#can't believe this it almost seems like a fever dream considering what we had to even go through during this tournament

[speakeasier]

the euros, actually giving us entertainment before it finishes??? can you believe...???

[dreamsclock]

can't stop thinking about that dreamon au snippet you wrote about george and sap busting dream out and how hard it's gonna be for them to get him back into any kind of fighting shape. like, they'll probably do their best to patch him up and get him healthy but might end up fucking something up and making it worse (like, not getting how malnutrition recovery works and he ends up with refeeding syndome, shit like that). just like, the possession was bad enough, but with torture on top of it and no medical knowledge? they're gonna have a rough time

this is the first piece of writing i’ve cried over writing!! i need y’all to know i had a much much darker version i was gonna post and changed my mind ,, you’ll be able to find it on twt soon if you want :’) click THIS before if you want to be sadder, click THIS after to cheer you up a bit bc i hate dropping heavy angst and then dipping on y’all absdkasjkd

warnings: sickness, fevers, death / dying, grief, heavy angst emotional distress, illness, extreme illness - please be very careful with reading, there’s pretty intense emotions in this !! <3

Dream gets sick a lot now.

He’d been the one with the strongest immune system before all this, often taking care of George and Sapnap whenever they got sick, but now his body is shot to hell and back, and he’s bedbound with the slightest illness, temperature dangerously high and pulse frighteningly sluggish. Sapnap cries the fourth time it happens. George doesn’t speak for two days. Dream always pulls through, but always looking a little paler, a little weaker.

A little more like he’d like to be back in the dreamon’s clutches, and it makes both of them feel ill.

It’s because of his wounds, they know - Dream’s body is littered in wounds, some of them minor, most of them awful, and they’re only just beginning to close up, three weeks later. They get infected far too easily for George’s liking, considering how shit both he and Sapnap are when it comes to medical things. 

(”If Bad was here, he��d know what to do,” Sapnap murmurs restlessly one night, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than ever, and George doesn’t look up from stitching one of Dream’s wounds back up but his heart sinks, because Sapnap is right and it hurts, “if he came with us, he would be able to help, no problem.”

“Well, Bad isn’t here.” Releasing a short, pent up breath, George scrubs at his face, tries to keep himself calm. “He’s still all egg-ified. We need to do this ourselves. It’ll be fine.”)

He’d believed it at first: it’ll be fine, he’d said to Sapnap at the start, we’ve exorcised him, he’s safe, he’s out of harm’s way. But after almost a month on the run from people that want Dream dead and the highlight of Dream’s recovery being him waking up in terrified screams and ripping all his stitches leaving himself half dead again, George is beginning to lose hope in his optimism quickly. 

Dream still sleeps most of the day and most of the night. They struggle to keep him awake long enough to eat food he usually throws up and hold a conversation that’s always painfully one-sided before he slips off again, unmoored from consciousness. Sometimes, George wonders if it wouldn’t be kinder to let him die. This is hell - not just for them, but for Dream, who struggles through every setback, who barely makes it out of one horror alive before being plunged into the next.

And then he’s hit with his worst fever yet; an awful, awful thing, that wracks his body with violent shivers and leaves him slurring cries for help from the hallucinations he can’t seem to shake. Sapnap and George almost kill each other fighting about how to break a temperature - do they leave him to get rid of it by wrapping him up warmer? Do they try to cool him down? - while Dream fades away beside them. George, for the first time in his life, is hit with the terrifying thought that he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no easy solution to this problem, no quick-fix - for the first time, George tries to come to terms with the fact his best friend might die in his and Sapnap’s arms, and they would be helpless to stop it.

“It’s okay, Dream,” Sapnap shushes through tears, voice cracking, smoothing Dream’s sweaty hair back from his face, “it’s okay, I promise, I’m here, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. It’s gonna- It’s gonna be okay.”

