easy, easy,”

If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.

It’s Joel Miller.

Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.

He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.

Well, just your father. Not Joel though.

You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.

He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.

“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”

“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV.  “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.

“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.

“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”

“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”

The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.

“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.

“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.

You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.

“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.

“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.

“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.

“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”

“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”

You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”

“And before that?”

“Just a scratchy throat.”

He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.

And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.

The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.

All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.

Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.

He chuckles. “Yes or no?”

That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”

Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.

“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.

You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.

Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.

You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.

“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”

“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”

Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.

“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”

“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”

Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.

At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.

When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.

“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?

Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”

“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.

“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”

He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.

After the very late dinner, you two retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.

“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”

“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”

“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.

The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.

You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.

“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?��

Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway.  “Let’s see the trending ones.”

You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.

“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.

The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.

Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.

“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.

They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.

You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.

Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”

“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.

“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.

“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”

“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.

“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.

Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.

In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish. 

The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.

You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.

It’s not working.

Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…

You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.

The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.

There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.

Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.

And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.

So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.

That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.

It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.

He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa. 

You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croaked.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”

You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.

“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.

Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”

Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”

Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”

“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“

“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.

Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?

“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.

“Hm?”

“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.

Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”

“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.

“Unrelated to you.” he hissed in defense.

You scoff.

“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”

“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”

Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.

He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.

But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.

A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.

Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”

That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.

You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.

The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.

Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.

You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”

For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.

“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.

“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”

He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”

You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.

The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again. 

“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.

“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”

The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.

“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”

You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.

“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”

Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”

When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.

“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”

You wince. “What are you doing?”

“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.

“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”

“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.

“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”

“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”

You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?

“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”

Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.

“Joooooel,”

“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”

“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.

“What are your pants made of, steel?”

“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.

“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”

Joel groans.

“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”

“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”

“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”

“I don’t, but, sure,”

“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”

Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.

On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.

You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.

They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.

Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired.  “I know you were going to do this,”

But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.

You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.

You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.

You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”

Joel nods.

You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.

“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.

The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.

Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.

Just like in the movie.

You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.

“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”

Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.

“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”

Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”

“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.

“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.

“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.

You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.

“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.

a/n: Thank you for making it this far!!! ☺ I apologize if there are grammatical errors, misrepresented American school holiday system, and missing important tags/warnings (please let me know!)

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ the "dying" wolverine ]❜

ft. logan howlett x gn! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ taking care of logan when he’s sick┊0.8k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i’m feeling like shit so i’m making him suffer with me

what part of regenerative healing don’t you understand? it’s impossible for him to get sick in any capacity as his immune system is stronger than the adamantium in his body, so feel free to read any of the other logan fics written by all the amazing writers on this platform!!

but let’s say that he somehow contracted a special bug that managed to get past all that and managed to make him fall ill, requiring you to take care of him while wade goes on a mission to figure out what’s wrong with him…

this headstrong two-hundred-year mutant who can take stab wounds without flinching and is an invincible tank in battles will be the whinest son of the bitch. he always lets his guard down around you, but he’s the most vulnerable and immature that he’ll ever allow himself to be around anyone since he can’t remember the last time (or if he has ever in his life) felt so shitty. shivering despite being feverish and covered up in blankets which just made him sweaty and uncomfortable, an itchy nose that wouldn’t sneeze when he needed it to, coughing his lungs out every two minutes— it’s so alien to him.

when you finally show up to look after him, he’ll have uncharacteristically big puppy eyes as you gently place your hand on his forehead to gauge how bad it is. “how are you feeling, lo?”

“i feel like i’m going to fucking die.” there are several discarded tissues and water bottles overfilling the nearby trashcan, but it was clear that he had no idea how he was supposed to make himself feel better and suffering.

“i can tell,” you chuckle at how dramatic he sounds and it makes him frown, but he’s just so thankful that you’re here to take care of him (he doesn’t exactly trust al to do it, that woman is a bit too mysterious and cryptic for him, and the medicine she offered smelled funny even to his dulled senses). “let me go make you some soup.”

he doesn’t want you to leave at first because your cold skin feels so good against him, but he’ll lightly doze off for a bit now that he’s more comfortable and feels safer. don’t expect him to stay asleep for long though, he’ll get up from his little while you’re in the middle of cooking chicken vegetable soup to wrap his arms around you and rest his head on top of yours until you finish.

“why are there barely any vegetables in the fridge? i could only find half a carrot and wilted celery.”

“i don’t think anyone here eats that stuff.”

“logan, you need to eat your greens— all you guys do, how are all three of you in such good shape then?!”

“eh.”

he can’t make anything more complicated than butter noodles, wade sets nearly everything on fire, he feels slightly guilty eating the food made by an elderly blind lady when he’s already freeloading at the moment, and constantly ordering take-out becomes expensive. you’ve given some food in tupperware for him to eat up, but it isn’t quite the same. as if being sick didn’t make him miserable enough, he’s so fucking pissed that he couldn’t properly taste your freshly-cooked food and will make it known.

you scoff that it’s just soup and pour it out in a bowl for him to eat, but you’ll quickly find yourself spoon-feeding him. yes, his hands still work with perfectly fine motor functions. no, you’re not passing up the opportunity to baby him while he rolls his eyes (he’ll grunt at most and doesn’t say a word of protest, claiming that he’s merely allowing it since he’s too tired to fight with you over it and very glad no one could see it happening).

“here comes the airplane~”

“i’m a grown-ass man, don’t be ridiculous.”

“a grown-ass man without an ounce of whimsy in his life, open your fucking mouth and eat.”

this is one of the lower points in his life where he doesn’t quite understand why this is happening to him yet, so you obviously have give him as much affection as possible! keeping a cold glass of water nearby and a wet rag to dab on his face, he rests his head upon your thighs and you swear that you can hear him purring like a kitten. there’s not better pillow than his lover, soft, warm, and full of love as you hum a song to lull him to sleep.

“let’s get married one day…” he not sure how that slipped past his lips, it might be the fever talking for him, or the fact that he’s completely relaxed without any tension in his muscles and feeling himself falling in love all over again when you smile so sweetly at him

“okay, but you need to sleep and get better first.” you place a gentle kiss on his forehead until his eyes slowly drift shut, “i love you, logan.”

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Too Much (Little Sister Version)

Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by @redbird-tf

Synopsis: you have nightmares of dying like Mary, and you start to get really clingy with Dean.

It started out in a subtle way. Your first nightmare had been vague, and though it had jarred you, it wasn’t enough to curb your day-to-day activities…much.

“I’m going for a supply run.” Dean’s words had you looking up from the homework you’d been working on. “We’re out of beer…and food.”

“I’ll come.” You were on your feet before the words even left your mouth.

“It’s just a quick run,” Dean argued. “Don’t you have homework?”

“It can wait,” you insisted, already on your way to the Impala. “Let’s go!”

Of course it would be Dean—it had always been Dean. Sure, he had his anger issues and his bad moments. He drank too much and he isolated himself when he was upset. But he always came back; when Sam was at Stanford, when dad disappeared, it was always you and Dean.

So when you started having nightmares about burning on the ceiling, Dean was who you turned to.

Scary things shouldn’t phase you anymore, not after all you’d seen. But this was different. Your whole life you’d heard “what happened to mom.” Never any specifics—it was always, “the demon killed mom,” or “what the demon did to Mary.” Nobody ever gave you any details; they always said you didn’t need to know.

So when you snuck into Dean’s room in the bunker and stole dad’s journal, you were in for a surprise.

The pages you’d read had been stuck together—it didn’t look like anyone had read them—and it took you a moment to peel them apart.

I went to visit a shrink today—I thought he might be a vampire. I went in undercover, booked myself an appointment. I figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t a monster, but I didn’t leave. It sounds stupid, but I actually talked to him. Told him about Mary. Well, as much as I could tell, which is more than I’ve told anyone. Point is, he told me to write down what happened to her. Every detail I could remember. I don’t like thinking about her…but maybe he was right. Little Sammy asked about Mary just the other day, and I yelled at him. I still feel bad…it’s not his fault, he’s just a kid. Maybe this is the only way I’ll be able to talk about her, but maybe that’ll be enough to keep me from going off on the kids. So here goes…

And John had laid out every gory detail of that night, and you’d read the whole thing. You’d always thought it would be better knowing; that it would somehow bring you some extra closure to know how your mother’s final moments went. You were wrong.

And so came the nightmares. The first one was fuzzy and indistinct; a fire, the sound of screaming. But it was enough to have you going with Dean whenever he left the bunker.

The second one was more vivid. It was also when you realized that it wasn’t your mother you were dreaming about—it was you.

It was so real—you felt the demon’s powers slashing open your stomach, you felt your body lifting off the floor…

But the worst part was the heat. It stung your eyes and sizzled against your blood and seared your skin. You tried to scream, but the smoke choked you and stopped your voice. You struggled to inhale, coughing on the smoke and crying at the pain that lit up every nerve ending.

The bright light of the fire left first, then slowly afterwards the pain. But you were still choking and gasping for breath when you sat up in your bed.

“Dean,” you whimpered, the lone word echoing through your empty room. You weren’t quite used to the bunker yet—you were so used to the motels, where your brothers were right next to you at all times. Most of the time it was annoying, but right now…

You threw your covers off you, finally getting a hold of your runaway breathing as you padded barefoot towards your door. You couldn’t stay in this room—it was this room that you’d dreamt of, this ceiling that you’d burned on.

You flung your door open and started down the hall, but you only got halfway to Dean’s room before you stopped. You couldn’t go to him like this, a tear-streaked mess in the middle of the night; he would know something was wrong, and then you’d have to talk about it.

You couldn’t talk about it.

A bang from the kitchen stole your attention and your breath, your mind wandering towards images of a yellow-eyed intruder. You tip-toed to the kitchen, peaking around the corner and breathing easily when you saw Dean rummaging in the fridge for a beer.

You slipped into the kitchen, heading straight for Dean.

“You’re up early,” he greeted, stiffening in surprise when you wrapped your arms around him. “Hey, something wrong?”

“No,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Good morning,” you added lamely as you pulled away, as if the greeting would explain away the hug.

“Yeah, mornin.” Dean shrugged, choosing to ignore your strange behavior. “Couldn’t sleep? It’s only 5.”

It was later than you’d thought.

“Not really,” you said. “Can we make breakfast?” You weren’t hungry, but you’d take any excuse to keep Dean close.

“Only if you get the bacon,” Dean said with a grin.

“I think we’re out,” you answered.

“Unacceptable,” Dean decided. “You start on the pancakes, I’ll make a run.”

“Wait! Um…” you wracked your brain for an excuse. “Um, the pancakes can wait, I’ll go with you.”

Dean squinted ever so slightly as he stared you down—that was twice in a week that you wanted to go with him to the store without a good reason.

“You sure you’re ok?” He asked.

“Yeah, just…I want some fresh air.”

“Alright.” You both knew he didn’t believe you, but neither of you brought it up again.

You felt pathetic as you trailed behind Dean, but the idea of sitting around the empty bunker alone until he got back or Sam woke up…

You just couldn’t do it. You couldn’t feel safe anymore, not even in your own home, without Dean around.

