#i can hear the phlegm

[1eos]

just a cacophony of coughing everywhere i turn

[captain-huggy-bear]

In Sickness and in Health

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Talks of sickness and the grossness of it

Summary: You've convinced yourself that you're not actually that ill, mostly because setting cover for your lessons is more trouble than its worth. Quinn is having none of it.

Notes: I have a chest infection and convinced myself that I was making it up and it wasn't that bad, apparently it is. So I figured Quinn is the voice of reason that I need in my life.

Thank you for the 400 followers as well! Very much appreciated :D

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Quinn's watching you like a hawk from the doorway to the living area, you're bundled up on the couch with at least 3 blankets (far too many for how warm the apartment is), tissues piled high in a bin next to you as you wheeze into another. You've opted for your most comfortable clothes in an effort to make yourself feel better as you cough and cough and cough some more. Your cough is harsh and can only be described as hacking, for someone who has never smoked a day in her life you sound like you've smoked 20 packs a day for 50 years. Your chest crackling and rattling, wheezing in a way that sounds unnatural and decidedly unhealthy.

He hates it, hates that every single night for the past few weeks you've been awake in the night, coughing so hard you make yourself throw up violently, head hanging over the toilet bowel, his hands coming to hold your hair out of the way. He hates that you've taken to sleeping on the couch in an effort not to disturb him, worried about his sleep schedule even though he can hear you through the walls and would feel better if you were beside him in the night. He hates that you've been going into school, teaching while struggling to breathe simply because you feel guilty about taking a day off, about the extra work for others and because somehow you've convinced yourself that 'its not that bad'. He hates that he can't snap his fingers and make you better. He hates seeing you sick, worse still seeing you sick and not properly looking after yourself. Worse still feeling powerless to help.

His eyes narrow this time as you cough so hard you bend in two, whimpering as your body tries to expel phlegm from your chest and fails. Only succeeding in causing your chest to hurt even more and for you to taste blood in the back of your throat. You're practically shivering from discomfort and he decides he can't take it anymore. He's fed up of being the nice boyfriend that lets you hurt yourself further because you're feeling guilty and deluded. Because you're being a bit of a brat, a stubborn arse. A stubborn arse he loves, but a stubborn arse anyway.

"That's it. I'm taking you to the doctors." He's already reaching for your coat by the door, and bending down to pick up your shoes. Even as your head turns to him slowly, eyes half-open and fatigued, mouth opening in protest.

"I'm fin-" You're cut off by your own cough, wheezy and rattling, the sort that is definitely not 'fine', "I'm fine, it's just a cough. It's nothing, it'll go soon..." You've been saying this for 2 weeks and it's less reassuring and believable at the near 3 week mark.

"You've been up every night for 2 weeks. I'm taking you to the doctors." It's a Saturday morning and he knows the walk in clinic is open, he also knows he won't get you to agree to go on a school day. This is his best chance and Quinn's decided, as he looks at the pallor of your skin and the limpness of your body, that you're going even if he has to carry you out to his car. Even if he has to drag you kicking and scream like a naughty toddler. Even if he has pictures all over the internet and headlines exclaiming 'Canuck's Captain, Bully of a Boyfriend?'. If it means you'll get better he'll take all the press, all the stares, all the heat.

"I'm not even that sic-" Once again, your cough interrupts you and this time, Quinn cuts in before you can continue. He's crouching in front of you, your shoes placed beside your feet in their snoopy socks.

"Baby, you might have gas lit yourself into believing that, but I know better. I'm taking you to the doctors, we're going to get you some meds. That's final." Quinn treats you like a princess, always has, and sure he usually takes a more dominate and traditional role in the relationship. But, it's rare for him to lay down the law, for him to outright remove your choice. Mostly, because you usually make the wise one anyway...today, you seem determined to put your health at risk and if that means he has to force you to do something you'd rather not? Well, the captain in him will come out to play and nice boyfriend Quinn will go take the bench. Nice isn't going to keep you healthy. Letting you get your way isn't going to make you better.

"Quinn..." Even the way you say his name is wheezy and it hurts, it hurts your chest to breathe, to speak. A sort of dull ache, a discomfort that deep down you know isn't normal...even as you try to push through.

"Shoes on. Now." His voice is sharp, not unkind, but firm. It's an order, not a request. A voice he rarely uses with you. Quinn only uses it under 2 scenarios: 1) You're putting yourself at risk and he's sorting it out or 2) it's an agreed role choice for your bedroom. He'd rather not have to use it for the first reason, but you're not really leaving him any choice.

"Bu-"

"Shoes, baby." He softens the tone, pulling back a little on the captain voice even as he grabs your right foot and forces you to put your first shoe on. You seem to give in, letting him help you into your shoes, tying them so they're supportive and comfortable.

He stands, reaching for your hands to pull you to your feet, holding onto your arms as you sway, lightheaded and dizzy at the upward movement. It takes longer than he would like for you to recover and it settles Quinn's mind even firmer on the course of action he's taking, helping you into your coat before leading you out of the apartment.

It's slow going, you're dizzy and short of breath and each step seems to take you even longer than normal. But, he's just happy to get you to his car, knowing that the next step is the triage walk-in centre 15 minute away.

You practically slump in the passenger seat, curling towards the door, blinking as the streets pass by. You have to admit, even if not audibly, that Quinn's right. This isn't just a cough, you feel like death warmed over and you know there's something not quite right. Even if you're loath to admit it. Even your students had picked up on how ill you were this week, being extra nice for once and not forcing you to yell at them like they knew you physically couldn't raise your voice even if you wanted to (which you didn't). Even the two boys you'd asked to stay behind to talk to about their behaviour had been patient when you'd had a coughing fit, unable to address their poor behaviour for a good minute.

When you finally arrive at the medical centre, he's very tempted to carry you inside, but you just about accept his arm as he helps you to the door and to the front desk. He takes over, describing your symptoms to the receptionist as you wheeze beside him, pressing your face into his arm as you seek some sort of comfort and you don't stop when you sit in the tiny uncomfortable seats waiting for your turn to see a nurse. Seeking his body for comfort, Quinn runs his fingers through the ends of your hair, occasionally rubbing the nape of your neck. He hates the way you whine into him, like everything is wrong with the world. He hates that he can't immediately fix how you're feeling.

It takes longer than Quinn would like for your name to be called, in the time it takes you're so tired from the outing that you're almost falling asleep on him. Your breathing is shallow and laboured as you wheeze in and out. All he can do is offer comfort and support, even as he forces you to stand once again and make the walk to the nurse's examination room.

You struggle through describing your symptoms, Quinn jumping in when he feels you're underplaying them or have missed something out. The nurse takes your blood oxygen levels, tutting as she does, and gets up to listen to your chest.

"I know what I'm going to hear already, but let's have a listen." The stethoscope is cold as she lifts the back of your shirt and slips it against your skin. You try to breathe in and out as normal as she moves from each section of your back, the top down to the bottom, left to right.

"Just as I thought, very crackly in the bottom left of your lungs...you've got a pretty nasty chest infection, lovely." She gestures for you to take a seat and you ignore the look Quinn gives you from the corner of your eye, the sort that screams 'I told you so.'

"Right, I'm going to prescribe you a course steroids and a course of antibiotics. You need to take 8 of the steroids in the morning for 4 days, just take the first dose the moment you get home today. The antibiotics you need to take for 5 days, 2 today and then 1 a day for the remaining 4, okay?"

You nod at her instructions, not feeling much like talking. You know Quinn is mentally cataloguing each instruction so that he can make sure you take your medication right and fully. A relief because you're so tired you're not sure you'd remember right now.

She prints out your prescription and hands it to you, which you promptly hand to Quinn, who holds it tight like he's scared it'll blow away in the windless room.

You both thank her as you leave and Quinn insists on going straight to the pharmacy next door and putting your prescription in. It takes longer than he wants, 20 minutes before you have your meds in hand and he's ushering you back to the car and strapping you in because you look too tired to do it yourself. You hold the little paper bag of medicine on your lap and watch him as he drives, your blinks are slow and tired and he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, clearly worried. Quinn's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

The moment you're in the apartment, he's helping you from your coat and shoes, ushering you to the coach and helping you sink down into it, your head drooping as your arms dangle between your knees.