Dream moans wordlessly, eyelids fluttering. George steps out of the room, because he thinks he’ll start sobbing if he doesn’t, and he can’t afford a breakdown right now, not when he’s the only one sort of holding it together. He can still hear Sapnap’s voice from the other room, can still hear him comforting Dream and promising things will get better, and he presses his hands to his ears, trying to block it out, just for a moment, just a second of oblivion-

“XD,” he whispers, words choked, struggling to force out the name that the god had forbidden him from speaking again, “XD, I need you. Please.”

He’s tried this before: tried begging on his hands and knees for his god to return and help, sobbing at night, breaking down during the day, but he’s never received an answer. He and XD hadn’t ended their friendship well - one too many arguments where George had been scared and XD had felt used and things had gone up in flames (literally, George’s hair is still singed). But he’s desperate. Dream is dying, and there’s nothing he or Sapnap can do about it. 

“XD, Dream- Dream isn’t okay. He isn’t okay. And I’m not okay either, and- and neither is Sapnap- none of us are okay.” George laughs hollowly, burying his head in his hands. “Please help. Please. I- I need you.”

Silence. George holds his breath, desperate for something to happen, desperate for a sign, anything.

...Still silence. 

Nauseous, George heads back into the room, sitting down next to Sapnap and taking Dream’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Hey,” he whispers, heart breaking, “hey, Dream. Can you hear me?”

“He said he’s sorry,” Sapnap tells George, voice small, “he said- he opened his eyes and looked at me and said he’s sorry for hurting us. He said he’s scared, Georgie.”

It’s hard to breathe past the grief crushing his lungs. George swallows, throat thick. 

“Dream, it’s okay,” he says, uneven, ragged, “if it’s too much, you can- you can go. You can go. It’s okay. You don’t- You don’t need to be scared.”

It’s almost too much to say. Dream’s breathing is slow, shallow: George wonders if he can even hear him, or if he’s already too far gone.

“You’ve done so much,” George continues, running his thumb over Dream’s calloused knuckles, “I know- I know it has to hurt. You don’t need to hold on for us. I promise. I- I know how hard you’re trying.”

Sapnap’s sob beside him is choked, and shakes his whole body. George lets him bury his head in his neck, comforts Sapnap while comforting Dream and tries not to fall apart until his job is over.

“You can let go, Dream. If you have to. You can let go. You don’t have to stay for us.”

Because Dream is so selfless, all the fucking time, and George knows it’s one of the only things keeping Dream fighting. Dream knows it’ll kill both of them to have him die in their arms, so he pushes on, fights through every pain and every illness and every setback because in the end it’s his relief or his friends’, and he always chooses them, every time, without hesitation. 

George brushes his hand through Dream’s hair, a ball of grief sitting heavy in his throat, and knows he won’t move until Dream is gone. They’re with him until the end.

“Look, George,” Sapnap whispers after hours pass, raw, “remember we used to watch that with him?”

George looks up, eyes bloodshot, grief not lessened in the hours they’ve been sitting there, and sees the sun beginning to shine softly through the trees; the start of a new day, as golden and as beautiful as ever. It’s impossible to appreciate, though. It’s impossible to think about when Dream is-

Dream is-

Squeezing his hand back. When Dream is squeezing his hand back, breaths still ragged, exhausted, but determined, a stubborn repetition of his chest rising and falling and rising and George laughs, weakly, thrown by the impossibility of it all, because he’d known Dream had been dying, he’d known he wouldn’t survive the night.

Dream’s hand twitches weakly in his again, and George knows what he’s saying. You’re not losing me like this, he’s telling them, not like this, I won’t go down like this, and when Sapnap, in stunned disbelief, checks his temperature, the fever has broken and his temperature is heading back to normal. “That’s impossible,” Sapnap says, voice shot to hell and back, “that’s- fuck, oh my god, George, he might pull through. He really might pull through this.”

George wants to cry in delight. Instead, he chokes down another laugh, and squeezes Dream’s hand back. 

“He will,” he replies, and for the first time in a long time, he actually means it, “he will pull through. He’s Dream.”

Dream’s hand grips his lightly. I’m Dream, it assures, I’m not going anywhere.