You sat just a little closer to Dean than you normally would once you got into the Impala, sitting towards the middle of the seat even though the right side was empty. You felt Dean watching you from the corner of his eye, but to your relief he didn’t say anything.

…

“Ok, so how many pounds do we want?” You held a brand of bacon in each hand, eyeing them both. When Dean didn’t respond to your question, you turned around to find the cart there, but no Dean. “Dean?” You glanced up and down the aisle, but he wasn’t in sight. You threw both bacon packages into the cart and ran down the aisle, going down the row and looking frantically down every aisle you passed. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

You rubbed a hand against your chest when your next breath wouldn’t go through your tightened wind pipe. You tried to take deep breaths, but each one was less satisfying than the last. Once you reached the last aisle with still no Dean, you turned around and started back the way you came, hoping that he was down an aisle on the other side of the store.

“Dean? Dean!” You were calling his name, but you could barely even hear your winded and squeaky voice in the vast emptiness of the store, so you knew there was no way Dean could.

You passed the aisle with your cart and kept going, looking down the first, then the second…

“Dean!” You rushed forward, flinging yourself into Dean’s surprised embrace.

“Hey, what happened?” Dean was stiff and alert, whipping his head around to see what had spooked you.

“I couldn’t find you,” you whimpered, tightening your arms around Dean’s midsection. “I-I didn’t know where you went. Don’t do that to me!”

“Ok, ok hey I’m sorry,” Dean soothed, pulling away and kneeling down, brushing your hair out of your face so he could see you. “C’mon, what’s going on with you? What’s got you so spooked?”

You didn’t answer—you just launched yourself forwards and wrapped your arms around Dean’s neck, burrowing your head against his shoulder.

“Don’t leave me,” you pleaded.

“Ok, ok.” Dean held you closely, rubbing your back. “Ok I’m right here kiddo. Let’s get out of here, ok? Let’s go home.”

…

You held Dean’s hand in vice grip on the way out to the car, but he didn’t comment on it. He waited until you were safely bundled into the Impala to speak again.

“Kid, you need to tell me what’s going on here.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean glanced at you, but he didn’t speak again.

…

You were feeling lucky for most of the day—Sam and Dean spent the morning going through books in the library, so you were able to do your homework right next to Dean without warranting worry or attention.

“Check this out.” Sam’s words to Dean had you looking up curiously while Sam turned his computer around. “Looks like a case in town.”

Your heart dropped to your toes—you were too young to hunt, so a hunt in town meant that you sat in the bunker while the boys were out.

They spent the next twenty minutes talking about the case before they got ready to head out. Dean was throwing guns in a bag in his room when you went to find him.

“We’ll be back tonight,” Dean promised. “But if we find the thing that’s killing these people, it might not be until late, so don’t wait up ok?”

“Can’t I come?” Your tug on Dean’s sleeve stopped his movements.

“You know you can’t,” he said. “What’s going on with you? And don’t say nothing, because I know something’s wrong.”

“I just don’t want you to go,” you said. “Please De? Please don’t leave me here alone.”

“You’re not gonna tell me what’s going on?” Dean asked.

You shook your head.

“Then I have no choice.” Dean sighed. “People are dying, and you can’t come. I have to go.” Dean zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “We’ll be back before tomorrow.”

“Dean—“ you reached out for your big brother, but in one stride he was out of your reach, then to the door, then he was gone.

…

You were trying to read the same page over and over, but the words were swimming around the page, blurred by the tears in your eyes and the shaking in your hands that had the pages fluttering. You looked up for the millionth time, a deep pit in your stomach convincing you each time that the yellow eyes demon would be standing in your doorway, waiting to kill you.

You dropped the book on your desk with a thud, finally giving up on homework—you wouldn’t get anything done until Dean was home, you just couldn’t focus.

You picked up your headphones and slipped them over your head, but you found that not being able to hear your surroundings made your anxiety even worse, and the soothing notes of your favorite song did nothing to help for once. You tried turning on the tv, but you found that you couldn’t look away from the door for more than a few seconds before you started to get scared again.

Finally you couldn’t take it anymore—you closed your room door, your bathroom, and even your closet; open doors just had your imagination running away with images of yellow eyes coming to kill you.

You burrowed yourself under the covers and tried to force yourself to sleep. Hour after hour you convinced yourself that you’d just never be able to sleep, but you didn’t have anything else to do but keep trying, so you didn’t move.

You were still laying there when the door opened.

“Hey sweetheart,” Dean greeted. You smiled at him, and he smiled back for a second before the smile faded. “Me and Sammy have another case—we’re gonna be gone a while, ok?”

“No, wait!” You tried to get up to stop Dean, but you couldn’t move. “Dean, don’t go! Dean don’t leave!”

He was already out the door, and in his place stood Azazel, pale yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Dean!” You screamed, but it was too late; your pajamas were already soaked in blood coming from a painful gash across your stomach. You whimpered, finally able to move as you wrapped your arms around the wound as if you could protect yourself. You couldn’t.

You were sobbing as your body lifted off the ground, your stomach lurching as you went from wall to ceiling. There was no warning spark, or small flame—you were just suddenly and completely engulfed in flames, your hair burning and your skin scorched. You were still screaming when Dean came running back into the room.

“Dean,” you whimpered. “Dean no!”

Yellow eyes had a knife in his hand, and he turned it on your big brother in an instant. As the fire burned around you, you watched as Dean got stabbed again and again and again…

You woke up screaming. The fire was gone, and so was the pain, but you couldn’t even tell. Your eyes couldn’t take in a single detail of the room—they were blurry and unfocused from sleep. Your brain couldn’t decipher what parts of your dream were real and what weren’t. You sobbed out short and shaky breaths, and your cries were just starting to fade into whimpers when you heard it; the loud thunk of the bunker door closing.

Your fears and your crying returned full force, and you were gasping for breath as you felt around for any kind of weapon.

He’s coming he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming…

It was like all you could see was Azazel as you heard footsteps echoing down the hallway. You wanted to do what Dean always did—push his fear down, throw away his emotions, and just fight—but you couldn’t. You couldn’t catch your breath, you couldn’t stop sobbing, and you couldn’t find your gun.

When your door handle started to turn, you thought you were going to pass out. Your already-unsatisfying breath caught in your throat, and with the lack of breath came black spots at the edges of your vision.

You forced a single deep breath in and out—you couldn’t be unconscious when the demon came to kill you, you couldn’t be that helpless. You had to fight, even though you would lose.

The door swung open, and you were still gasping for breath and grappling for any kind of weapon when—

When Dean walked in.

“Dean!” You were off the bed and in your brother’s arms before he had a chance to speak.

“Hey, hey what’s going on?” Dean’s arms tightened around you when he heard you sobbing and felt you shaking. “Baby what happened?”

“Don’t leave me,” you begged between sobs. “Don’t leave me De, don’t leave me.”

“Ok, ok I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promised. “N/N I’m right here.”

“What’s going on?” Sam walked into the room, staring at his siblings with concern.

“I…I think we’re ok here,” Dean decided, carrying you to your bed. “You should go bandage that cut, I’ve got her.” When Sam hesitated, Dean assured him, “I’ve got her Sam.”

Sam finally left, and Dean climbed up on your bed, settling you into his lap when you wouldn’t let your vice grip around his neck go.

“I need you to talk to me,” Dean pleaded. “I need to know what’s going on, what this is.”

“There was fire,” you whimpered, your tears soaking Dean’s shirt. “There was fire, and it burned everywhere, and I was bleeding and I was on the ceiling, and-and yellow eyes stabbed you, and—“

“Whoa, whoa, slow down.” Dean started to rock you back and forth subconsciously. “Hey, how do you know about all that stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” You were sobbing again. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I read his journal and he wrote down everything and I thought it would help but…but now I can’t stop dreaming about it. I’m so—I’m so scared, De. All the time.”

“Shh, shh you’re ok,” Dean soothed, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I’ve got you sweetheart, I’m right here. Listen,” Dean tried to pull away so he could look at you, but you just tightened your grip. “Ok. I used to have nightmares about mom, too. All the time. I still get them sometimes.”

“You do?” You sniffled. “What do you do about them?”

“Well now it’s easier, because we killed yellow eyes. He’s gone, N/N. Nobody’s ever gonna die like mom did again, especially not you. You know that, right?”

“The dreams feel so real,” you answered.

“I know, I know they do. But they’re not. And I’m gonna help you through this, but kiddo, I can’t be around all the time, you know that. I’ve got a job to do.”

“O—ok,” you sniffled. “I can do better.”

“But I’m still gonna be here when you need me. I promise.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you right now.”

Dean’s arms squeezed impossibly tighter around you.

“Then I’m here for you.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee @987coley @deadlymistletoe @wayward-impala83 @whump-loverz

[ma1dita]

A Luke and Trouble smut in the car

a/n: she's back.... and with a trouble!verse smut gasp. anyways if you haven't read the series all you need to know is luke calls her trouble. if you do wanna check it out, read 'partners in crime' here!

luke castellan x fem!dionysus!reader

wc: 1.1k

“We’re gonna be late,” you grumble under your breath. The sun is setting on Long Island faster than you and your boyfriend thought it would with the old hatchback slowly inching through Queens traffic. 

There’s only an hour left before curfew. 

And Luke Castellan drives like someone’s blind grandpa.

“Relax, babe—once we get onto the expressway, we’ll be straight sailing from there!” Luke says, with a hint of a smile prodding at his cheek. You were never a patient person, fidgeting in the passenger seat next to him, sweaty thighs stuck to worn leather. The air vents are tired, sounding like gasping coughs, and every car in New York City seems to be inching forward and unable to pick up the breeze.

“You said that forty minutes ago.”

“C’mon, it’s not all that bad, trouble. We get to have some extra time together. And be alone,” his voice is as smooth as the rumbling engine, taking his fingertips to the soft of your thigh. You’d find him sweet if you didn’t feel like ripping all your clothes off right now. “You know how rare that is for us.”

“M’just so hot, babe. I feel like I’m fucking dying,” you groan, exaggeratedly flopping over the console and onto his shoulder. He doesn’t mind being stuck to you like this, wet skin and shiny lips nuzzling against his neck and he licks a drop of sweat from his cupid’s bow. Your gentle kisses sear onto his skin and he has to inhale deeply, almost eyeing the horizon and daring for it to darken slower.  Foot tapping on the brake a little too harshly, the car is a toe away from rolling into the one in front of you.

“You’re not going to die. Would be lame if you did.”

“But baby, it’s like I’m about to explode,” you whine louder, “feels like we’re sitting on the surface of the sun!” Even at his wits’ end, your boyfriend can’t find the gall to get mad at you. Especially when your tank top flies into his lap, right over the growing bulge in his shorts that’s keeping him hot and bothered. Luke almost goes nonverbal at the goosebumps that rise—and you haven’t even touched him yet. You’re fumbling with something, knocking around in your seat as he shakes his head and tries to focus on the road.

“Don’t.”

The car behind you honks slightly and he swallows dryly, running his hand through the wet mop of curls as he rolls forward. Fuck New Jersey drivers, he thinks, this guy shouldn’t have gotten a license—what!

“You should’ve just let me drive,” your voice disrupts his inner monologue, and he doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re grinning, “Would’ve gotten there faster than you, speedster.”