"I'm going to get your meds ready, okay? Just sit right here, baby." His hands run over your hair, across your shoulders, comforting strokes as he watches you struggle. He's relieved you have medicine now, even if he's angry that it took so long to convince you to get checked out. The anger isn't directed at you, but at himself and at the schooling system, the guilt its put into your head. The feeling that you can't be sick, can't take a day off. Anger that he'd allowed you to put this off for so long when he should have pushed more.

"Okay...Thanks, Quinny..." Your voice is fragile, delicate and his chest aches at the way you look up at him with tired, red eyes. Tired, hardly sleeping, fatigued from an infection attacking your body and still so thankful for him.

"No trouble at all, baby." Quinn leans down pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering slightly as you sway into him, eyes closed and nearly fall forward when he pulls away. But, Quinn's hands are there to right you, gently leaning you back against the couch pillows.

In the kitchen area he pours you as big glass of water and counts out 2 antibiotics, dark green capsules, and 8 tiny uncoated steroid tablets.

When he reaches you he hands you the glass, watching as you take a big gulp, holding it in your mouth as you gesture for the first pill. One at a time he hands them to you, watching as you swallow each with a healthy mouthful of water to make them go down easier. You shiver at little after each, like your body doesn't want you to take them, but they go down easy enough.

"Baby, I think you should go lay down in bed..."

"Mmm..." You're starting to feel sick, nausea hitting as your body processes the unfamiliar but strong medication. Your head is pounding, you feel like you're going to be sick and it's with nothing short of gentleness that Quinn scoops you up into his arms, your head nuzzling into his neck.

"C'mere..." You're not a light person, adult humans generally aren't, but Quinn has spent years as a pro-athlete training his body and in more recent years making sure he can bench as much weight as possible so carrying you isn't ever an issue. For reasons like this. The need to support you when you're sick or hurt. The idea that you might need him like this and he be unable to provide was simply unacceptable.

He moves carefully, steady so as not to rock you too much or too harshly as he walks you the short distance to your shared bedroom. He's gentle as he deposits you on the bed, helping you pull the blankets up around you as he sits beside you, fingers tracing a path over your forehead and down your cheek.

"How you feeling, baby?"

"Dizzy...nauseous...feel horrible, Quinny..." You almost sound like you might cry a little, a shakiness to your voice that pulls at his heart strings.

"I'll go make you some ginger tea for the nausea..." Quinn goes to get up but you're gripping his hand as hard as you can, eyes blinking up at him blearily, a pout directed his way that you know he can't really say no to. "No. Stay, cuddles please."

"Okay, baby, cuddles."

Quinn wastes very little time getting into bed besides you, letting you curl into him, your leg slung over his hip and your face pressed into his sternum like you could bury yourself in his chest and hide away from how you feel. All he can do he does, wrapping you up tight in his arms, hand rubbing soothing circles across your back.

Your breathing is shallow and shaky, swallowing as the nausea hits in waves. You can feel Quinn pressing kisses to your hair, your temple and it makes you feel better even if it doesn't take the sick feeling from your stomach.

"Thank you for looking after me..." You mumble it against his jaw, pressing a light kiss there, energy to do anything more none existent. Quinn responds with a kiss of his own to your hair, fingers reaching up to run through the ends as you nuzzle closer to him, chest to chest.

"I'm always going to look after you, baby. That's my job..."

"No...you're job is...your job is to play hockey." You sound a little confused and dazed, not really a surprise with the brain fog you've had this entire sickness. You seem to struggle to realise that he's not being literal, but it's cute. It's cute now he knows you're being medicated and not letting yourself get progressively worse and more and more likely to end up with pneumonia.

"Mm, that's my paying job, sure...but you're my real job. I just want to make sure you're okay, baby...especially when you're stubborn." Quinn's fingers rest on the nape of your neck, massaging the tense muscles there as you press further into his neck, little kisses being left like it's the only thing you have the energy for. It's sweet, even as you wheeze and rattle like an old change machine.

"I'm sick, don't be mean to me." Your voice is pouty and playful, and there's a slight relief in it for Quinn. That if you're being playful you're probably feeling a little better, a little more like yourself. He readjusts your leg around his hip, a hand resting there to keep you close.

"Never, baby. I love you too much to be mean to you."

"Liar." There's no animosity in it, just playful back chat that has him leaning back slightly to look at you with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, I see you're already feeling better? Absolute brat." Quinn grins at you for the first time in days, the relief that you're feeling even slightly better, the feeling of accomplishment at having convinced you to go to the doctor's, all combining to make him feel lighter than he has in a while.

"I'm sick, a sweet baby actually." Even you smile slightly as you look up at him, eyes slightly delirious and hazy like you're not all there right now which is probably about right. Your voice is croaky, but no less sweet to listen to.

"Mmm, sure y'are, baby. My sick, sweet girl who's also such a brat."

"Fuck off." You pretend to shove him away but he barely moves, your push weak and completely not serious. Even your voice has absolute no bite, just humour in it, the sort he's missed from you. You've been so down, so tired, so sullen that he's missed the banter, the back and forth, the playfulness that you two have.

"Alright-" Quinn pulls away, starting as if he's going to get up, but you're leg locks over his hip, arms practically crushing him to you as you stop him leaving your cuddle pile, the nest you've made, "No, stay! 'm sorry, Quinny...stay, feeling so much better with you here." You mean it. Maybe you still feel sick, nauseous and achy. Maybe your chest still hurts, your cough still rattling through you. But, being close to him helps, it makes you feel comforted in a way that you need right now and the idea of him going makes you want to cry. Even though rationally you know he's joking and not serious.

"Okay, sweet girl. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He settles back into space next to you, hand running from your knee to your hip in soothing strokes as his other hand rubs circles over your back.

"Love you so much." You mumble it against his neck, face pressed as tight as you can, inhaling his cologne, the smell of his skin, the distinctly Quinn scent that brings you a sense of safety and comfort.

"Love you too, sweet girl."

Maybe Quinn hates the way you refuse to get help when you're sick, maybe this whole episode had terrified him to his core, made him worried sick, but God, he loves you enough that he'd do this every single year of his life if he had to.

In sickness and in health, right?

[pygmi-says-hi]

writing tips - sick/poisoning fics

so since you guys ate up the injury thing like holy fuck 1.5k notes in 24 hours??? hello?? I thought I'd do a semi-related one about sickness.

disclaimer because you guys thoroughly reminded me of this: medicine is fucking weird and everybody reacts differently. this is blanket statement information, not the mayo clinic. idc that 'oh my cousin had that disease and he didn't have that symptom' okay whatever like sorry but that's not the point of this post. this is just to eliminate egregious mistakes. I'm not looking into every possible way this illness will show up. chill your tits. the comments on the last post were just like. dude. chill.

aurkay so.

poison-related illness.

okay poisoning is such a cool concept and there are literally so many cool effects it can have. Idk why everyone goes with the holy trinity of hallucinations, fainting and nausea. like yeah those are good but there are so many other things???

like internal bleeding. literally the best. I love it. It's slow but hella deadly and sometimes people can't even feel it/don't know what's happening. that's such a great option for whump or some angst. like they didn't know until it was too late. gold.

also - some poisons are not dissolvable in food or drink. Like certain medicines, they lose effectiveness if digested instead of injected intravenously. obviously you don't have to know that but if you wanna get into it, do a lil bit of research. could bring up some intriguing scenarios.

infection or sepsis

yoooo. sepsis is lowkey terrifying. infections are similar to actual illness but are caused because of an unsanitary wound. lots of interesting symptoms to browse here:

fever, cramps, fainting, hallucinations, dehydration, delirium, nausea, sores, sepsis, organ failure and on and on and on.

infection happens so fast too. like forget to change a bandage once and boom it could be infected. (is that a whump opportunity I hear...?)

sepsis is like the point of no return pretty much. Unless you've got crazy medical technology, sepsis is really really bad. basically, it's when the body overreacts and starts to damage its own tissue. leading to organ failure and then eventually death. spooky.

regular illness

this just means like a virus or something. a key point of viruses is an elevated temperature and dehydration; the body's primary responses. burn the bug out and dehydrate it.

depending on the illness, symptoms will vary. respiratory infections or viruses involve congestion, coughing, sore throats, a rattly breathing sound, and productive coughing (phlegm and mucus). Stomach illnesses include cramps, nausea, dehydration, dizziness, low blood sugar, weight loss, and diarrhea. these can overlap but mostly those are the groupings.

with fevers come achy joints and sensitive skin. fever is inflammation, like mild swelling everywhere because of how intense the antibody reaction is.

dehydration sets in really quick. really bad dehydration induces dizziness, nausea, diarrhea, delirium, lethargy, and fainting. great motivation for a whumper to possibly restrict whumpee's water intake...?

just some prompts! kinda low energy today sorry I haven't been posting, xox

[thebestsetter]

- I wish you'd dedicate a goal to me

- What? - Rin asked as he stared at the girl

- I said - (Name) said while not taking her eyes off the horror movie her and Rin were watching - I wish you'd dedicate a goal to me. Ya know, like Bachira does to his girlfriend - she sighed dreamly - or Isagi. Hell, even Kaiser dedicates his goals to his girlfriend.