[heresathreebee]

Brackish and Briny Waters (five)

[Ralph Lamont x Female Reader]

Summary: Ralph apologizes and you've got baby brains, but sometimes life does nothing but kick you down. Previous Masterlist Next

Tag(s): 16+ | 1.7k words | more angst, baby fever, alcoholism, ghostly vibes

AN: GODDAMN Part 5 took me a lifetime to finish. As always no beta readers just poorly side eyeing this by myself and hoping it makes sense

THE NEXT MORNING

You barely stir when you hear the door open. You've all but forgotten last night, and yet you flinch when Ralphie tries to cuddle with you. He sighs somewhere near your ear and hugs you from behind anyways, lips brushing the nape of your neck and breath fanning over your back as he simply lies there, quiet as the grave. 

There's no bruise but you can still feel his hand gripping your arm from last night. "You're being a huge dick…" 

"... I know." 

That is not good enough. You roll over to face him and watch his face twist when he notices the tract marks of dry tears on your face. He swallows and almost unconsciously takes your hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of your palm in a way that was meant to comfort him rather than you. 

"I'm sorry." He opens his mouth again but he flounders for words. After a deep breath he continues. "We can't call Reagan. Because he won't do anything for us…" 

You wait impatiently for him to explain. 

"Sweetheart, if we called Reagan last night, he would have fucking laughed at us. It is step one down that slippery slope to the couple who cried wolf." He put a hand on your shoulder and looked you in the eye, "do you really think he would have done something?" 

You think about it. If Ralph hadn't stopped you from calling him, what would you have said to Reagan? 

I smelled exhaust fumes. Not an emergency, he would say. 

I think he found us. What do you want me to do about it, too late now, he would ask.  

We're in danger. I'll send a squad upstate, they should be there in 4 hours, he would joke. 

"It was real," you insist. "I smelled fumes." 

"I know. I believe you." 

You squint at him threateningly and he doesn't give an inch. He doesn't seem like he's mocking you. 

Ralph could be an asshole, but Reagan was infinitely worse. At least one of them gave a shit about your safety. The realization Ralph was right scared you more than anything. You were alone in this… 

Well, alone together. 

You sigh and bury your face in his neck. Your hair is tangled as shit and probably tickling his face, but your husband simply wraps you up in a tight embrace and holds you against him. It's all the apology you need. 

END OF THE FIRST MONTH

Adjusting to your new life hit you like a sack of bricks early on a Monday morning. You woke up from a dream where you still lived in your tiny little apartment two minutes walk from everything. In a reality which felt more like a fever dream, Ralph was late for work, donning a tie and tweed jacket and kissing you goodbye for the day. 

You never realized how much space there was in the new master bedroom. In the apartment, a queen sized bed nearly touched the walls and barely left room to creep around two night stands and a dresser, but in the new house you had room to lay on the floor and stretch, maybe put another piece of furniture in here like a bookshelf or something. 

And the whole damn house was like that. You had an entire second floor to claim as your own! There is almost too much space… too much space for just the two of you. 

God there's that thought again drifting into your mind unbidden, unfurling like a fern at the first droplet of sunshine. How many people does it take to turn a house into a home? Three should be plenty, your mind offers. 

You busy yourself with measurements, regrouting the loose tiles in the kitchen floor, and scrubbing the blackened hell out of that downstairs bathroom. It seems to come to life beneath your hands and you can feel yourself getting excited to show guests the improvement. 

The thoughts of turning your little twosome family into three persist over and over until you can't stand it any longer. Maybe it's finally time… 

Ralph's late getting home by 5 minutes instead of 5 hours but he still looks tired. No mud tracks on his pants or hard set eyes. He's halfway up the stairs before you realize he's probably going to bed early. 

"Hey!" 

Ralph stops like it pains him. His head sags and his hold on the railing is tight like he'll fall if he lets go. The way he's wobbling he might. He is barely able to meet your eyes as he glances over his shoulder and when he does he simply grunts. 

"I made dinner," you squeeze your hands together behind your back, "angel hair pasta and that sauce you love." 

Ralph's eyes flicker in thought. "Be down in a second." 