You know exactly what you’re doing.

“We’re gonna be late.” Hand flexing over the gear shift, his eyes dart across the road, quickly mapping out a path to the next exit. Your panties fall over his fist, a flash of black lace and damp with something other than just sweat.

“Aren’t you a son of Hermes? Make it work.”

Horns honking like a symphony, he weaves through traffic almost dangerously fast and not being able to do anything else but bite his lip when he hears you laugh through the chaos of it all.

—

“Sh–Shit! We’re gonna…” 

Luke’s the one laughing now as he slaps a hand over your throat, pistoning deeper into your warmth, and fuck, everything about you feels like fire. It’s the type of burn that licks at you from the inside out—but Luke tends to it with vigor, feeling you with every inch of his being. Your hands slap onto his wrist to hold him there, eyes rolling back into your head with wispy breaths of bliss. 

It’s dark now, and you’ve both somewhat safely stopped the car in a wooded area—Luke ripping off the rest of your clothes and his own before taking you belly-up in the backseat and your calves sitting pretty against his shoulders. 

“Be late? You weren’t worried about that earlier,” he teases.

The illegal fireworks and other illicit goods you’re trying to smuggle back to camp jostle in a box on the ground, digging painfully into his shins but he’s too busy stamping his hands into the shape of your breasts, rubbing you down with the mixture of both of your sweat that rolls with the momentum of your bodies.

“Fuck, Luke!”

Looking down at you with heat in his gaze, his thumb prods at your swollen lips, tapping lightly for you to open up. You do without a single complaint. He loves you, yes—even when you’re mouthy, but you look extra pretty when he gets to fuck you dumb and there’s no one around to bother you two. Grunting, you can feel and hear your skin slap against his when he leans forward to delve deeper if it’s even possible. All of you is red-hot from his passion, cock thrusting harshly so much that you can feel it slam against your insides.

For a moment you think he must hate you—dancing on the line of hot and hurt. 

Your eyes lock and you both grin.

“Let me take care of it. Gonna let me take care of you, right pretty girl?” He spits, a straight shot into your waiting mouth and an inhuman noise crawls up from your caged throat.

Leaning up to kiss him and grappling at his shoulders, he smiles into your pout, smeared lipgloss and runny mascara transferring onto his tanned skin. He loves it, knowing that you’re all over him and feeling branded by you even in the dark of the night.

A light flashes in your peripherals and you pull off him with a gasp.

“Is that a car?”

“We’re fine,” he grits, locking your legs around his waist and trying to focus—you’re so soft and soaking all over. His hands slip to your ass, clapping your cheek as he jerks his cock into you harder, making you whine. “They’re not… going this direction. Stop getting distracted.”

The heat builds from your core, pussy pulsing, and tears almost sizzling off your cheeks, so shiny and tempting that he licks a trail up to your ear. 

“I don’t want you to stop. Don’t… you dare, Luke. Fuck!”

Light filters through the darkness behind your eyelids as you grind yourself on his lap rapidly, chasing your high until the end. In a few hours from now, it’s back to business—but Luke has always been one to remind you of your mischievous side.

“Shit, trouble,” he sighs in bliss.

A blip of a siren goes off from outside, followed by quickly approaching footsteps towards your foggy windows.

“Shit,” you repeat back to him with wide eyes, untangling your legs and quickly trying to find your magic Zippo lighter through the mess of clothes at your feet.

—

Lessons were learned, and Connor and Travis were elected to go on supply runs from then on.

[pathologicalreid]

Spencer x fem!reader fic based on “Work Song” by Hozier?? Whatever storyline or category you want!!

work song | S.R.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: general cm violence, near death experience, blood, gunshot wound, hospitals. word count: 1.77k a/n: hozier song request makes my brain go brr. i hope the people of tumblr enjoy this bc i most definitely enjoyed writing it.

boys, when my baby found me

Your hair whipped your face as you spun around through the labyrinth of a warehouse that your team had found themselves in. It seemed like an impossible task, trying to navigate this space, but you had already cleared over half of the space.

A small noise, like a shoe squeaking, caught your attention, causing your ears to rise like an animal hunting for prey. Turning a corner, you had your flashlight and firearm raised, coming face to face with Morgan. The both of you relaxed ever so slightly, no longer ready to pounce.

Ricocheting throughout the warehouse, you heard a deafening gunshot. The sound bounced off of the metal walls of the building, making it almost impossible for you to determine where the sound originated from. Meeting Morgan’s eyes, he nodded his head to the left, signaling for you to go that way while he went right.

You affirmed his tactics, turning slowly and making your way to the left. The rusted building was now so eerily quiet that goosebumps were sprouting across your body, even under your bureau jacket.

Continuing your way down the narrow passageway, you saw movement inside of a room. Sliding your back along the wall, you peeked into the room, seeing two bodies on the ground. You whispered almost imperceptibly into your radio, calling for medical. One of them was the local officer that the BAU had been working the case with.

The other one was Spencer.

You pivoted so that you were entirely in the doorway, facing the UnSub, he raised his gun at you, but you were already pulling the trigger, hitting him square in the forehead. Breathing heavily, you lowered your firearm before scrambling over to Spencer.

I didn’t care much how long I lived, but I swear I thought I dreamed her

In your ear, you could hear Morgan shouting, “Y/N, Reid, sound off, dammit!”

Something needed to happen. You needed to do something, but you had such severe tunnel vision that the only thing you could think about was Spencer.

He was gasping for air on the metal ground of the warehouse, lying in a pool of his own blood. You observed in horror as the red puddle spread with each passing moment.

Launching into action, you tugged your jacket off, stuffing the fabric onto Spencer’s side in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Even Kevlar vests had an Achilles heel, and the UnSub had managed to strike him precisely where there was a gap in the material. All the while, you were muttering the words, “Stay awake.” Just those two words, over and over again, like a prayer.

You hummed, using one hand to apply pressure to his wound and lifting the other so that you could smooth his hair back. His skin was alarmingly clammy, and you knew that, even with your attempts, he was losing too much blood. “Y/N,” he muttered, sounding like he was using all of his strength to say your name.

Gently, you hushed him, “It’s okay, Spence. Don’t talk, you’re gonna be just fine,” you insisted as his blood soaked through the knees of your jeans. You weren’t sure who you were trying to console at that moment.

“It makes sense-“ he said, being cut off by a cough, sending blood spurting out of his mouth. If his lung was collapsing, there was nothing you’d be able to do. You tried to shush him again, but he had more to say – he almost always did. “That I’d see you while I’m dying.”

Choking on tears, you leaned your face onto your shoulder so that you could wipe them away without moving your hands. “I’m here, I’m really here,” you urged, he wasn’t hallucinating, and he wasn’t dying. Not on your watch. “It’s me, Spence. I’m right here,” you told him carefully.

He opened his mouth again to speak, and you wanted to tell him to save his strength. You also didn’t want to deprive him of his words. “You…” his voice trailed off as he searched for the words, “You’ve always been my favorite dream.”

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I’m not a dream, I’m right here.” You told him, watching carefully as his eyelids grew seemingly heavier, “baby, open your eyes.”

in the low lamplight I was free

His skin was pallid. Even in the dim, orange light of the warehouse, you could see a sickly sheen forming on his skin. His body temperature was dropping, and it was all you could do to not cover his body with yours as you tried to keep him warm. “Spencer, please,” you rasped, urging him to open his eyes.

Your only solace was that his chest was still rising and falling. His breathing was rickety, but he was still breathing, and that had to count for something. “Spencer,” you cried, watching as blood sept through your jacket, flooding between your fingers as you tried to keep him in one piece.

“Love, open your eyes,” you begged, your eyes flooding with tears until everything was just a blur of red.

His heart was beating, you could feel it beneath your hands. A weak, unsteady beat under your trembling hands. “Baby, please, oh my god,” you pleaded, verging toward incoherent babbling.

You were second-guessing if he was still breathing. If his heart was still beating. With that realization, you screamed.

when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

At first, you were just screaming, letting the vibrations of your vocal cords portray your emotions, and then you screamed for your team. You had never felt more alone, kneeling in a puddle of Spencer’s blood, and no one was coming to help you.

This couldn’t be how it ended. You refused to acknowledge it, even as you felt the life leave his body.

Leaning your head to the side, you spoke into your radio, “I need medical. I’m in the upper west wing of the building. The suspect is dead, I have an officer and an agent down.” Tears continued to stream down your face.

You heard footsteps behind you as people piled into the room, but you didn’t dare take your eyes off Spencer. Not when there was a chance that it would be the last time you looked at him while you were both still breathing. “Agent,” someone said, but it didn’t register. They kept repeating themselves until two strong arms wrapped around you, dragging you away from Spencer.

Now sat on the floor, you clocked the paramedics that were now frantically working on Spencer, packing his wound, and cutting off the Kevlar vest.

Breathing heavily, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Rossi approached the local officer, checking his pulse. Emily was hovered over the UnSub, collecting his weapon from his corpse.

You were still being firmly held back, trying to pry the tattooed arms of Derek Morgan off of your torso. “Stop, let me get to him. I need to get to him,” you struggled against his grip, but any attempts at freedom were futile. The medics were saying awful things about a weak and thready pulse and pneumothorax.

Clinging to any semblance of hope that you could find, you listened to them talk about Spencer’s pulse, knowing that a pulse meant he was alive.

Your breathing quickened as you looked up at Morgan, Hotch was hovering behind the two of you, “I should’ve called for medical sooner.” Your voice was miserable, you had sat there with your jacket to his side for far too long. He could’ve gotten help from professionals.

“You radioed almost five minutes ago for medical,” Morgan informed you. “The EMTs just couldn’t find you in this damn maze.”

While you had no recollection of calling for help when you first found Spencer, you also knew that Morgan would get no pleasure out of lying to you.

You heard one of the paramedics say there was no pulse, and you didn’t remember anything that followed.

no grave can hold my body down

Crumpled in a ball, you picked at the crusted blood in your fingernails as you focused on the steady beeping of Spencer’s heart monitor.

According to Emily, who had been there when you woke up in the hospital, you had passed out around the time that the medics lost Spencer’s pulse. The doctor said it was just a result of stress. Thanks to some IV fluids and hydroxyzine, you were able to be discharged.

Spencer had been out of surgery for several hours now. The doctors had been careful to use the term “if he wakes up”, while you had made sure to say “when he wakes up.” You were playing the most horrendous waiting game, and there’s nothing worse than playing a game you have no interest in.

You were now donning a pair of black sweatpants and an old Academy t-shirt. Being the only team member permitted to see Spencer while he was still sleeping – girlfriend privileges, as Morgan phrased it – you waited with only the noises of his monitor to keep you company in the ICU.

Nurses came in and out, trying to manage his pain without the use of narcotics, making sure his blood transfusions were helping, and every once in a while, they’d check on you.

At this point, you had been nursing the same cup of ice water for hours, remembering the last thing Spencer had said to you: You’ve always been my favorite dream.

There was something so peculiar about being with someone who read so much, especially when he said such eloquent things while bleeding to death. You sighed, slumping back in the chair, you looked back at Spencer, only to be surprised that he was looking right back at you.