- Hm - Rin said, taking his eyes off her and looking back at the TV - that's kinda stupid. Everyone knows you're dating me, so why would I need to do that? The game should continue as quickly as possible, so it would just be a waste of time.

The girl finally looked at him. If he stopped paying attention to that movie and decided to look at her too, he'd see the sad look in her eyes. The girl sighed again (this time, out of disappointment) and got up from the sofa.

- Hey, where are you going? - Rin said, finally pausing the movie (just as the main character was almost getting caught by the big, bad and scary monster) and looking at her again

- I'm going to bed - she responded. Quick, short and emotionless. Exactly the opposite of what her answers should be

- Then I'm going too - Rin got up from the sofa, kind of grateful that she made him turn off that horrible movie (he liked horror movies, but this one was ridiculous. The monster looked like phlegm and the script looked like it was written on colored paper with crayons by a 5 year old)

- Hm - she hummed, and the teal eyed boy was starting to get uncomfortable with her responses (or the lack of them)

Without another word, the couple went to their shared bedroom. (Name) sat down on the bed and decided to spend the next 30 minutes surfing the internet and liking some cute cat videos, while Itoshi went to the bathroom to shower (the last time he had taken a shower was in the morning, before breakfast. Yucky!).

When he finally locked the door, (Name) suddenly got a call from her best friend. She decided to pick up, since the girl always knew exactly how to cheer her up

- Hey (Name)!

- Hey.

- Okay, You can stop giving me that attitude, young lady. What happened?

Sighing for the third time in a span of 30 minutes, (Name) decided to tell her about the disgreement with her boyfriend.

- So yeah, I got kinda sad. He basically said our relationship was a waste of time, you know?

- I can't believe that bastard really said that. "That's stupid". If anything, he's the stupid one! - she said, mocking Rin by mimicking his voice. A very poor imitation, may I add. But it made you giggle, and that was exactly what she wanted - can't believe you're still going to his game tomorrow!

- Yeah - you said, a lot more happy thanks to the conversation with her - But can you blame me? VIP session, baby! - you both chuckled

- True. Well, I have to get going - she said, sadly cutting your convo short - I have a job interview tomorrow, since not all of us date a football player - she playfull rolled her eyes - but it was amazing talking to you!

- You always know how to make me smile. Thanks.

- Don't mention it! If he ever pulls any shit like that again, just break up with him OR don't hesitate to call me. I'll kick his ass for making my pookie wookie sad - she answered, using that ridiculous nickname you begged her to stop using

- Will do - you smiled - now go to sleep. You need to be in good form tomorrow!

- I'll get that job opportunity, you'll see.

- I don't doubt you one bit

- Bye, good night!

- Night! - (Name) said, turning the call off and finally going to sleep with a calmer mind.

What she didn't expect, however, was that Rin was hearing every. second. of. the. call.

It's not like he wanted to hear it, he just happened to be attently listening to every word (Name) said and trying to understand what her friend said too. It's not his fault his gf uses speaker mode!

The Itoshi got out of the bathroom and stared at the phone with a dumbfolded expression, not believing ehat he had just heard.

"I can't believe (Name) got mad because of that" because of me, is what he really thought, but he decided to lie to himself claiming that "it wasn't his fault"

- ...why are you looking at my phone like that? - the girl said after being woken up by the light coming out of the bathroom.

- Like what?

- Like that!

- I don't know what you're talking about.

- Okay then. If you're acting stupid to make me angry, congratulations! It's very effective

- I'm not acting stupid

- You're right! You're not acting stupid, you are stupid

- Hold on - he put his hands in front of his body - are you seriously mad at me for not wanting to dedicate you a goal?

- Wow! What a genius!

- Not a fan of the attitude

- Not a fan of you being an asshole

Rin decided that arguing was useless. Afterall, you were always very sarcastic when mad, so any efforts to make you less angry were fruitless. There was only one way to solve this argument, and Rin already knew what he was gonna do. So, he finally decided to lay in bed.

- Nuh uh, you're sleeping on the couch tonight.

- What?! You wouldn't do this to me.

- Yep, I would. Couch. Now.

Yeah. He had to solve this shit fast.

"And there he goes again, Rin Itoshi dominating the field once more! "

He was at the top of his game today. It almost made you pity the other team, really. Two goals in the first half of the game is a big deal. And, sadly, none of them were dedicated to you. Not that you were expecting it. You knew how stubborn Rin was, but you were just as (if not even more) petty.

So, you decided you would leave the game early. You wish he could see you leaving, but he would notice your absence sooner or later.

- Wow, this game just keeps getting more interesting! A penalty for the team led by Rin Itoshi, and it looks like he will be the one to shoot it. I'm sure he wants to score a hat trick, so that's his chance! And he isn't someone who loses his chances often.

He sure isn't. Because, the moment he grabbed the ball, he looked at your chair, eyes sparkling and almost pleading for you to watch him. And even though you wanted to leave him alone, something inside of you told you to wait. So, you decided to humor him for a bit.

"The ref blows the wistle. Itoshi looks at the ball, runs and... GOALLLL!!!! A hat trick from the one and only Rin Itoshi, ladies and gentleman!"

You rolled your eyes, cause you knew he wouldn't lose this, and decided to finally leave. Afterall, your gut was wrong. Nothing extraordinary happened. Or at least you thought nothing did.

- Love, wait!

No way. Rin freaking Itoshi was not jumping the fence separating the field from the stands just to get to you.

- This goal was for you, ya know?

This wasn't happening, right? He for sure wasn't hugging your waist so tight it was making you red (yes, of course your red face was only caused by the lack of air filling your lungs because of his grip. Of course you weren't feeling shy or anything)

- I didn't think dedicating you a goal was necessary because I thought you knew all of my goals were and are for you. Everything I do is for you. I love you. And since I love you, you don't deserve only a goal: you deserve a whole ass hat trick. This is for you, love.

You were crying. In front of thousands eyes and in front of the television. The whole world could see your ugly crying red face, but you strangely couldn't care less. Not when Rin was closing the distance between your faces, and specially not when the striker was kissing you with so much passion it made you wanna cry even more. And so, you laugh.

- Yeah, you're not sleeping on the couch again tonight.

~ A/N: not proof read, so sorry for any mistakes!!! Also, the friend got the job after the interview 👍

Masterlist

[farfromstrange]

Pink Eye | Matt Murdock x Reader

Matt Murdock Masterlist

Summary: You start the new year with a bad case of conjunctivitis and a cold. As annoyed as you are about it, fortunately for you, you have a very doting boyfriend to take care of you.

Warnings: Cursing, sickness, fluff.

WC: 1.2k

A/n: This is totally self-indulgent, and my first fic after a month (or so)! Don't worry, you're still getting those other Fictober prompts, this is just something that came to my mind yesterday and I had to write it. I wish I had a Matt Murdock to take care of me, so I wrote this. I hope I'm not too rusty.

Read Me On AO3!

The cold compress seeps into the swollen skin of your eyelids, though it offers only a small reprieve from the ache and itchiness that make you want to claw your eyes out like a feral cat under attack.