You wait nervously to see if he does come down. What if this is a bad idea? What if he doesn't take you seriously? Oh god what if he hates it, what if he calls you an idiot for even considering it? 

Ralph does come back downstairs, hair wild from running his fingers through it. He seems to gain a small amount of energy while eating, not wanting to talk himself but asking how your day has been going. 

You're definitely rambling right now. Ralph listens and listens, chuckling along but at some point he grows concerned and envelopes your hand with a worried expression on his face. "Jesus, I've never heard so many words come out of your mouth at once, it's like you're writing a dissertation over there. Are you OK, baby?" 

You snap your mouth shut. God, you hadn't even come close to talk about kids for all your rambling. And then there was that weird smell… 

Your blood runs cold as you recognize it. You lean a little closer to Ralph and he almost instinctively flinches away. If there's one thing you are sure of, one thing you could swear on god– Ralph Lamont has never flinched away from a kiss before. So he has something to hide. And that something has a sharp scent and explains his slow reactions and tired eyes better than anything else could. 

"Have you… have you been drinking?" 

It's the way he can't meet your eyes when you ask him. You know. It's beyond out of character, so much so that it's confusing and a little frightening for you. 

A little drink here and there is, to you, to be expected especially considering the wealth of your new company. So why hide it? Is there something else he's not telling you?

You suddenly feel sick and too hot, ripping your hand away from his and getting up to leave the table. 

He knows you get in your head sometimes and practically yells your name to stop you. "I'm… I don't know why I…" 

Ralph sighs and buries his face into his hands, ashamed. All this suspense is twisting knots in your stomach. You sit back down gingerly, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. 

"Ralph," you warn, "you had better start explaining yourself right now before I lose it." 

Ralph stares a hole into the table and worries his lip. The truth is he doesn't know what to say because he doesn't know why he did it. The students are easy, you are easy. Even in the toughest of times, at his lowest, he didn't drink so… what the fuck was coming over him?, he asked himself. 

Something clicked. It rolled like fire in his belly given dry wood, smoking curling to the top of his throat and out of his ears. "They hate me." 

"Who? Who hates you?" 

"Everyone." 

You looked him in the eye for the first time tonight and saw something dark looking in there. It makes you uneasy. "What makes you think they hate you, baby?" 

Ralph's grip on his fork tightens until his knuckles are white before he gingerly sets the dishware down and deflates. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a sardonic grin. 

"You wouldn't understand… and how could you? You never leave the house." He looks at you and there's a growing instability rising in his movements. "You… you don't see it. It started out as little nothings that I could ignore because it didn't matter that they didn't like me: I was new.  

"Then it became lots of these little nothings. Staring and whispering and hushed silences. Tip toeing language and poking and prodding and testing me and my limits and it just… it just… it never got better…" 

Rumors. It dawned on you that his frustration seemed intimately familiar to you as you had had to change schools once or twice due to a few terrible rumors that snowballed and got way out of hand. And you can imagine the sort of rumors that accompany a man with little interest in making friends who has a wife nobody knows anything about. 

If you wanted to stay here long, you would need to change a few minds. You set aside your fear for a moment and make him look at you. You can see the unshed tears in his eyes and feel pity for him. 

"I want to do that dinner party," you announce. "With all that's gone on, you probably didn't have the grand introduction you deserve. Let me show them how much you mean to me." 

Ralph's shaking his head but he already knows you'll win this fight. For him it feels like begging for something he doesn't even want. He agrees because he already promised you could when you were ready and you needed to find new friends asap. 

His sleep that night is fitful and the room's shadows seem to reach out like claws seeking his immortal soul. When the haze of whiskey finally dies down in his system he sleeps dreamless and wakes to feel somehow more hollow with despair than before. 

Ralph Lamont has the distinct feeling things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before anything gets better…

@werwulfy @fundamentally-lazy @escape-your-grape @mimiscappinisideblog @go-commander-kim

[hoopdiddies]

Rashes (J. D imagine)

A/N: I've added a few touches since I got carried away by the fluff @deakysgurl! Thanks for the request! I hope it's good enough.