You jumped slightly in the chair, leaning over so that you could look at him, “Hey,” you whispered, maintaining the reverent tones of the Intensive Care Unit. “How do you feel?”

He’d lie to you and tell you he was fine, but you could tell by the way his heart rate increased that it was a lie. His eyebrows furrowed as he clocked the white patient ID bracelet on your wrist and your bloodshot eyes, “You’ve been crying,” he observed.

Despite yourself, you smiled softly, “I thought you were dead.” Your voices were each raspy, yours from screaming and his from being intubated.

Slowly, he unfolded his arm so that his hand was extended to you. Without a second thought, you placed your hand in his. He hummed softly, “And leave you? Never.”

I’ll crawl home to her

[mistiell]

The one request that’s bouncing around my head is Astarion dealing with a sick mc like fever chills and no sense of balance because of vitiligo

Hope you enjoy <3 WC: 1.3k

---

You feel like shit. Total and utter shit.

What started as a sore throat has evolved into a fever and chills, along with an absolutely skull splitting migraine. The sheets twist uncomfortably as you turn onto your back, clinging to your sweat slicked skin. You can’t bring yourself to kick them off. Not when the ache in your bones makes it feel like they’re breaking.

The sun has been up for nearly an hour, now. If you don’t come out soon, one of your companions will come get you. A strangled whimper forces it’s way out of your throat as you force yourself up, curling in on yourself and dropping your face into your hands.

After trying to decide between attempting to take a breath through your sufficiently stuffed nose or through your mouth, you choose the latter. Which you realize is a terrible mistake when it suddenly feels like a thousand tiny knives are skinning the inside of your throat. It makes you cough, which makes it a million times worse, which makes you cough even more.

It’s a good minute until you can finally breathe again; throat raw, beads of tears drying on your lashes. You’re sure you’re a sorry sight. It makes you glad no one is here to see you in all your disease ridden glory.

“Sweet Hells, are you hacking up a lung in here–?” Not even all the way inside your tent yet, Astarion stops immediately after he lays eyes on you. The disgust is immediately replaced by a hesitant sort of concern, brows just barely creasing, “Oh dear.”

“Do I look that bad?” He grimaces at the way your voice grates, gaze flitting over various parts of you before he meets your eyes again.

“You look dreadful.” You think it’s meant to be playful, but he looks and sounds just a little too concerned for it to land that way.

You snort anyway, rubbing at your sweaty forehead, “Thanks.”

He hovers there, uncharacteristically quiet as he glances outside before sighing and coming the rest of the way inside. He’s still in his regular clothes, which makes you think the others haven’t started getting their armour on yet. Thank gods.

He sits down in front of you on your bedroll, knees barely a hair’s width from yours as he cradles the nape of your neck in a gentle hand and presses the inside of his wrist to your forehead. Eyes fluttering shut, a small sigh of relief escapes you when his blessedly cool skin meets yours. You barely think about it as you place a sluggish hand over it to keep him there.

“You’re nice and cool.” You sound listless.

“And you’re about as hot as the hells.” He sighs. You can hear the frown in his voice, “This has gotten out of hand.”

Peeling your eyes open, you blink at him in confusion, “What?”

He lets his wrist fall but keeps a kind hold on your neck, looking deadly serious.

“I know how much you love flattery, but you should know you really don’t have to go to such lengths to get me to wax poetic about your eternal beauty.” It seems like he can’t help the smile that cracks that through the act he’s putting on, “I truly appreciate the effort, but a simple, ‘Astarion, my dearest love, tell me I’m pretty.’ would do just fine.”

A giggle bubbles up from your throat, and you list forward to hide your face in his shoulder as you rasp weakly, “I do not sound like that.”

He hums, giving your nape a gentle squeeze before stroking a little line behind your ear with his thumb. You can feel his teasing smile against the side of your head, “Thankfully not. Should you ever call me your dearest love, I fear I may just drop dead a second time.”

Your laughter dies down, and you’re left with an astronomical wave of fatigue. He wraps his free arm around you when you slump further into him.

“Darling?” He jostles you a little bit. Again, he attempts a joke. Again, he’s too worried for it to come out right, “Don’t go dying on me now. With all we’ve been through, it would be such a waste.”

You huff a small, breathy puff of laughter, turning your face so the bridge of your nose rests against the side of his neck, “I won’t.”

He eases his hand up and down the length of your spine. You barely register it when he turns his head just enough to nose at your temple briefly.

“You should lay back down.” His voice is softer now. The feeling of his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear makes you shiver. Although, that could also be the fever.

You sigh, pulling yourself away from his shoulder. The movement sends the world tilting over and over in one direction. Breath hitching, you feel yourself sway as your eyes squeeze shut.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds a little alarmed as you drop your head into your hands.

“Vertigo.” You breathe. Everything keeps spinning behind your eyelids.

You can hear him shift before his hands find one of your forearms and your shoulder blades, guiding you to lay back.

“I have to–.”

He cuts you off, suddenly stern, “The only thing you have to do right now is rest.”

“But the others–.” You try again. It’s in vain.

Scoffing, he turns his nose up. “The others can shove it, as far as I’m concerned.”

You huff, ready to argue until you open your eyes and notice the anxious quirk of his brows. Instead, you sigh, sluggishly placing you hand over his, “Fine.”

You just barely manage to hear the small breath of relief that escapes him as he turns his hand to give yours a squeeze. He leans forward to press his lips to your forehead before pulling away, “I’ll be right back.”

You only nod.

He comes back five minutes later with a small bowl of water, a cloth, and two slices of bread balanced carefully in his arms.

“You don’t have to eat it yet.” Is all he says as he sets the plate down a little ways away. After wetting the cloth, he rings it out into the bowl and folds it in half before laying it over your forehead. You sigh as it cools your skin. It only lasts a few moments before your skin has warmed it again.

He tries again, then again, before huffing; frustrated.

“I’m sorry.” You croak, and he tuts, shaking his head.

“Don’t apologize, darling. It’s not you.” He sighs, looking properly perturbed now.

“Maybe Shadowheart–.”

“I asked. There’s nothing she can do.” It comes out bitterly, but you know it’s only because he’s worried.

You suddenly have an idea, but first you have to ask, “Can you get sick?”

Looking confused, he shakes his head, “No, I can’t. But, what-?” Pulling back the covers, you open your arms. It clicks, and he chuckles as he climbs in beside you, “Plan to use me as an ice pack, do you?”

“That’s the plan.” It comes out more deadpan than you mean it to. It makes him laugh a little harder, and you can feel the vibrations as your head settles over his chest. Having him next to you is like a balm in more ways than one.

Eyes heavy, you sigh as his hand trails idly along the length of your bicep. You guess he can hear your breathing and heart rate slowing when he whispers, “Sleep, my love.”

And who are you to deny him when he asks so nicely?

[p0orbaby]

sick lessi fic 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ clingy gf

taking care of that cutie

-

Alessia is splayed across your sofa like an artist’s rendering of human misery. Her hoodie—an oversized navy monstrosity with a faint Arsenal logo she swore she didn’t steal from Leah—clings to her like damp moss. The grey sweatpants are worse. They’re not hers, nor are they yours. They came from the pile of clothes you were supposed to donate three years ago but never did because you thought you might need them someday. This is the day. You resent the foresight.

She’s been coughing sporadically for the past fifteen minutes, which is to say, coughing exactly every 47 seconds. You know because you’ve been counting. Alessia calls it “a tickly throat.” You call it self-inflicted.

“Stop licking your lips. You’ll make them worse,” you say, watching her smear yet another layer of cherry ChapStick over the crime scene that is her mouth.

“I have to,” she whines, drawing out the words like a five-year-old begging for a toy. Her voice is raw, a strange mix of gravel and helium.

“You don’t. You really, really don’t”

She ignores you, opting instead to roll onto her stomach in a manner that could only be described as unnecessarily dramatic. Her head flops onto the throw pillow you bought at a John Lewis clearance sale. The tag is still attached.

“I think I’m dying,” she declares, muffled by the pillow.

“You’re not dying, Less. You’ve got a runny nose and a bad attitude” you deadpan, sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of her, a bowl of soup balanced precariously on your knee. It’s the tin stuff—Heinz, chicken, condensed. She hates it. It’s why you made it.

“It’s the flu,” she says. “I Googled it”

“You can’t even spell ‘flu’ properly when you text”

“That’s because I was using my thumbs.”

“You always use your thumbs.”

“Rude.” She huffs, tugging the blanket tighter around her. It’s your favourite one, the soft grey one you bought when you first moved in together. Now it smells faintly of menthol rub and despair.

“You know, my mum used to make me this lemon and ginger tea with honey when I was sick,” she says suddenly, wistful, like she’s narrating a nature documentary.

“I’m not your mum”

“She also used to rub Vicks on my chest,” she continues, undeterred.

“Still not your mum”

There’s a pause, her blue eyes narrowing at you. “You’re actually a terrible girlfriend”

“Debatable”

She sneezes. A full-body event. You flinch, watching in real-time as her face contorts, her nose scrunching, her eyes shutting like a malfunctioning robot. The sound is seismic. You wonder if the neighbours heard it.

“Bless me,” she says automatically.

“No”

She sniffles pathetically, then gestures weakly towards the coffee table. “Can you hand me a tissue?”

You glance at the tissue box—one metre away from her outstretched hand. “No. Work for it”

Her lips twitch, the faintest flicker of a smile, but it vanishes as she rolls onto her side. “Why are you like this?”

You shrug, finishing the last spoonful of her soup. It’s cold now, congealed in a way that makes you feel vaguely ill. You wonder if this is what marriage will look like—fighting over tissues, stealing each other’s soup, and coexisting in a quiet ballet of passive-aggressive care.

As you scrape the bowl clean, Alessia shifts again, her head now hanging off the side of the sofa like some deranged bat.

“You’re so lucky I love you”

I know,” you reply, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. She’s warm—not feverish, just Alessia warm.

For a moment, there’s quiet. She shifts again, her head now resting on the arm of the sofa, her eyes fluttering shut. You stand to pull the blanket up higher around her shoulders and tuck it in gently.

And just before you leave the room, she murmurs, soft and sleepy, “Love you”

You smile to yourself, the words lingering in the air like a balm. “Love you too, Less”

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ In Sickness and in Health

Optimus Prime x Reader

Optimus was frightened. It wasn’t often he felt this way, lest it was on the battlefield where Megatron was concerned, but now he felt as such in the base, a place where he and his team were supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be safe for the humans, too… Yet here you lay; sick.

It started with a cough or two. It’d earned you a few glances from him, but you’d brushed them off, saying something just caught in your throat. Human throats were sensitive like that. Nothing to worry about, or so you’d said.

It’d been worse the next day. You’d sounded strange, your voice different and the coughing had become more persistent. You’d stayed close to a trashcan with a box of tissues nearby, blowing your nose after every sneeze.

He’d become concerned, but you’d once again brushed it all off. You were just feeling a little unwell, nothing to worry about. You’d be fine.

Come nighttime of that same day, you’d grown hot with fever. Ratchet had taken a quick scan of you and had grown alarmed by your high temperature. Something was wreaking havoc upon your body and your breaths had become laboured and shallow.