Tissues lay strewn around the coffee table, each one soaked in tears and whatever else came out when you wiped them dry. The apartment reminds you more of the set of a bad chick-flick rather than a home. Most of the time it resembles a crime scene or a poorly supplied hospital when your risk-friendly boyfriend decides he just has to get himself into another fight for the greater good, but this New Year’s, the only casualty that came out of the holidays is you—defeated by your own immune system. 

You haven’t been properly sick in a year. For 366 days, you’ve been free of any viral or bacterial infections, and the one time you decide to have dinner with your family you end up with a nasty infection: conjunctivitis. Yes, you started the new year with fucking pink eye and a cold, and now you’re stuck at home for your last few days off work, feeling miserably sorry for yourself.

“Here,” Matt appears in your one functioning line of sight with a bowl of soup in hand, “You need to eat something.”

“Thank you,” you say through a congested nose, and he can’t help but smile at how adorable that sounds.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I want to put a finger into my eye and scratch it out.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So, not good?”

You shake your head. “I’m annoyed. And in pain. And I can’t fucking breathe!” As if to underline your frustration, your lungs constrict and you cough up a not-so-delicious ball of phlegm. 

Matt’s hand instantly moves to your back, rubbing gentle circles until the oxygen returns to where it needs to be. Your breathing becomes rapid before it slows down again, and you swallow.

“Fuck me,” you mumble.

“When you’re feeling better,” he retorts almost cheekily, but the joke doesn’t get much of a response. He knows how miserable you are. He can hear it in the way you breathe, your elevated heartbeat, and the pulsing of the skin around the infected eye. You wear your discomfort on your very sleeves. He doesn’t want to imagine what it feels like for you.

Instead of joking any more, Matt gently removes the compress from your eye. “Let me get you a new one,” he offers. Your first instinct is to cover up. It baffles him; you haven’t hidden from him in a very long time.

Matt takes your hand and places it back down in your lap, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Don’t do that.” 

“I look like I got into a fight,” you say.

At that, he reaches out, fingers gently brushing just above your brow, down your temple, and over the apple of your cheek. He can feel the heat radiating from your skin, the inflammation that’s causing your eye to swell, but the picture his fingertips paint is a stark contrast to your own description. 

“No, you don’t,” he says. And Matt knows better than anyone what one might look like after a fight.

His touch is so gentle, far away from where you’re hurting but close enough to feel his need to fix you. To heal you. To take your pain away and make it his own just so you wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. Your heart flutters like a newborn butterfly. You look into his hazel eyes, how soft they are, and it makes you melt. If you could only see yourself the way he sees you... The way he loves you seems like a gift from God himself. 

His touch disappears, and you bite back a pathetic whimper. “Be right back,” he says.

You watch as he rises to his feet and heads back to the kitchen, grabbing another cool compress from the fridge before returning to your side.

“There you go.” He places it against your eye and holds it there. “So you can eat.”

You want to say, ‘You’re doing too much’, but then you realize that you’re with the kind of man who would shoulder the world for you even when he’s already drowning to make sure life is just a little easier for you. And while that feels like entirely too much, more than you deserve, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him to stop. Not that he would do so, anyway. 

Every bone in your body aches, but the pain blurs in comparison to what he makes you feel. 

You take the bowl of soup he prepared and dig in. It’s your favorite, yet scarcely seasoned to not irritate your throat any further. When your stomach is finally full and he’s satisfied, he reaches for the bottle of eyedrops standing tall amongst the graveyard of tissues. He knows to think about everything when you can’t. 

“Lean back,” he instructs softly. 

“I don’t want you to get sick,” you protest. 

“I won’t. I know you hate doing this yourself. Now lean back.”

He’s even more stubborn when you’re sick, but only because you’re stubborn, too. You don’t protest further, simply leaning your head back to give him better access. 

Matt gently searches for your lower lid with his fingers, pulling it back ever so gently before squeezing the first drop in. Then, he moves on to the second eye. Your eyes instinctively squeeze shut at the sudden intrusion. It burns. Will it ever stop, you wonder? 

“I’m sorry,” he wipes away any excess tears threatening to escape, “it’ll get better in a second.” 

You huff a breath of disapproval, but not at his words. “I’m never visiting my family again unless they give me a detailed list of who’s sick,” you say. 

Matt stutters for a moment, then bursts out laughing.

“I’m serious! Small children are little Petri dishes, carrying viruses and bacteria that continue to mutate into God knows what. Petri dishes, Matthew!” 

You sound so beside yourself, he can’t help himself. He adds the used tissue to the coffee table pile and pulls you into his arms, his laugh rumbling against the top of your head as he presses his lips against your heated scalp. “This is New York, sweetheart,” he says, “the entire city is a Petri dish.”

“And I will avoid it like the plague if I have to.”

He chuckles. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “You’re so much moodier when you’re sick.”

If you had the strength you would smack his pretty face for that statement alone, but you really, really don’t. You can barely sit up on your own. So, you nudge him with your elbow and grumble, “Shut up.”

With a bright smile on his face, he gives you another squeeze. “I love you too,” he says.

You squeeze his bicep three times to assure him that yes, you do love him, and you can’t help but think that perhaps being coddled in Matt Murdock’s arms while recovering from a little infection isn’t so bad, after all. It certainly could be worse. 

fluff tag list: @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler @mochie-is-a-librarian

[grayskies2525]

Inevitable (male sneezing, contagion)

Just wanted to write something super self-indulgent with minimal plot.

CW: This fic includes detailed contagion! It’s gross and I spare no details — we’re talking snot strings and things of that nature. If you’re not into that, absolutely do NOT begin reading this or you’ll have a very unpleasant time. If you do, however, like contagion and messy sneezes, I hope you enjoy this 😊

Part one is just set up, but I plan to continue it with Evan spreading his germs everywhere (unintentionally).

Here are the links to all parts:

Part two Part Three Part Four

*** 

Part One

It’s a sneeze — a single sneeze. A simple bodily function. There’s nothing intrinsically bad about a sneeze.

These words run through Evan’s mind as he picks at his cuticle while his eyes dart to the man across from him. The elevator’s been stuck for several minutes already and there’s an unease settling in Evan’s stomach as he looks at this man. They’d walked on together, smiling awkwardly the way two strangers tend to do. Then the man had immediately snapped forward in an uncovered sneeze. 

It’s probably allergies.

This is a rational thought to have, Evan thought. It is March. There’s definitely pollen in March. But then the elevator got stuck and the man started letting out chest rattling coughs. 

So he’s definitely sick. But maybe he’s not contagious? It could just be a lingering illness — one of those that hang on for weeks but are no longer as easily transmissible to other people. 

“I’m sor — heh — sorry — HHHH! I woke up with an awful c—hh heh! — cuuhhhh hh —  cold. HH hh hhhhh HH! I’ve been sneezing all  — heeh hehhhh — day,” the man says in a trembling voice before reaching up to rub his reddened, swollen nose. It makes a horribly audible squelching sound.

Evan reaches for strength somewhere deep within to will himself not to wince as he stares at the man. Evan has seen him around the college before, and is pretty sure he’s an instructor, though he doesn’t know the subject he teaches. He has dark skin, looks to be in his early-mid thirties and most notably — he’s tall; Evan would estimate him to be somewhere around 6’5. He has a nice build — muscles visible through his tight long sleeved shirt. His silver eyebrow piercing glints under the elevator’s dim lights. On any other day, Evan would find him to be attractive — exceptionally so. It’s clear, however, that Evan is not seeing this man at his best. 

“Oh, uh, it’s okay,” Evan says, sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He would rather this guy didn’t talk — that he didn’t do anything that could result in more droplets entering the air they’re sharing. Can talking spread droplets? He imagines they probably can.

“I thought it was allergies yesterday, but I woke up today and I —” He breaks off coughing, holding a fist out weakly. Evan can hear the phlegm rattling around in the man’s chest, and again he has to suppress a wince.

“Sounds rough,” Evan says, giving a strained smile as he taps his fingers against his thigh. This elevator usually only stays stuck for a few minutes. He can last a few minutes without catching something off this man, surely. Maybe the germs from that first uncovered sneeze won't take.