14 +49. Road accidents + when they're injured

Warnings: Just mentions of a road accident and some rashes and a bucket load of fluff

Word count : 2k+

Xx Masterlist xX

Here you are, out in the terrace enjoying an egg sandwich in the middle of a heavy, evening downpour– something you ought to question yourself later on. After popping what's left of the sandwich in your mouth, you dust your hands together and make your way back into your room, coming to hear five frantic knocks echo from the front door.

Who could that be in this hour?

"Y/N! Y/N!"

"Please open up! It's us!"

The familiarity of those calls gets you rushing down the steps leading to the door and you hurriedly grapple the knob, swinging the door open to the lads dripping wet from running from the other side of the road in the misty storm with their arms draped around John who appears to be in an utterly bad shape.

"Boys! What happened? Thought you were doing a gig," You assist them in settling John down on one of the couches, paying no mind to the wet mess their soaked clothes are leaving on the tiled floor– and certainly on the couch.

You immediately go by John's side and kneel to check what went wrong. Nothing afflicting his head, that's swell considering the dangers that would have caused him although he's got his forearm and leg wrapped in dressings, hinting that they might have taken him to a hospital to get treated prior to parking at yours.

"He's got nasty road rashes– one running from the side of his left forearm down to the point of his elbow and the other from his knee down to the middle of his leg." Replies Brian who's got his arms crossed at the unfortunate events.

"What happened out there?"

"Motorbike accident. Right after the gig, he rode downtown on one of the sound engineers' bikes to fetch a few parts to fix two of his amps," he kneels down beside you and you tell Freddie and Roger to fetch the first aid kit from one of the cupboards, feeling John's temperature rise with your hand on his moist forehead– he's getting a fever from the rain.

"And?" You get up and settle down beside John, wiping his face free of sweat, combing his damp hair back to calm him down.

"A sudden halt. A man ran recklessly down the pedestrian and caused James to swerve. "

"Bastard," You mutter irritatingly and ask John how he's feeling. So far he's only shaken his head which gives away the obvious. Freddie and Roger return promptly with the kit, a damp cloth and a glass of lukewarm water to ease some heat into John's shivering body.

"Deaky, you'll be fine." Freddie coaxes softly in his ear to alleviate him of his current uneasiness, accidentally nudging his afflicted arm and earning a quick grunt from John. You tell the boys to dry themselves in the bathroom while you take care of him from there.

Some time later after letting him take an antipyretic to reduce his fever and mopping the slippery floor, John insists that the boys go ahead as they have a hectic studio session to push through tomorrow. You've assured them that you'll take care of him and they leave him under your unrelenting watch to which, of course, John cocks a slick eyebrow at in amusement.

Since he's feeling quite under the weather, you'll have to conjure up an activity to keep yourselves entertained through the evening deluge as the night is barely young and neither of you can sleep.

"Want to watch a film?" You crouch carefully between his legs, your elbows propped up on either of his thighs.

"And a cup of tea too, love." He smiles and you rise up to kiss him chastely before heading to the kitchen heat up the kettle.

Halfway through having it whistle, a clap of thunder followed by a power outage seizes all your chances of going through a movie night and you hear John scream briefly from the living room at the sudden spread of darkness.

He's always been that jumpy– and it cracks you up in the slightest.

The kettle whistles and you grab a lamp from under the sink to light up your space as you make John a cup, figuring it would be a hassle if you'd include one for you.

Speed walking to the living room with the lit lamp and his cup in your hands, you worry that he might've jerked his leg and disturbed the wound, rushing to him hastily and panting upon stepping foot into the space.

"John, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Lifting up the lamp to shed some light on him, you find him hugging a throw pillow with his head down, nodding.

He's so vulnerable like this and his position just craves for your hold. A tender smile forms on your lips as you position the lamp next to the couch and the cup on the coffee table within arm's reach.

"I didn't startle you with my fiendish screech, did I?" He looks up at you bashfully through his fluttering lashes, the light spilling from the lamp emphasizing the build of his nose and the refined curves of his lips.