Weak.

Now, you were so weak. Pneumonia, June had told them. It used to kill humans back in the day before they found medicine for it, but luckily, you’d gotten the treatment started before it’d grown too bad, but you didn’t appear to do any better.

June told him you’d be fine; eventually. Right now, you were doing poorly, but you’d be okay, and he wished to believe it, but your words still echoed through his mind. ‘I’ll be fine’, you’d said, and now look at you.

You were not fine.

He should have acted when you first coughed, should have raised concerns when your voice sounded strange, should have asked Ratchet to scan you sooner so you wouldn’t be where you are now; bedridden, pale and weak.

You could barely keep your eyes open, and Optimus was frightened of the fact that he may never see them again. That he may never feel their warmth as you look up at him, your admiration and wonder so shamelessly on display for him to see. You’d never been shy about the way you look at him. Perhaps you didn’t know how much he understood about your gaze, perhaps you weren’t even aware of the way your eyes would shine when he entered the room; when you’d stand up and greet him so cheerily.

He wondered whether you’d understood his own gaze, the way it so clearly softened at the sight of you and how warm you made him feel. And now, he wondered whether he’d have a chance to tell you how he felt, how he wanted to say so much but couldn’t force himself to do it, because you were a human, a fragile, wonderful being that he didn’t see himself as deserving of.

You deserved softness and peace, and he was not that.

“Hey…”

Optimus blinked, coming out of his thoughts that spiralled so wildly into doom. Your voice, so weak and painful sounding, called out to him. He stepped closer to the platform, treading carefully to avoid sending tremors through the floor to not disturb you. Silly, you’d say, he was sure of it.

You smiled up at him, lips so rosy in comparison to your otherwise pale complexion. Your eyes half-lidded, tired and hazy, but focused on him. You looked like what the children had explained a ghost was, and though he was frightened, he still found you beautiful, even at the brink of death.

Weakly, you chuckled.

“I’m not dying, Optimus,” you said, taking a breath, your eyes and brows furrowing slightly. It must have hurt. “I can see it in your eyes… optics,” you corrected, smiling.

“That may be true, yet I cannot help but worry,” said he, looking over you. “Much has changed in so little time. If we’d been too late, then you may have been lost to us.”

To me, he thought.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you said, though your smile filled with pity when his expression changed ever so little. Despair. Poor timing to joke. “I’m sorry,” you said, closing your eyes for a moment. The bright light of the base hurt your eyes. “Poor choice of words, but I mean it,” you looked at him again, blinking the discomfort away, “I’m not going anywhere, Optimus. I promised I would be careful, be it by avoiding Decepticons or fighting against earthly sicknesses,” you said, and weakly you raised a hand, waving your fingers to him.

Slowly, as if afraid he’d hurt you by moving too quickly, he reached out a servo, allowing you to lay your hand against his index digit. Your skin was clammy and warm, but alive. It brought him some comfort, and when you nudged him closer to your face so you could nuzzle your cheek against him, he felt himself relax ever so little.

Again, you smiled at him, and this time he believed it when you said you’d be okay. He trusted that you’d come out of this with returning health and that you’ll once again return to your cheerful spirit, and when that happens, he’ll allow himself to cherish it all the more, knowing how easily he could lose it.

[darksturnz]

SKETCHES & SPACE

CONTENTS:・BLURB plot with tension ・artist!chris ・star!reader・marijuana usage・slight fluff WC: 3.8k

You didn't plan on ending your night sitting cross-legged on Chris's bed, the hum of the air conditioner mixing with the low music playing from his speaker. The trailer was unusually still-Lila was at a friend's house, and Chris's mom was at the hospital for overnight tests. For once, the place didn't carry its usual noise or chaos, and you weren't sure if that made it better or worse.

Chris hadn't invited you over, but he hadn't complained when you barged in earlier, tossing your bag onto the couch and wandering straight to his room like you lived there. Now, the two of you sat in companionable silence, passing a joint back and forth, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.

The quiet was almost comfortable, but the haze in your head made everything feel slightly heavier. You were mid-exhale when Chris, sitting at the edge of the bed, broke the silence.

“Take your shorts off,” he said flatly, as though he were asking you to hand him the remote.

You choked on the smoke, coughing violently as your brain scrambled to process what he’d just said. “Excuse me?” you croaked, your voice higher than you’d like.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, completely unfazed. “Your shorts? Take them off.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you stared at him, trying to decide if you were having some kind of THC-induced hallucination. “…why?” you managed, feeling your face heat.

Chris let out an annoyed sigh, turning fully to face you now. “ star just do it.”

“You can’t just command me to do things idiot,” you muttered, but still you hesitantly stood up, your hands fumbling with the waistband of your shorts. Your mind raced with every possible explanation for what was happening, none of them making you feel any less like you were about to pass out.

Once you’d awkwardly stepped out of your shorts, Chris grabbed a Sharpie from the cluttered table beside his bed and motioned for you to sit back down. You did, stiffly, crossing your arms over your knees.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice sharp with suspicion.

“Hold still,” he muttered, leaning down and gripping your thigh to steady it. The Sharpie’s tip touched your skin, and you froze, realization dawning.

“You’re drawing on me?”

“Yeah,” he said bluntly, not looking up. “What did you think I was doing?”

You didn’t answer, too busy dying inside. Your heart was still racing, but now it was out of sheer embarrassment.

Chris smirked faintly, clearly catching on but mercifully not saying anything about it. He focused on the lines he was sketching, his hand steady as the dragon took shape across your thigh. The black ink stood out starkly against your skin, the design intricate and fluid.

You glanced down, watching as his hand moved, his fingers brushing against your leg every now and then. “You didn’t even ask,” you said, trying to sound annoyed but failing.

“You didn’t exactly stop me,” he shot back, his tone dry.

You huffed but stayed still, your nerves slowly replaced by a strange, quiet tension. The Sharpie glided over your skin, his grip firm but not rough. The way he was focused—so deliberate, so precise—made the air between you feel heavier somehow.

Minutes passed in silence, the music continuing to play softly in the background. Chris leaned back to inspect his work, his fingers lingering on your thigh for just a second longer than necessary.

“Not bad?” he questioned, finally meeting your eyes.

You glanced down at the dragon etched across your skin, the lines intricate and wild. “Well You missed a spot,” you said, pointing at the tail.

Chris rolled his eyes, leaning forward again. “If you’re seriously gonna criticize, do it after I’m finished.” His voice was sharp, but the corners of his mouth twitched, and you swore you saw the faintest hint of a smile.

As Chris continued to add the smoke curling from the dragon's mouth, the Sharpie gliding across the back of your thigh, you shifted slightly, trying to stretch your leg. The movement caused his hand to slip, the line wavering.

"Stop moving," he muttered, his tone annoyed but calm.

"I'm not moving," you shot back, though you absolutely were. Sitting still this long was starting to make your muscles ache, and the growing awareness of his hand so close to you wasn't helping.

"You are," Chris said sharply, lifting the pen to fix the line. "If you don't stay still, this is gonna look like shit."

You huffed, trying to lock your leg into place, but after another minute, you shifted again, this time without meaning to.

Chris cursed under his breath, setting the Sharpie down on the bed. "Alright, always s’fuckin difficult," he said bluntly, his hands gripping your hips before you could react.

"Wait-what are you-"

Before you could finish your protest, he pulled you into his lap, settling you sideways across his legs. The suddenness of the movement left you stunned, your heart thudding in your chest.

"Stay still," he said firmly, adjusting you so your thigh was in the perfect position for him to finish the design. His voice was steady, almost cold, but there was an edge to it that sent heat rushing to your face.

You opened your mouth to argue, but his hand was already back on your leg, holding it steady as the Sharpie resumed its path. His grip was firm, his fingers digging just enough into your skin to keep you from moving again.

"Comfortable?" you asked dryly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

"Very," he muttered, not looking up.

The air felt heavier now, and you were acutely aware of how close you were-your knee brushing his side, his arm nearly circling your waist as he leaned in to add the final details.You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the wall as the minutes dragged on.

Every now and then, his thumb would brush against your skin as he adjusted his hold, each touch sending a jolt of something through you that you refused to acknowledge. The Sharpie scratched softly against your thigh, the design coming to life under his hand.

"Is this better?" you asked, your voice quieter than you'd intended.

Chris didn't answer immediately. He sat back slightly, inspecting his work, his hand still resting on your leg. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice low. "Much better."

You tried to ignore the heat spreading across your face as he leaned closer again, adding the last curl of smoke to the design. The silence between you was thick, the music in the background barely registering over the sound of your heartbeat.

"Seriously, don’t move on this part," he said again, his voice softer now but still carrying that edge.

As if you could.

The air crackled with tension the longer you found yourself sitting on Chris's lap, your heart hammering in your chest as he continued to draw on your thigh. It was an inexplicably intimate moment, one that had you biting your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Are you almost done?" you managed to mutter, your throat dry.

Chris didn't look up, his focus still on the design he was creating. "Almost."

His hand slid further up your thigh, his callused fingers brushing against your skin, and you shivered involuntarily. You felt exposed, sitting on his lap like this, the silence between you filled with a strange, electric energy.

Without warning, Chris's hand shifted, the pad of his thumb pressing against a particularly sensitive spot on your inner thigh. You let out a small gasp, your body tensing as the sensation shot through you. Chris paused for a split second, his thumb still pressed against your skin.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice low. Though he didn't move his hand back, and something told you that he wasn't sorry at all. You could feel his breath against your skin, his proximity making your head spin.

The tension between you was unbearable now, the silence heavy with something unspoken. Your body was on fire, your mind racing with possibilities that you were too afraid to acknowledge. And through it all, Chris continued to draw, the sharpie rubbing against your skin, his hand holding you in place with an almost possessiveness.

Chris's hand hadn't moved from your thigh, and you were suddenly very conscious of the fact that you were still sitting on his lap. The heat of his body radiated through you, adding to the already heady mix of emotions swirling within you, and you were acutely aware of every point where he was touching you—his hand on your leg, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

The moment stretched on, the charged air around you refusing to dissipate. You couldn't bring yourself to move, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure Chris could hear it. Your mind was a whirl of confusion and desire, your body screaming for you to do something, anything, to break the tension. Chris set the Sharpie down on the bed and leaned back, his hand still resting on your thigh as he inspected his work. “There,” he said finally, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “All done.”

You glanced down at the dragon now coiled across your skin, its tail curling around your thigh in intricate, fluid lines. The detail was incredible—too good for something drawn with a Sharpie on a whim.

“Yeah, not bad,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the faint heat rising to your face.

Chris didn’t respond right away, his eyes lingering on the design before his gaze flicked up, and he seemed to realize the position the two of you were in. His body stiffened slightly, his jaw tightening as the weight of the moment hung between you.

Without a word, he shifted his grip on your leg, carefully moving it aside as he nudged you off his lap. The abruptness of it made you feel unsteady for a second, but you didn’t say anything, your own thoughts spiraling too fast to form words.

Chris stood quickly, running a hand through his hair as he avoided looking at you. “be right back,” he muttered, his voice lower than usual.

Before you could respond, he crossed the room and grabbed his sketchpad from the cluttered desk near the window. His movements were quick, almost hurried, like he needed something—anything—to focus on other than what had just happened.