“I probably shouldn’t have come in today,” the man says, shooting Evan a smile that would probably be charming if it weren’t for how tired it looks. “But I didn’t realize how bad this bug was going to be. I don’t think I’ve ever sneezed so much in my life,” he says, sniffling thickly. “And my nose is running non-stop. It’s a faucet. I’m not exaggerating —I’ve gone through an entire box of tissues already.”

With these words, Evan finds himself suddenly regretting his choice to go back to school for a second Bachelor’s. Yes, his creative writing degree has been practically useless for the six years he’s had it, and yes, he does want to pursue psychology and therefore needs to continue his education. But, right now, that all seems unimportant as he looks at the sniffling man, whose breaths are beginning to hitch again.

Maybe the sneezes are stuck? Like this damn elevator. Please, please, please stay stuck until I can get off this thing, he thinks to himself while digging his nails into his palm. 

“I hate this elevator,” the man says, giving a nervous chuckle. Evan suppresses a groan as he realizes this man is clearly one of those people who are incapable of sitting —or in this case standing — in silence.  “Breaks down almost every day. I don’t even know why I risk taking it, anymore,” he says, giving another thick, slurpy sniffle. By the way the man scrunches his nose and closes his eyes, Evan suspects the sniffle produced a particularly intense tickle.

“Yeah, I get stuck on it probably once a week,” Evan says, giving another strained smile. 

“You’d think someone would do something about — heehhh —” The man trails off, his eyelids fluttering.

Evan can see the man’s glistening nostrils begin to flare. 

“Do you — do you happen to have a ti — hih — tihih — tihiiiihhhissue?” the man asks, his voice shaking.

“A tissue? Sorry, wish I did, but no,” Evan says.

He truly does wish he had a tissue because this man’s going to sneeze. Not only is this man going to sneeze, it’s going to be a messy sneeze. Rarely does Evan know something with such certainty, but this is one of those times. This man’s sniffles aren’t the soft kind that can be taken care of with a soft blow. They’re desperate sniffles — the “holding back an entire tide of mucus” type.

It will be fine as long as this elevator starts up soon. He needs it to start back up soon, then he can walk off and go home and everything will be fine and — 

“HhH—hHRGG’sschhHHHHEEW!!!”

Evan closes his eyes and holds his breath. He slowly opens his eyes, reluctant to see the inevitable aftermath of the absurdly loud and forceful sounding sneeze. Evan’s shoulders relax, though, as he sees the man lower his arm. He’d clearly managed to cover. There’s an obvious wet spot on the man’s sleeve, but still, it was contained. Evan lets himself breathe. That first, uncovered sneeze when they’d walked in must have been a fluke. This man is clearly polite and understands the value of keeping germs to himself.

Evan allows himself to smile sympathetically as he looks at the man and gives a polite “bless you.”

“Thanks,” the man says with another tired smile and thick sniffle. “Like I said — all day. I don’t think I’ve ever been sick like this. It’s just sneeze after sneeze. I’m sure my students must have been tired of blessing me. I can’t wait to just go home and sleep this thing off. If only this elevator would HH’REEHH’TSHOOO! HRR AHHHH-T’SHOOOO!”

Evan remembers seeing something on the news once about the amount of distance a sneeze can travel and how many droplets a single sneeze can potentially contain. It was something like 20 feet and thirty-thousand droplets. While this was distressing information, it hadn’t exactly been believable to Evan. People sneeze all the time.  He sneezes everyday and it certainly doesn’t seem like sneezes can be that powerful. So, he’d frowned at the information, but ultimately moved on, mostly forgetting it. 

This information now, however, crawls along back to the surface of Evan’s mind as the stranger blasts him with sneezes that can only be described as soaking wet. 

They erupted from the man with absolutely no warning and through the harsh lighting of the elevator, Evan can nearly see each and every droplet — some fine, some large and clearly mixed with thick mucus. With only six feet between them — at best — Evan can now believe without any doubt that sneezes can, indeed, contain thirty-thousand droplets. 

And he’s just been hit with two sneezes full of them — entirely unrestrained. 

Evan wants to wipe himself off, but he doesn’t know how. Every exposed part of him has been doused in infectious spray — his neck, his hands, his face…. He decides he can at least wipe off his lips, so he finds a dry spot of his hand before bringing it up to his mouth.

The man’s head is still bent forward, which seems to be a poor decision because his nose is dripping terribly. Evan watches in something of a morbid type of fascination as the droplets hit the elevator floor before the stranger gives a thick sniff and looks back up at Evan.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his expression looking genuinely apologetic, though there’s also something about it that’s decidedly sneezy. His nostrils begin to flare again, but this time he brings a hand up before snapping forward.

“HrrRIIHHHGG’shuuuhhhh! HRR’EHHHTSHOOOO! IhhGT’SHOOOOO! MPFFX’TSHOOOO!”

Evan grimaces as the contents of the man’s nose pour out into the man’s hand in thick, visible strings. To the guy’s credit, he does try to contain it, but the sheer amount makes it impossible. He presses his hand firmly against his nose, but Evan can see moisture seeping through the cracks of his fingers. Evan is certain he's never come close to seeing someone lose control of the contents of their nose in such a dramatic way. Usually adults have a handle on containing the more unpleasant aspects head colds usually bring, but clearly this specific virus is a special case. 

Evan averts his eyes because the situation is gross beyond description, but also, this must be the most mortifying moment of this stranger’s life and he doesn’t need someone staring at him.

Evan feels his own cheeks heat in embarrassment for the man.

Mostly, though, Evan is consumed by apprehension. There’s no possible way he can expect his body to fend off the innumerable germs that are surely trying to invade him right at this moment. Even if it could fight off some of them, there’s far too many to hope he can escape them all.

Evan is surprised to find a sort of peace in accepting this as fact. There’s nothing to be done now. He is coated in germ-infested spray, so he’s going to get sick. In the same way he can’t change how tall he is, he also can’t change this. In a few days time, he’s going to come down with this absolutely monstrous looking cold because it’s as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning.

Part 2

[gingerbloof]

cough syrup (astarion x sick gn!tav)

contents: fluff, sick, stubborn tav, astarion being sweet, mentions of hunting, mentions of other companions (Shadowheart), medicine, kissing, sexual innuendo authors note: hii all, i'm still down with covid, unfortunately, but i hope this self indulgent fic will suffice for now! thank you all for the love on my past fics. i really apprecaite you all. please enjoy! word count: 1,726

You woke in the middle of the night, sweat trickling down your forehead despite your shivering. Gods, you were freezing…

The moon was full and big in the sky, and even the soft rays of moonlight made your head throb. You groan softly and sit up. As soon as you did, a horrendous sounding cough escaped your chest.

Oh, Gods… Please don’t be sick…

You swallowed thickly, your throat stinging in pain and parched. You slowly get up, careful not to wake anyone and make your way down by the river to get some water. You stumble a bit, your head pounding and your ears full. You knelt down by the bank and cupped your hands in the water. The coolness of it made you shiver even more. You brought your hands to your lips and drank down the water, your throat stinging in reply. Another ghastly cough left you, filling the silent night. You tried to muffle it as much as you could so you didn’t wake anyone.

Your head throbbed even more with each cough, every movement proving exhausting. You tried to stand, but your legs wobbled and you tipped over. Before your bottom could hit the dirt, a swift pair of arms caught you. A soft, familiar chuckle was heard from behind you, but you were too delirious to realize who it was, but as soon as a honeyed, yet snarky voice met your ears, you instantly knew who it was.

“Clumsy this evening, are we, my dear?”

“Astarion…” You hoarsely greeted him. 

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that you two cared for each other. Astarion had even admitted it a couple weeks ago, though neither of you really knew what this was. Regardless, he had been a sweet and careful partner thus far, and you admired him more and more for that as each day passed.

He helped to shift you back onto your feet. You wobbled a bit as you regained your balance, trying your best to hide your illness. You cleared your throat nasally as you looked at him.

“I’m sorry, love. Did I wake you?” You asked, trying to keep your voice as still and well sounding as possible. “No, no,” He said, licking some blood off the back of his hand that you had barely noticed. “I just got back from hunting. Your neck is safe for tonight, my dear,” He gave you a playful wink. You chuckled softly, another cough escaping you. You tried to cut it short, but you struggled as you went into a short coughing fit. His face grew with worry as he stepped closer to you, rubbing your back gently.