Albeit a little frightened, his soft features outstands the weak shadows cast by them against the low light; giving him a delicate yet fascinatingly heartwarming image that just thaws your heart from the bottom up.

You shake your head and take the space next to him crossing your legs and weaving your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles. "Nothing's ever fiendish with you, Deaks."

He turns his head to you and smiles back, his lips pressed firm together almost in a pout. "Hmm, thank you for taking care of me. I'm sorry that I had to come home like this. We would've had an easier night, you and me. Don't worry though, a few days and I'll be able to get back out there."

"I'm sure you will and don't be sorry, the important thing is that you're home to spend this gloomy, powerless night with. Besides," you shift in your space and turn your body towards him, the distance between your faces sealing, "despite your rashes, I could use some body heat."

As tempted as you are to do some things with him that don't involve making him scream out bloody murder at the nudge of his dressed rashes, the corner of his lips rise and he shifts closer to you, planting a long kiss on your lips. You giggle into it as he begins chewing on your bottom lip and tugging playfully on it, his hands creeping their way to the back of your neck to draw you in deeper.

"Mmm, John- baby, not tonight. You're badly hurt and with a growing fever." You remind him as you pull away but not far enough to not feel his hot breath fan against your lips.

"You said you needed some body heat."

Your throw your head back in a giggle. "Not in that manner, silly. I'd love to but I don't wanna add to your injuries."

He pouts and his eyes narrow to lazy slits, sighing in defeat. "You're the best kind of medicine for me."

You cock a brow at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, lover boy. We could go for a quick round but for now," you rest your head carefully on his lap and gaze up at him from that angle, his eyes gleaming in a pale glow against the low light as he peers down at you, his hand tangling itself in your hair, "why don't you sing us a little song to lighten the mood?"

Knowing very well that doing so was never his strong suit, he gives you an implying look yet you softly encourage him to go for it– with you being the only one who's going to enjoy the first-hand privilege. You know he can sing, he just doesn't have the confidence to push it out of him. His talking voice is already soothing, how much more if it were his singing voice?

"Y/N, come on. You know I can't-"

"John."

"But I have a fever, as you said."

"You do but you sound fine. When did an injury ever stop you from playing bass?" And you're definitely referring to the time he stuck his hand through a glass window drunk and had to get a few stitches afterwards. He stares down at you as he contemplates on it, drawing a deep breath in to start.

"Tonight the darkness seems so deep and silent stars watch as we sleep. The drifter cross the sky, never stop to wonder why," he has his eyes shut during the first line but as he goes on, his eyes open to you in awe at the sound of him finally singing.

"Million eyes could never weep, she lies dreaming like a child. Here beside me all the while. She'll just dream away, until the break of day and gently wake me with a smile." The touch of his warm palm against your cheek as he loses himself in your eyes as he sings sends you up high in cloud nine. Here you are, hearing his mellifluous singing cut through the sound of the harsh storm, unable to believe that this man is actually yours.

"She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She brings down and takes me high. She fills my life and makes it real. No matter what she does, she makes me feel." And you are his. The air hangs thin between you both as he swallows upon finishing, just anticipating for your reaction. "Y/N?"

With no words to describe what he's made you feel all over again with his singing, you lift your head up to meet his lips and hook your arms around his neck to haul him in deeper. His skin flushed against yours feels heated, literally and it could be from his high body temperature. He whimpers into your mouth and shuts his eyes as he adjusts himself gingerly to feel you better while avoiding grazing his afflicted arm and leg against a surface.

You break away slowly with barely any breaths slowed down, his smile further radiating as he caresses your cheek lovingly through the temporary darkness enveloping you. "You make me feel."

"God, John... I love you so much."

"I love you too, Y/N."

"And I promise, the mark of your singing will remain sacred in this house." You put your hand up as a sign of swearing and he chuckles softly, brushing his thumb delicately over your cheek. "I honestly sound better when I'm looking at you. You really are my best medicine."

With his attention firmly set on you for the night, there's no way in the world he's going to touch the now cooling tea on the coffee table.