You stayed where you were, still sitting on the bed with your legs crossed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the dragon. The air in the room felt heavier now, the faint hum of the air conditioner and music filling the silence like static.

Chris flipped open the sketchpad and sat down at the desk, his back to you. He picked up a pencil and started sketching, his hand moving rapidly across the page as though it would help drown out whatever had just passed between you.

You didn’t bring it up. Maybe it was the haze in your head, or maybe it was the fact that your own heart was still racing in a way you didn’t quite understand. Either way, you stayed quiet, glancing at the dragon one more time before leaning back against the pillows, letting the music and hum of the trailer fill the space between you. You leaned back on Chris’s bed, still tracing the edges of the dragon on your thigh, the quiet of the trailer settling over you again. Your fingers brushed absently over the lines as your thoughts wandered, and before you knew it, you were speaking without really thinking.

“You ever wonder what it’s like to be out there?” you asked, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Chris glanced up briefly from his sketchpad, his pencil pausing mid-line. “Out where?”

“Space,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling as though it were a window to the stars. “Like, just floating out there with no noise, no gravity, no bullshit. Just… nothing.”

He went back to his sketch, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the gap before he responded. “Sounds peaceful.”

“It’s not, though,” you continued, your fingers still idly brushing over the dragon. “It’s terrifying. Like, you’re literally one wrong move away from being sucked into a vacuum where no one can hear you scream.”

Chris’s lips quirked, a soft huff of amusement escaping him. “Very optimistic of you.”

You tilted your head to look at him, watching the way his brow furrowed slightly as he worked on whatever he was sketching. “But it’s kind of beautiful too, you know? Like, everything out there is just… endless. Infinite. No rules, no boundaries, no limits. It’s pure chaos, but it works somehow.”

Chris didn’t look up this time, but his voice was soft. “Sounds like you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Chaos that works,” he said simply, not elaborating as his pencil scratched another line.

Your face warmed slightly, and you turned your gaze back to the ceiling, pretending to ignore the way your chest tightened at his words. “Well, I’m not infinite,” you muttered.

“Thank God,” Chris murmured, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You huffed a giggle, shaking your head. “Asshole.”

His response was a noncommittal grunt, but the way he angled his head slightly toward you let you know he was still listening.

“You know,” you said after a beat, “there’s this theory that the universe is expanding faster than we thought. Like, galaxies are speeding away from each other, getting farther and farther apart. It’s wild.”

Chris’s pencil paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. “Why’s that wild?”

“Because it’s like everything’s trying to escape everything else,” you said, your voice quieter now. “But at the same time, it’s all connected, you know? Like, even the emptiest parts of space are still full of something. Energy, dark matter, whatever.”

“Sounds crowded,” Chris said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he kept his eyes on the page.

You smiled faintly, your gaze still on the ceiling. “It is. But it’s also lonely.”

The pencil stopped, and you heard Chris shift slightly in his chair. “That make you nervous?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.

You shrugged, playing with the edge of the blanket. “Not really. I think it’s kind of nice. Like, even when you’re out there, completely alone, you’re still part of something bigger.”

The room fell silent again, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint scratch of his pencil. His questions were small, almost offhand, but they kept coming, pulling more of your thoughts from you as he sketched in that quiet, unhurried way of his.

“You talk about space like you’ve been there,” he said after a while, his tone light.

“Maybe I have,” you shot back, smirking slightly.

Chris shook his head, his smirk faint but visible as he glanced at you briefly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re boring,” you countered, grinning as you stretched out on the bed.

“Better than being sucked into a vacuum,” he muttered, going back to his sketching.

And just like that, the quiet settled again, the conversation ebbing and flowing in a way that felt easy, even as something heavier lingered. The two of you sat side by side on Chris’s bed, the air conditioning humming softly, the smell of smoke lingering faintly from earlier. He was leaned back against the headboard, sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil moving quietly as he worked on something. You were scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, occasionally glancing at the Sharpie dragon on your thigh.

Neither of you spoke much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… there. Like the kind of quiet that exists when two people have been around each other long enough to not need to fill the space with words.

Chris shifted suddenly, setting his pencil down on the edge of the sketchbook. “Be right back, again” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up.

“Don’t have to announce your departure every time,” you replied, not looking up as he disappeared down the narrow hallway.

The creak of the bathroom door shutting made you glance up, your gaze landing on his sketchbook left open on the bed. You hesitated for a second before curiosity got the better of you.

Sliding the book toward you, you tilted it slightly to get a better look. The first sketch was striking: a tall, shadowy church with jagged spires, the lines rough but deliberate. You stared at it for a moment, recognizing the eeriness in the way he’d drawn it, almost like it was crumbling but still standing tall.

Flipping the page, you found a sketch of Lila. The detail was softer, more careful—her small face framed by loose curls, her grin wide and toothy like she’d just said something she thought was the funniest thing in the world. You could practically hear her giggling through the lines.

The next page stopped you in your tracks. It was a statue, wings spread wide, its face serene but haunting. You squinted at it, certain you’d seen it somewhere before—probably in Pine View’s graveyard. Chris had captured every detail: the folds of the fabric, the slight tilt of the head, the rosary dangling from its hands. It looked like it could step right off the page.

And then you turned to the next sketch, the one he must have been working on just moments ago.

Your stomach flipped. It was you.

Or at least, it looked awfully like you—same slouched position, same lazy grip on your phone, even the crumpled hem of your shirt sitting exactly the way it did now. He’d even drawn the faint lines of the Sharpie dragon on your thigh.

You stared at it, your chest tightening. The detail was striking, but what got to you was the way he’d drawn it: with an intimacy that felt too precise to be accidental. There was something about the tilt of your head, the way your posture looked so familiar but also so studied.

The sound of the bathroom door opening snapped you out of it. You scrambled to set the sketchbook back down where he’d left it, flipping the cover closed just as Chris walked back into the room.

He glanced at you briefly as he crossed the small space to the bed. “You good?” he asked, his tone casual but with the faintest trace of suspicion.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, tucking your phone into your pocket and leaning back like nothing had happened.

Chris sat back down, picking up his sketchbook without a word. He didn’t open it, though, just held it in his lap as he looked at you. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was about to say something, but instead, he leaned back and grabbed his pencil.

You stayed quiet, pretending not to notice the way your pulse was still racing. The air in the room felt heavier now, though you couldn’t tell if that was just your imagination. If Chris suspected anything, he didn’t show it, his pencil scratching softly against the paper again as if nothing had happened. You shifted slightly, leaning back against the headboard, feigning a casualness you didn’t feel. Your fingers picked idly at a loose thread on your shorts, your gaze fixed on the faint glow of the bedside lamp. But your mind kept drifting back to the sketch—the way he’d captured you so effortlessly, like he’d been watching longer than you realized.

Chris was quiet as he worked, the faint scratching of his pencil filling the space between you. You wanted to say something, anything, to cut through the strange weight that had settled in the room, but nothing came to mind.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” he asked, not looking up. His voice was even, but there was a faint edge of curiosity, like he already suspected the answer.

“M’just thinking,” you said, a little too quickly.

Chris hummed, the kind of noncommittal sound he made when he wasn’t entirely convinced. “ ‘bout what?”

You shrugged, your eyes flicking toward the dragon still etched on your thigh. “I don’t know. Space stuff.”

That earned a faint smirk from him, though his pencil didn’t stop moving. “You’re always thinking about space stuff.”

“It’s better than thinking about… other stuff,” you muttered, your voice trailing off.

Chris finally looked up at that, his dark eyes studying you for a moment. The silence stretched again, heavier this time, before he went back to his sketch.

“I saw the one of Lila,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Chris paused mid-line, his hand stilling as his gaze flicked toward you again. “What?”

You gestured toward his sketchbook, trying to keep your tone casual. “When you went to the bathroom. I peeked. There’s one of Lila. It’s… really good.”

His expression softened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned back against the wall. “Yeah. She sat still for like five minutes, which is a miracle.”

You smiled faintly, relieved that he didn’t seem upset. “The one of the statue… is that from Pine View’s graveyard?”

Chris nodded, his pencil tapping lightly against the edge of the sketchbook. “Yeah. I go there sometimes to sketch. It’s quiet.”

“Figures,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re the only person I know who’d find a graveyard relaxing.”

He rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I was gone for like three minutes max, kid, why you writin’ a biography of me.”

You snorted softly, but your mind was still stuck on the last sketch. The one of you. You wanted to ask about it, to call him out, but the words felt too big, too risky. Instead, you reached for the joint still sitting in the ashtray on the nightstand, lighting it and taking a slow drag.

Chris didn’t say anything as you passed it to him, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he took it. The air was thick with unspoken words, but Chris wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed the way you avoided looking at him when he came back into the room, how your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your shorts like you were trying to distract yourself. He knew you’d seen the drawing—he could tell by the way your voice had faltered when you brought up Lila’s sketch, as if you were testing the waters. But when you didn’t mention it, when you chose not to talk about anything else instead, he felt a strange sense of relief. He wasn’t sure what he would’ve said if you’d brought it up, wasn’t ready to explain why he’d felt compelled to draw you the way he had. So instead, he let the silence stretch between you, grateful that, for once, neither of you pushed too hard.

authors note: for all my priest!matthew babies, promise ur getting fed soon! i’m binge watching euphoria and i still can’t help but need nate, elliot and fez in a way detrimental to feminism :,p

TAG LIST: @jetaimevous @sturnsblunt @riasturns @ifwdominicfike @chrissturns-wife @mattsmunch @pip4444chris @ribread03 @ariestrxsh @angelic-sturniolos111 @pvssychicken @mattslolita @stvrnzcherries @dottieboo @lovergirl4gracieabrams

[hoe4hotchner]

Rebecca!!! Can i request Aaron Hotchner + taking care of his kid (girl or boy) who is sick and super clingy but in a cute way ? and just him being a soft, cute dad? 🥰 thaank you!🩷

Under the weather | [A.H]

Pairing: Girl dad!Hotch | WC: 0.7k | CW: Undisclosed illness, fever, emotional vulnerability…. fluff

A/N: Raph!!! This turned out so cute!!!! OMG I LOVE THIS REQUEST SO MUCH. Also dying a little at girl dad!hotch

Aaron Hotchner was no stranger to long nights. Sleepless hours in the office, mountains of paperwork, or lingering over cases that refused to crack — those, he could handle. But the sight of his daughter curled up on the couch under a quilted blanket her grandma had made, her flushed cheeks pressed against her favorite stuffed animal, was something entirely different.

She looked so small, her cheeks standing out against her otherwise pale complexion. She was young but already had her father’s stubborn determination — she’d tried to insist earlier that she wasn’t sick, that she could still go to kindergarten. The glassy look in her eyes and her pitiful cough had told him otherwise.

Aaron put down the cup of lukewarm tea he’d made for her and crouched beside her. The weight of his knees pressing into the carpeted floor didn’t bother him nearly as much as the sight of her miserable expression.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice soft enough not to startle her.

She blinked slowly, her big, watery eyes fixing on him like he was some weird creature. She sniffled and let out the tiniest whimper before reaching up a hand, her fingers trembling as they clutched at the sleeve of his shirt.