“Goodness, my sweet… You sound positively dreadful,” He said, a tone of worry replacing his usual honeyed voice. “Are you ill?” He asked. You shook your head, your coughs residing for now. “N-No,” You struggled to speak, phlegm coating the back of your throat. “Just a sore throat is all.”

A chuckle left the pale elf’s lips, shaking his head. “My love, I can hear the way your lungs are struggling right now. This is no sore throat,” He stood in front of you and placed the back of his hand on your forehead, humming softly. “As I suspected. You’ve a fever… You poor thing,” He cooed, trying to place a gentle kiss on your dry lips. You pursed your lips and turned your head away. “Mm-nm, Astarion. I don’t want to get you sick…” 

He let out a soft laugh. “Darling, may I remind you… I’m a vampire,” He smirked. “I don’t fall ill unless I haven’t fed. Now, come. You are going back to bed,” He kissed your lips successfully this time, and swiftly lifted you into his arms bridal style. You let out a soft sound of surprise and instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. 

Before you knew it you were laying back down, but not in your own bedroll. In Astarion’s. He spoke a gentle “Won’t be moment, dear,” Before he hurried off to gather some extra blankets. He came back a few moments later and wrapped you up snugly in them. He obviously loved coddling you like this, because you saw a faint smile on his face as you cooed in content at the warmness of the blankets.

He tucked some loose strands of hair behind your ear and placed a soft peck on your forehead. “Sleep, now, love. I’ll go and see if our healing friends can do anything about this come morning.” You nodded slowly, feeling the everloving embrace of not only your partner, but sleep overcome you.

You woke a few hours later in yet another coughing fit. You sat up so you could catch your breath and notice Astarion is no longer with you. You looked over to the flaps of the tent and they were tightly closed. The sun had risen and the very few rays of light that came into the tent practically blinded you as you slowly opened your eyes.

You heard the sounds of Astarion’s and Shadowheart’s voices just outside the tent, slightly bickering.

“What sort of cleric are you if you can’t heal them?” You heard Astarion scoff. You could practically picture the way he was standing; arms crossed, a slight pout on his face and very defensive. Shadowheart sighed hopelessly. “As much as I would like to heal Tav, whatever has infected them will not heal simply with magic…” She said reluctantly. “It’s not fatal, if that’s what you’re worried about. Unfortunately, however, they will have to face this the old fashioned way; by simply resting and natural remedies.” Astarion sighed, defeated. “Alright… Well, thank you for trying. Now, shoo. Or you’ll be ill next,” He said.

You heard Shadowheart’s footsteps walk away before the flaps of the tent slowly, carefully opened. As he shut them tightly, another coughing fit took over you. You were positively drenched with sweat and your entire body ached. You felt like death.

Astarion quickly turned to you and cupped your face in his cool hands, his face deep with worry. “Oh, my poor little love…” He cooed. He shifted beside you and rubbed your back as you kept coughing. Tears formed in your eyes as you struggled to take in a breath, every attempt causing you to cough even harder.

Astarion frantically searched his tent for anything to help soothe the cough, even if it was temporary. He quickly grabbed a bottle of simple cough syrup that Shadowheart had given him and poured you a cap full. He handed it to you as your coughing fit slowly started to stop. You waved your head in dismissal, shaking your head. “No, love…” You said, each word scratching and gnawing at your throat. “I’m fine.” You insisted. Astarion huffed, not budging and shoving the cap toward you again.

“Right, and I adore Gale,” He said sarcastically. This made you roll your eyes. You looked at him and he wore a stern, yet pleading expression. “Take the medicine, my love.” He said, holding the cap in front of you.

Your nose curled up in disgust as you eyed the thick red liquid. Ever since you were a child you hated medicine. Your mother had to practically hold you down and force you to take it because you hated it so much. You grumbled and shook your head at him.

He sighed, and raised a hand in defense. “Alright, if you’re so sure…” He begrudgingly gave in, taking the cap away from you. You smirk in success, a lighthearted “Hmph” leaving your lips. He smirked at you and shook his head. “Even sick, you are the cheekiest little pup, aren’t you?” He purred. You flushed through your already reddened face and looked away meekly. 

A moment passed, then his cold fingers took your chin and led your head back to face him. He smiled warmly and leaned in to you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You smiled into the kiss. He briefly swiped his tongue across your bottom lip, asking for access to your mouth. When you complied and parted your lips, you suddenly tasted a disgusting fluid entering your mouth. 

Cough syrup…

He kept his lips firmly against yours, forcing you to swallow. You shoved him away weakly, your face scrunching up in disgust once again. You stuck your tongue out in disgust. “Blech!!”

That sneaky bastard…

“Ughh, Astarion!” You groaned, the sickly sweet fluid coating your throat, already starting to alleviate some pain. He laughed successfully and hard, falling over onto his side, clutching his stomach. You pouted at him as he laughed. “That wasn’t funny…” You whined, crossing your arms.

He sighed happily, wiping a tear of joy from his eye. He sat up and kissed your nose sweetly. “Oh, my dear, you are too easy!” He scooted so he was next to you and propped up on his elbow on his side, giving you a devilish smirk. 

You rolled your eyes and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You asshole,” You said, curling up under your covers again. He giggled and shrugged. “I mean, it was either that, or I could’ve put it on my-” You gasped and quickly sat up, hushing him. “Astarion!” You said, shocked at the audacity of him. He laughed once again, laying you back down.

“You would’ve taken it then, wouldn’t you?” He asked, his smirk growing. You shook your head and scoffed, allowing him to lay you back down. “Shut up,” You said, nuzzling your face into his chest. He chuckled and kissed the crown of your head, wrapping his arms snugly around you.

You both stayed there for the rest of the day while your other companions went out to travel. You slept most of the day, although you were interrupted by a couple of coughing fits, thankfully not as bad now that you had taken something. All throughout the day, whether you were sleeping or not, Astarion would check in on you and check to see if your fever had broken, which it did after a few hours. He brought a damp rag to place on your forehead and would read to you while you would drift back to sleep.

He was the sweetest, most compassionate lover you had ever had… As long as you had him to take care of you, maybe being sick wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just the Two of Us: Feverish

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: Steve stops by unexpectedly.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your phone shakes beside you on the futon. You grumble and roll over, the motion making your head pound even worse. You snort back phlegm and check the screen as you go to mute the call. It’s Steve. You hesitate long enough for the call to time out. 

Before you can put the phone down, it rings again. You cough, it’s like razors in your throat, and you swallow tightly. You drag your thumb over the screen. 

“Hi,” you force out hoarsely. 

“Hey, you missed my call,” he greets. 

“Sorry, I was...” you stifle a cough and take as deep breath as you can. “Steve...” 

“What’s going on?” You hear the suspicion is his voice. 

“Noth--nothing,” your chest aches horribly with each breath. 

“You sound horrible. Not to be mean, but yikes,” he says. “You at home.” 

“Mm,” you hum crisply. You don’t have the energy to do much more. 

“Starry?” He says gravely, “are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah, I--” you hack uncontrollably before you can start the sentence. Your ribs rattle and your head throbs. You clutch your phone tight and whimper as each cough shreds your throat. “I’m laying down.” 

“I’m on my way,” he says. 

“What, no--” again, you can’t argue as your body quakes in the storm of coughs. You push away the blankets as sweat slakes on your skin. You’re hot and cold at the same time. “Steve.” 

“Just relax, won’t take me long,” he insists. “See you soon.” 

The line clicks. He’s gone. Great. You told him not to worry when he left the day before. It’s not his problem. 

You stay on your side, staring at your phone screen. You close your eyes as your skull pulses and shiver despite the heat radiating over your skin. Everything is hazy and distorted. You just need to sweat it out, let it pass, you’ll be okay. 

The buzzer roars through the apartment. You groan and plant one hand, pushing yourself up halfway before you fall back. You can’t even get up. It buzzes again and you lay helpless as you are. Maybe he’ll get the hint and go away. 

There’s a hammering on the door. How did he get up there? You try again to get yourself off the futon. No use. You hear a grinding and click and the door opens. 

“Steve,” you gasp as you lift your head, “what--” 

You choke on the coughs as they fill your chest with lead. He hurries towards you. He tucks something into his pocket as he lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress. 