"Daddy," she croaked, her voice was barely audible through her scratchy throat.

Aaron’s heart twisted at the sound. He reached out, brushing gently over her damp forehead. Her fever wasn’t dangerously high, at least not high enough for him to rush her to the ER (yet), but it was enough to sap her energy.

"I’m here, baby," he reassured her. "How are you feeling?"

Her bottom lip trembled before she whispered, "Bad."

Aaron didn’t hesitate to lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I know, sweetheart," he said gently. "But we’re going to get you feeling better, okay? Want to cuddle for a bit?"

She nodded immediately, her tiny arms stretching toward him. It was rare for her to be this clingy; usually, she was an independent little whirlwind, who needed constant supervision when out, or else she would wander off. Yet tonight she was all fragility and softness.

Without hesitation, Aaron slid his arms under her, lifting her as carefully as he could, almost as if she were made of porcelain. The quilt wrapped around her slipped slightly, and he tugged it back into place, cocooning her in its warmth. She burrowed against his chest, her cheek pressing into his shoulder, her breaths coming in uneven little puffs against his neck.

"You’re warm," she mumbled, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Aaron chuckled softly, adjusting her weight so her head rested against the crook of his neck. "That’s because you’re a little heater right now," he teased his tone was light despite the ache he felt seeing her like this.

He carried her to the armchair by the living room window, settling into it carefully so she wouldn’t be jostled. The chair creaked faintly under him, but she didn’t seem to notice. She curled into him like a kitten, her arms winding around his neck as if letting go wasn’t an option. Her bunny was wedged between them, its stitched smile poking out from under her chin.

Aaron leaned back, one hand supporting her while the other ran through her soft, damp hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. Her sniffles quieted, and he could feel her body begin to relax against him, though the occasional raspy cough reminded him that she wasn’t out of the woods yet.

"Daddy?" she murmured.

"Yes, my love?" he answered immediately, his lips brushing the crown of her head.

"Will you stay with me forever?"

The question was so small, so heartbreakingly sincere, that Aaron felt his chest tighten. He cradled her just a little closer, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her back.

"Always," he said softly, his voice firm despite the lump forming in his throat. "I’ll always be here for you. No matter what."

She sighed, a content little sound that warmed him even as she snuggled deeper into his chest. "Promise?" she whispered, already teetering on the edge of sleep.

Aaron rested his cheek against her hair, the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo still lingering from her bath earlier despite the sweat from her fever. "I promise.".

As he rocked her gently back and forth. His phone buzzed on the coffee table — a work message, no doubt — but he didn’t even glance at it.

Work could wait. The world could wait.

Tonight, all that mattered was his little girl in his arms, and he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

[taintedtort]

"stop sniffling," you heard toji‘s deep, tired voice rumble beside you, his back facing you.

"i’m sick, asshole," you mumble back, your voice stuffy and congested as you blow your nose for the nth time.

"who’s fault is that?"

you suppose he’s right. he did tell you not to go out in the snow last night, but you just wanted to walk in it for a little while. it looked so pretty!

but now here you were, up at midnight with a stuffy nose and sore throat, your sneezing and sniffling keeping toji up as well.

"i think i'm dying," you mumble dramatically, a pout on your lips as you turn to look at toji's back. you hear him sigh before he’s turning over to face you, giving you a tired and exasperated look.

"you're not dying, you'll be fine."

"i'm sorry."

"for what?"

"keeping you awake."

he rolls his eyes at your sudden apology, and you huff at the sight. you’re just trying to be nice!

"you’re such a grumpy old man," you mumble, your voice sounding congested as you can’t breathe through your nose.

"you’re a brat who doesn’t listen," he retorts dryly, too tired to deal with you and your sickness. you simply sulk at his words, knowing he’s right. you did feel bad for keeping him up, especially after he warned you not to go outside, but the memory was worth it to you.

"at least we got to play in the snow… and it’s good that only i got sick." toji stares at you for a second, an unreadable expression on his face. you blink in surprise as you see the subtle nod of his head, like he’s agreeing with you.

"the snow was alright, 's too cold though," he grumbles, rubbing at his half lidded eyes. however, you know him better than that. he definitely had fun messing around with you outside, even if he didn’t admit it.

"i’d rather me be sick than you though, i wish you weren’t," he mumbles, and you almost don’t hear it. his eyes are closed now, not being able to keep them open from the exhaustion creeping up on him.

"aww, toji! that’s so sweet—"

"cus you complain too much, 's annoying." he cuts you off, his words laced with playfulness so you know he’s just kidding.

he grunts as you shove him, though you cough right after and it makes him grin at your instant karma.

"you’re mean. i’m sick and i’m dying, you could be nicer—"

he cuts you off once again when he suddenly wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. he holds you close, his chin resting atop your head.

"shut up and try to get some sleep, i'm fuckin' exhausted," he murmurs near your ear, his sleepy voice reaching your ears and making you smile.

it’s rare toji cuddles you like this, so you fully embrace it, nuzzling closer into the warmth of his chest. after a beat of silence, you hear his deep voice once again.

"if you get me sick i'll be pissed."

"asshole," you huff back, jabbing him lightly in the side, causing him to let out a strained noise from low in his throat.

"goodnight, brat."

"…night, toji." ♡

☆ this is sitting in my drafts and i wanna get rid of it, so here

[qatarsprint2023]

Hi can I request a lando x f!reader when she’s really sick and how lando takes care of her, like A. fluffy and comforting fic. I just found ur acc and I’m so excited for ur upcoming writings!!!!

~🎀

Thank you sm! Hope you enjoy this one, 🎀<3

Sick days and Race weekends— LN4

Lando discovers that his girlfriend got sick while he was away for a race and didn't want to worry him. — Lando Norris x f!reader, fluff, comfort, reader has a bad case of the flu, no use of y/n word count: ca. 1.2k

Ever since you were a kid you'd never been the type of person to get actually sick. Sure, a little cough and runny nose maybe, but nothing ever really drastic. Personally, you were pretty sure your immune system was simply a wonderful combination of good genes and growing up in the countryside.

Your parents had always told you that the fresh air and spending a lot of time outdoors with some exposure to animals had probably played some part in your never being sick as well and developed your immune system in a way people who grew up in urban areas would never have.

But when you moved to London for uni a little later in life, a huge city with tons of traffic, pollution and surprisingly little greenery, you found yourself getting sick more often than when you lived on your parent's farm surrounded by green grass, fields that stretched for miles and lots of animals. However this time you got sick. Runny nose, aching joints, pounding headache, hacking cough, fever that came and went as it pleased... The whole flu package, really.

You'd already started feeling a little off before Lando left for Austin on Wednesday and it had gradually gotten a little worse each day, but by Friday it all just hit like a wrecking ball. But you being you, decided not to say anything much about it and tell your boyfriend it was just a common cold you were dealing with back home.

He'd done so well in Qualifying on Friday and he should really be concentrating on his upcoming race and not his girlfriend's inane complaints from halfway across the globe. You didn't like worrying people. It didn't feel right plaguing someone else with your problems when surely you could somehow find a way to work it out yourself anyway.

But now it was Monday morning and you had curled up on the couch under the heaviest blanket you could find with a half empty tissue box and a giant mug of tea on the coffee table beside you a few hours ago already. You were cold and shivering like leaves in the wind on an icey autumn day like today, even with your hot drink and the warm blanket thrown across your body.

You couldn't have been more miserable. You felt like you were dying. You couldn't go to work, or leave the house because you simply felt awful and weak. So, you decided to just lay down on the couch and wait for Lando to get home.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting for the familiar sound of a key turning in the lock, you perked up a little at the sound coming from the door across the room. Lando stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a soft sigh slipping past his lips, not noticing you.

"Hey... P2!" you croaked weakly and forced a small smile onto your lips when you saw your boyfriend step into your shared flat, suitcase in hand, his coat and shoes still on as well after he just made his way through Heathrow airport and probably (definitely) went through a mini heart attack too when his luggage didn't immediately come out with everything else from the flight, like he always does when you're flying somewhere.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he'd actually heard you call out to him. It was the last thing he expected to hear. Reasonable response, you had to concur— after all, you were supposed to be at work. Then he turned to face the couch and saw you laying there, basically drowning under the heavy fabric of your blanket.

"Hey, hey... What's wrong? Why aren't you at work?" he asked in a voice that showed obvious signs of worry as he quickly kicked his shoes off and went over to you, feeling your forehead with his cold palm. "Jesus. You're basically on fire, baby... I thought you just had a normal cough?!"

"Didn't wanna worry you," you chuckled with an innocent smile, but before you knew it, your chuckle turned into yet another harsh cough. According to your mum, you sounded like an elephant with tuberculosis, like she told you over the phone yesterday. Harsh but true comparison, you had to admit.

Lando groaned and shook his head in an exaggerated way. "Yeah but, you should worry me when you get a fever like this!" However his expression softened to one of sympathy as he sat down beside you on the edge of the beige couch, gently stroking your forehead in an attempt to make you feel more at ease.

"Why didn't you tell me you felt this bad when we talked yesterday?" he frowned, some of his soft curls falling onto his forehead.

"You just got P2 and you sounded so happy about that on the phone, so I didn't wanna dampen the mood," you respond with a shrug.

"The only thing you've got me feeling right now is worried, baby. Come on, you can hardly talk without having a coughing fit," he sighed, putting his arm around you and planting a kiss on the crown of your head. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not yet," you sniffled softly and shook your head, rubbing the bridge of your nose with your index finger and thumb. It felt like there was someone playing a damn drum solo against the inside of your skull. "Didn't have the energy to make myself anything more than tea. I feel like death..."

"I know, baby, I know..." Lando sighed softly and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb as he stood up and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at you. "I'll make you some toast, okay? But first let's get you to bed... The couch isn't comfortable enough for when my girl needs to rest. It'll give you a stiff neck, sweetheart."

Lando gently looped his arm around your waist and helped you get up from the couch, a soft groan escaping your throat. He held you upright as you slowly walked over to the bedroom where your boyfriend lied you down in bed and pulled the covers over your shivering body, enveloping you in a warm sea of soft bedsheets.

"Alright..." he said with a sympathetic gaze in his hazel eyes and fluffed up your pillow a little, so you could lay down more comfortably. "I'll make you something and I'll bring you your tea in a minute too. Oh and some of that cough syrup we have as well. I know you don't like it, but I don't like it when you sound like you're gonna cough up your lungs any second. Do you want me to make you some soup later too?"

"You can make soup?" you retorted raspily and covered your mouth as another cough slipped past your chapped lips.

"Well... no... But I can make soup from the can?" Lando suggested with a sheepish grin, which caused you to smile a bit as well. It was so nice to have someone who just wanted to help and make you feel better.

"That'd be nice, thank you..." you replied softly and smiled, though you quickly covered your mouth as he leaned down to kiss you. "No! I'll get you sick too!"

"Well, I sure as hell won't let you sleep alone tonight, so whether I kiss you now or have my arm around you for seven hours tonight doesn't really make a big difference, does it?" he chuckled and gently took your hand away from your face to press a chaste kiss against your pale lips.