“I told you, you were getting sick,” he says. 

“No,” you babble dumbly. 

He sighs and touches your head, “Jeez, you’re burning up,” he turns his hand and puts his knuckles lightly against your cheek. Your eyes widen and you stare up at him. He’s gentle but the reminder of another set of knuckles flashes in your mind. “You got a fever.” 

He shifts and bends over you. He puts his ear to your chest as you let out ragged breaths. He tuts and sits up. He shakes his hand as he stands and looks around. 

“You have pneumonia. I can hear it,” he says. 

“No, how could you...” your voice peters out into nothing. He’s probably right and you’re too weak to question him. 

“I’ll... I’ll get you to my place.” 

“Steve...” you rasp. 

“You can’t stay here. Not with the heat off half the day,” he searches around the single room. “I’ll just grab some of your things.” 

You surrender to the moment. You can’t stop him and you know enough about him to know he won’t stop. You close your eyes and hug yourself as another tide of coldness flows through you. Your teeth chatter and you reach to pull the blanket to your shoulders. 

He comes back in and you listen to his footsteps. You can barely tell if he’s close or not. Your ears feel cloudy. It isn’t until his arms slip beneath you that you realise he’s right there. He lifts you easily off the couch and your head swims as you open your eyes. 

“Steve,” you croak. 

“Don’t argue,” he says as he heads for the door. “You know I can’t leave you here.” 

You whine and lean into his warmth. Your body feels tiny against him. You shrink further as another bought of hacking takes over. You swallow more phlegm and wheeze, “I know.” 

⭐

Steve lays you on something plush. The journey has been bumpy, at times, indiscernible. You feel yourself getting worse. You also feel how helpless you are to stop it. He props you up against some pillows and keeps the blankets folded back at your waist. 

“You gotta sweat out that fever but you can’t overheat yourself,” he says. “And you need to stay sitting up. You don’t want your lungs filling up.” 

“Huh? How do you... know?” You sniffle. 

“I used to get pneumonia every other week,” he scoffs. “Trust me.” He moves around the room. “I’ll bring some tissue. You don’t wanna keep swallowing that mess, you gotta get it out.” 

“Steve...” 

“I got a friend, he can prescribe you antibiotics,” he explains. “Didn’t have those until the thirties.” 

“Oh,” you garble senseless as your eye threaten to roll back. You’re just so tired. 

“Remember, stay sitting up,” he points at you then marches from the room. 

You wait and he returns with a glass of water and box of tissues. He puts the latter on the night table and sits to offer you the former. You don’t move. He puts the cold brim to your lips. 

“You have to stay hydrated, alright?” 

You gulp down the water, it’s soothing but chilling. You drain half of it, choking it down, before he finally relents. He sets the glass down and your head slumps forward. He gently cradles your chin and leans you back on the pillows. 

Your eyes skim the room dozily. It’s nice. Bright. The walls are a soft shade of blue and the bed is large and cushy. The blankets are warm and rich. It’s all so much nicer than your place. 

“You should rest,” he says. “I’ll stick around and keep an eye on you,” he slowly stands. “Can’t be too careful. We don’t know how bad it is. The antibiotics will help.” 

You don’t reply. You can’t. You’re content to do absolutely nothing. 

He goes to the desk and pulls out the leather chair. He sits and stares at you, an elbow on the wood surface beside him. You close your eyes and exhale, setting off another scatter of agonizing coughs. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he says. “I won’t let you go, Starry.” 

His voice fades away. Everything is on fire; your ears, your scalp, your insides. You feel yourself burning up as the flames boil in your head, searing through the world around. 

[angelisverba]

bug

in which harry is spider-man, and y/n happens to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time

word count: 4k~

pairing: spiderman!h and y/n

warnings: sexual assault. danger. angst. kissing. grinding. kinda mask kink?

author's note: i know i said i was gonna work on florist... but let's be honest, when have i ever done what i said i was going to do? he just grabbed me by the throat okay? i'm sorry.

Harry… he’s not like everyone else. 

He does things he doesn’t always enjoy doing, but he does them because he has to. Because if he doesn’t, then who will? These aren’t things he can hide, and he’s judged for them. Not everyone likes what he does.

But it’s fine. It’s part of the job. 

Being Spider-Man isn’t easy. 

The moment he was aware of what he could do, Harry accepted his fate of fighting crime, defending those that couldn’t with superhuman abilities which came from the bite of a radioactive spider at the lab he interned for. 

He felt so alone, so alienated under the harsh newspaper headlines that labeled him a demon, a criminal, a havoc, that sometimes he wondered what separated him from the bad guys he caught so violently with. It was a struggle to keep in mind his end goal: keep his city safe. To fight for good. To protect. 

Some nights, like tonight, he was so numbed by the repetitive nature of his days, the brutal fighting over and over again that seems to never end, that as he stooped on the ledge of a tall building, he wanted so carelessly to damn it all to hell. Why him? Why, why, why? 

Harry was tired, having not slept more than eight hours in the past week, and he the strain on his senses is noticeable. Every sound makes his breath catch in anticipation, any movement agitating his hyperfocused irises. He felt like a thread pulled tight. So tight, he was beginning to fray, to snapping. Normally, the suit he wears goes unnoticed. But tonight? He felt it on every inch of his skin. Harry wanted to rip it off. 

He’s playing with the fabric, snapping it against his skin, when he hears it. 

“No, please. I don’t have any money, please stop touching me, I’m begging you.”

The voice was female. Sweet and innocent, but filled with fear. It didn’t sound right. He swung off in the direction of the yelps before he even knew what he was doing, why he was doing what he was doing. 

“Oh, we know that,” a man laughed and there was a rustle telltale of struggle. He was a drunk, Harry knew by the phlegm in his tone, “you’ve got something much better than money.”

He was getting closer by the second, could almost feel his webs sticking to the girl’s assailant. All the fatigue from earlier melted off him as he entered the necessary headspace to fight someone. 

“Stop it! Stop! You’re hurting me!” The mystery girl was crying now, panic taking full control of her voice. 

“Quit moving, girl!” Harry could tell by the increased scuffling that her attacker was getting frustrated, his movements more aggressive. 

He was a blue of red and blue as he swung into the alley where a large bearded man had cornered and was pawing a young girl. He saw flashes of skin and clothing, and didn’t hesitate to kick the man off her. 

“She told you to stop,” he chastised. The webs shot out of his wrist at their own accord, wrapping around the man’s ankles and wrists and clamping over his mouth. He was on the floor now, thrashing and trying to regain some sort of balance, but Harry knew he had fully incapacitated him. 

The dim light leaking in from the flickering street lamp sprayed on the girl as she crouched in the corner, shivering with wide, wet eyes, and Harry’s heart broke. 

“It’s all right now, sweetheart,” he said softly so he wouldn’t scare her anymore than she already was. He knew what the media thought of him. 

She flinched at the sound of his voice, so he tried again, “I’m not going to hurt you-“ 

A loud grunt interrupted him, and a prickly feeling of irritation ran down his spine and jerked him into action. Harry picked the man up by the collar, grumbled out a shut up, motherfucker and knocked him out cold with a punch. 

“Sorry about that,” he huffed once the man slumped down silently, “did he hurt you?” 

The girl tilted her wobbly chin up, and it felt as though he had fallen from the tallest building in the city and smacked down on the ground back first, all the breath from his body vanished. She shook her head and shivered again, sniffling. 

“What’s your name?” Harry asked, whispering. Hoping that the smile hiding underneath his mask was audible. 

“Y/n,” she peeped, side-eyeing him like she was testing him, “and yours?” 

He chuckled, the sound low in his throat, “you know my name.” It wasn’t a question, but y/ nodded anyway. He thought the name was cute, fitting. He thought she was cute even in her disheveled state. Hair a flurry around her, her eyes rimmed with red and her cheeks pink from the chill of night. “Say it.”

It came out like a prayer from her lips, and he’s sure that he wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for his superhuman hearing. A thrill ran though him, his body tensing as if preparing to fight  “Spider-man.”

“That’s right,” his nod was a mere chin dip. He cocked his head, crouched low so they were at an even height. “Are you scared of me?”