"Stay with me afterwards?" you hummed softly, not yet pulling away from the tender sensation of his lips on yours and your hand in his.

"I'll stay as long as you want me to," said Lando in response and gently gave your hip a pat. "But first I'll get you something to eat and your tea from the living room, yeah?"

[moonstruckme]

Hi!! I just recently discovered your blog and I’m in love with your Spencer fic’s. :)) Could you perchance write one where reader is sick and Spencer takes care of her??

Hi lovely, thanks for requesting <3

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 792 words

“I’m fine,” you croak. 

“You’re not fine,” says Spencer, stirring honey into your tea. “You let this go too long without resting, and now it’s bad.” 

You inhale, looking like you’re going to disagree, but a coughing fit supersedes you. The force of it bends you over, and Spencer rubs your back, wincing. You sound like you’re hacking up a lung.

“Okay,” you say once you can, still coughing weakly. “You’re right, I’m dying.” 

“You’re not dying either.” A smile tugs at his lips. “You just need to rest. Is anything bothering you, other than your throat?” 

You shake your head. 

Spencer eyes you skeptically, passing over your tea. You’re infamous for this sort of downplaying. You’d been so good at covering up that you were feeling sick that even your FBI profiler boyfriend hadn’t been able to spot it until a couple of days ago, and even then you’d managed to convince him it was mild enough to go to work until he’d heard you coughing in the shower this morning. Spencer still isn’t sure if, when he’d come home today to find you flushed and miserable in the bed, you’d gotten worse or only stopped hiding it. 

 “Really, nothing?” he asks. “You don’t have any other symptoms?” 

You shrug. “Just other normal sick stuff.” 

“Tell me about them. How do you feel?” 

You frown, blowing on your tea. “Hot and dry. I feel like my entire body needs chapstick. And I’m tired, I guess.” 

Spencer frowns. He brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers stoke down your overwarm cheek. “You look terrible,” he says. 

You snort. Your cough latches onto it as an opportunity, and you launch into another fit. “Ow,” you wheeze, putting a hand to your chest. “Thanks, you’re really—really wooing me, Spence.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” he laughs, somewhat nervously. “I just meant that you look so sad, honey. I don’t like seeing you so sick.” 

“Me neither,” you admit. You take a scratchy breath in, deep as you can without it catching. You look like you’re savoring it. 

He feels his eyebrows draw together compassionately. “You should try to sleep.” 

“It’s barely six. I don’t want to sleep.” 

“You don't have to wait until it’s late to go to sleep. It might make you feel better.” 

“I know, I just…I don’t want to.” 

Spencer looks at you for a while, thinking of what to do with you. Your tea is still too hot to drink. He’d bought you cough drops on his way home, but you’d already had so many throughout the day that now you say they’re making your mouth feel sore and raw, and you don’t want to take them if you can help it. Maybe he could have you gargle saltwater…

“You should stay at your place tonight,” you tell him gently. “I don’t want to get you sick.” 

He knew you would say that. He’s practically moved into your apartment, though he keeps his basically as a storage unit at this point. Whereas Spencer has filled his apartment with enough things for one person (one towel hook in the bathroom, one nightstand, only one really good pillow on the bed), your apartment looks like you’ve always assumed you’d eventually share it. The first time Spencer came over, you already had fuzzy socks for guests, enough towels for an army, and two really, really great pillows on the bed. It made him realize that his apartment was really just a place to sleep; yours was a home. He never wants to leave, but certainly not while you’re like this.

“I won’t get sick,” he lies. (He definitely will. He’s already been exposed to you for days already and his immune system has never had his back.) “And anyway, how will I teach you chess from my apartment?” 

You groan. 

“This is really the best time,” Spencer says, going into the living room to grab the chess board you’d let him keep here. “You’ll never have more free time than when you’re sick. And this way, you won’t get bored.” 

“Sure about that?” you ask wryly as he comes back in, but you’re smiling. 

“Unless you want to try to sleep?” 

You look like you’re actually considering it. “When I was little and I got sick, I used to play mad libs.” 

Spencer feels his face screw up. “I don’t really like that game. They never make any sense at the end.” 

“That’s the point,” you laugh. A weak cough follows it. “Anyway, I’m sick. I promise I’ll let you teach me to play chess soon.” 

“You’re sick,” he allows, setting the chess board on the floor. Not that you don’t get what you want the rest of the time anyway.

[violet-fluff]

Levi x Suicidal! Reader

Kiss of Life

Finally.

I can finally sleep.

Well…more like relax.

Sleeping is hard to do when I’m floating in a galaxy void.

I see stars and auroras of blues, purples and greens coming near me as I float around them.

It feels like I’m laying on a cloud, as my limbs dangle comfortably, and my hair floats around me.

I’ve never been in such peace before.

It makes me tear up.

I smile as I watch those tears float above me and bounce away into the stars.

“Womp womp womp womp…”

It sounds like talking in the distance.

It becomes louder and more annoying as I try to peacefully relax in my galaxy.

‘Leave me alone.’

I say it in my head, but it booms into the open space.

An orb of light appears, and it almost blinds me with it’s bright yellow illumination.

‘Too bright.’

I squint my eyes as the orb gets bigger and brighter.

‘No. Go away.’

The closer I get to the orb, the more I feel a heavy pressure in my chest, causing me to sputter out some coughs.

‘Ouch. This hurts.’

My chest gets heavier and heavier, and I feel a wetness splatter onto my face as I cough uncontrollably.

I give one more heavy cough as my body rushes into the bright orb, and suddenly I launch myself up, trying to breathe as more wetness splatters onto my face and then down my body.

“We got her back!”

“Thank the Gods!”

My vision is blurry. I can’t quite make out what’s happening around me.

“Look at me. Now.”

This voice is next to me. Angry and loud.

My vision clears and I see Levi’s angry face right next to mine. The bottom half of his face where his mouth is, is wet.

“What happened…” I croak out. “Where am I?”

Petra kneels next to me and pulls me forward into a hug. “Don’t do that again!” She cries. “Come to us next time!”

As my head lay on Petra’s shoulder, I stare blankly at Levi, confused as to what’s happened.

“You tried to drown yourself, idiot.” He blurts out with a furrow of his brows. “I had to breath the water out of you.”

“Captain, don’t be too harsh on her. You literally just brought her back to life.” Gunther tries to plead with his captain to not put you right back into a bad mental state.

“I felt it.” I say with a strained voice. “It was peaceful.” I relax against Petra. “Dying was peaceful.”

They all look at me solemnly as I reminisce.

Later that night, Levi is preparing a cup of tea for me as I lay in bed. My head is relaxed against the soft pillows as I sit and watch him delicately steep the leaves.

As the leaves steep in the hot water, he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed next to my legs.

He sighs and leans forward, giving me a gentle, but desperate, kiss.

“The only time my mouth should be on yours is to kiss you. Not to bring you back to life.”

[starletem]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚎-  𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚡 𝚈/𝚗

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏 

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The car hummed softly as we cruised down the empty stretch of highway, the orange glow of the setting sun spilling over the horizon. Brian was behind the wheel, his left hand resting lazily on the steering wheel while his right hand drummed against the console in rhythm with the playlist I’d queued earlier.

“You’ve got good taste,” he said, nodding to the song.

“Of course I do,” I teased. “I had to balance out your eclectic taste.”

He glanced at me, his lips quirking into a smirk. “My taste is perfect. I just appreciate variety.”

I rolled my eyes, leaning back in my seat. The road stretched endlessly before us, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like we had a chance just to breathe. No cameras, no crew, no chaos. Just two friends and the open road.

I turned my head to watch him, his face softening in the glow of the dashboard lights. His hoodie was slightly wrinkled from the long day, and his hair was tousled in that effortlessly messy way that always made him look annoyingly good.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking at me.

I jolted, turning quickly to face the window. “I am not!”

“You were,” he teased, a quiet laugh escaping his lips.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

We’d been driving for hours, heading back to the city after a small day trip together, just the two of us. It was comfortable—easy, even. But occasionally, I caught myself overthinking how his arm brushed mine when he adjusted the radio or how his voice dipped when he laughed at one of my dumb jokes.

The car jolted suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“What was that?” I asked, sitting up straight.

Brian frowned, his hand tightening on the wheel as the car sputtered and lurched again. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh? What do you mean, uh-oh?”

“I mean…” He guided the car onto the shoulder of the road, its engine coughing one last time before dying completely. He sighed, throwing the gear into park. “That.”

We both stared at the now-silent car, the headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

“Well,” I said after a beat. “This is… inconvenient.”

Brian chuckled, though it sounded more exasperated than amused. “You don’t say.”

He reached for his phone, tapped the screen, and dialed a number. He talked quickly about the situation and, with a simple “thanks,” he hung up.

“Triple A?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his phone one last time. “It won’t be for a few hours until they arrive.”

“Great. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. This feels like the start of a bad horror movie.”

“Relax,” Brian said, flashing me a grin. “If a creepy guy with a chainsaw shows up, I’ll protect you.”

“Good to know,” I said, rolling my eyes.

The night settled around us, the quiet pressing in. We both sat in the stillness for a moment, waiting. There was no sound except for the occasional rustling of leaves and the hum of distant traffic far off the highway.

“You know,” Brian said after a while, his voice quieter than before. “I don’t hate this.”

“Being stranded on the side of the road?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled, glancing at me for a brief moment. “No. Just… being here. With you.”

I felt my heart skip, but I tried to play it cool. “Well, I’m excellent company.”

“That you are,” he said, his tone softer now. His eyes flicked to mine, lingering for a moment longer than usual.

I swallowed, the tension between us palpable. It was as if the world outside the car had faded, leaving just the two of us in this little bubble of silence. His gaze felt heavier as if he were waiting for something.

“I like you,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Not just as a friend or someone I work with. I like you, Y/N. A lot.”

The words hung in the air, and I felt my heart race. For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. When I did, it came out soft and hesitant.

“I had no idea,” I said quietly, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Because I like you too. I have for a while.”

His eyes lit up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I said, feeling a warmth spread through me.

He reached over, his hand brushing mine gently on the console. I turned my hand over, letting our fingers intertwine.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little lighter now. “Guess this breakdown wasn’t so bad after all.”

I laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You like me anyway,” he teased, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back with a contented sigh. “I do.”

The quiet stretched on as we sat there, waiting for help to arrive. The space between us felt charged now, like something had shifted. I could feel his gaze again, pulling me back from my thoughts. He leaned closer, his face just inches from mine.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let the moment, my breath catching as I realized how badly I wanted this.

He closed the gap between us without another word, his lips brushing against mine in a slow, hesitant kiss. It was soft at first, just a whisper of contact like we were both testing the waters. But when I kissed him back, a little more sure this time, the kiss deepened, slow and sweet.

When we finally pulled away, we both breathed a little heavier, smiles tugging at our lips.

“Well,” Brian said, his voice barely above a whisper, “that was a nice distraction.”

I laughed softly, still feeling the warmth of his lips against mine. “Yeah, it was.”

A flash of headlights broke the moment, and we both turned toward the sound of approaching vehicles. Help had arrived, and with it, the reality of our situation. But as we pulled apart, I couldn’t help but think that the night wasn’t so bad.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝙰/𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝! 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎!!