“No.” 

“Good. How ‘bout I take you home? Spider-style.” He sprung up and held out his hand, waiting, hoping, for her to take it. 

She was tender in his palm, soft. Wrapping his hand around hers securely, he helped her to her feet and slung a web towards the bags she had dropped in the midst of her fighting. She tried to pull back, but Harry held her still and shook his head. 

“This won’t work if we’re not touching, you that right?” 

He watched as the realization set in, her eyes widening and her pouty lips parting. 

“We’re-?” She gestured loosely at him and the buildings, and he chuffed. Yeah, she was cute. 

“Yes. We are. Unless you want to walk?” 

“No.” 

“Good. Come closer. Closer,” she steps timidly forward until her mary janes are touching the tips of his booted feet. “I’m going to grab you now,” he warned. 

“Okay-“ looping an arm around her waist, he clutched her close. She was cold, smaller than him. Y/n was shaking, her heart beating fast. He could tell that she was still running high on adrenaline, and that it would only spike further. 

“Where do you live?” 

She rattled an address he recognized as one of the semi-safer parts of the city. 

“Ready?”

He doesn’t wait for the full yes to leave her mouth, and together they leave the ground. They swung between buildings, Harry reveling in the way she held on to him and squealed in his ear. It felt a lot like sharing, and when she laughed, he felt a little less lonely for the first time since all this happened.

When they land on her fire escape, he tries not to think about how erotic it feels to have her slide down the front of his body, or how her palms glide down his chest. Or how her breath hitches when he involuntary leans forwards. 

Instead he holds on tight to her goodbye, letting her sweetly mumbled “night, spidey” lull him to sleep when he gets home. 

And that was the first time they met. 

****

The next time, it’s burglars. 

It’s two guys in ski masks throwing bricks through the glass window of a romance bookstore, and a shrill scream that halts everything to a stop and sends him leaping down and swinging from light poles to get to the shop. The sun isn’t even all the way down yet. 

And Harry knows she’s there. His sense doesn’t pick up on people, but he knows because a funny feeling kicks it’s way through his gut and his heart beats a little faster. 

These guys have empty backpacks and thick jackets, heavy duty boots. Briefly, it occurs to Harry that out of all the places to rob, this is the most stupid. 

But it doesn’t matter how stupid the crime is, because it’s still dangerous, and she’s still in danger. 

From his vantage point behind the guys that didn’t even hear him land, he can see that y/n has taken a place behind the register and is on the phone- with the cops most likely. There aren’t any customers inside because- as the signs on the door says- they had just closed. So it’s just her. 

Harry waits for them to actually trespass (another crime to keep them behind bars) before actually doing anything. He shoots a web at one of the guys feet and another at his hands quickly, silently. The first, now on the floor, is yelling so that his partner, deeper in the store, gets a warning. 

“Fucking get the girl, Sly!” He shouts. 

Sly, the other guy in the store, takes one look over his shoulder and does as he was told. He jumps at y/n, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand. 

Suddenly, Harry can’t breathe because it’s pressed against y/n’s temple. She’s in a chokehold at his chest, clawing at a meaty bicep and choking back tears of fear. 

“Now, Sly,” he held his hands out in front of him and slowly walked forward. “There’s no need for all this. Let the girl go.” 

“Shut up! Shut up! I need to think,” Sly’s eyes were wide beneath his mask. He’s frazzled and huffy and Harry’s so scared he’s going to act irrationally. His senses are peaked, eyes tracking every minuscule movement in search of an opening. Y/n is trying to make eye contact with him (or at least as much as she can through the mask) to gain some kind of reassurance, and it’s crushing him that he can’t look at her. 

Sly fucks up, using the gun to scratch his head while thinking, and Harry steps in, webbing his hand to the nearest fixture in a move that knocks the weapon out of his hand. The other however, is still around y/n, so he’s running forward to snatch her away while he’s busy glancing at his hand. 

Once she’s safely deposited on the side somewhere- and he doesn’t miss the way her hands follow him as he falls away, as if mourning the loss of his touch- Harry eagerly pummels the guy. 

“Fuck you and you’re thinking,” he grits out, clocking him once, twice, and three times before he’s unconscious on the floor. 

His chest is heaving, his fist flexing out from its clench. Turning and stepping over the body, he asks, “Are you alright, y/n?” 

“You remembered my name,” she said. She stood up, walking towards him as he did the same. They’re chest to chest, and she lifts a hand. Trying to touch him. 

But he can’t bear it. Can’t bear her touching him because he knows it’ll break him. So he catches the and holds it mid-air. Tries to appease her by combing her hair back with his free hand, and it works. 

“‘Course I did, sweetheart,” he’s taken by the way she leans into his touch, nuzzling his hand like a puppy. In a trance almost, one that’s broken by the distant screech of cops. “I have to go.”

He lets her go, and- “Spider-man, wait!” 

But he couldn’t wait, the sirens were just around the corner. 

****

The third time it’s by accident, and she doesn’t even know it’s him. 

The brush shoulders at a coffee shop, and the distinct smell of her perfume making turn around, like those cartoons with the pie, to watch her walk down the street through the window. Harry is mesmerized by the swing of her hips and is surprised by his Victorian fascination over the swish of her skirt against her ankles. Teasing. She has a tote bag slung on her shoulders, and a book in one hand while the other brings her iced tea to her lips. His eyes lock on her tongue swiping up a droplet of her drink, and his teeth clench. He can’t do this. Not with her. He can’t lust after her. She’s too sweet. 

He frowns and shakes his head because she’s reading while walking, and in the city that’s just begging for an accident. 

He glances down at the title. 

And then he goes to buy it at the bookstore she works at. 

**** 

So it’s the fourth time now. Not even two days after he saw her at the coffee shop. And again, she doesn’t know it’s him. 

He understands why she got hired at the pink romance store. He’s walking around like a creep, an isle over as she makes her way through the customers, asking if they need help and recommending her favorites (all of which he memorizes) or whatever might fit their inquiries. Her voice sweeter than all the times he had previously heard it. She has a very interesting way of talking about sex in books, very innocent. And suddenly, Harry realizes she isn’t. 

He finds the book she was walking around with the other day, and is flipping through it when she stumbles upon him. 

“Oh!” she stutters, skirting to a stop and glancing down at what’s in his hands. He keeps his gaze locked in her face, notices the way her skin flushes when she notices what he’s holding, and how she struggles to maintain eye contact with him as she says, “that one is- it’s uh- really good.” 

Just to fuck with her, he tucks the novel under his arm and cocks a hip against the shelf. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yep.” She rolls her lips in her mouth and flicks her eyes over to the shelf next to him, then back to the book under his arm and her face turns red. 

Harry attempts to hide his smirk, and fails. “Got any other ones you liked as much as this one?” 

Nodding, “A few.” 

“Great, I’ll take them.” 

She rings him up, bright red, and stutters her way through a conversation about what it’s like to work here, if it’s safe, if the rumor about the robbery was true. 

And he’s so, so pleased, when she said, “spider-man took care of me,” with the dreamiest smile dawning on her angelic face. 

**** 

The fifth time he can’t stop thinking about her. 

He’s incredibly surprised at her explicit choice of reading material. 

Two out of the three novels explore mask kinks. 

Who do they both know wears a mask? 

Him.

In the novel she was so caught up in she couldn’t even put it down as she was walking down the street, the female heroine is rescued my a masked vigilante whom she later has very kinky sex with. Mask included. 

And… well, Harry just can’t but think that it’s such a coincidence that she picks up this book after their interaction. That she’s so consumed by it she can’t leave it alone, not even while she’s walking, and then she blushes at the mere mention of his name. Could it possibly be that… she was thinking of him? 

No. 

No it couldn’t be. 

She was too… too sweet to be reading this absolutely filthy things. Too pretty. 

He’s confused, and maybe that’s why he finds himself pacing the roof of the building across from her in the dead of night, staring at her fire escape like a total weirdo. The newspapers would have a field day with what he was doing, and y/n would run for the hills screaming if she knew what he was thinking about. 

Flashes of all the indecent things he wanted to do to her ran through his mind like a torture montage. His head between her thighs with only the bottom half of his mask pulled up. Kissing her while she’s completely naked, sitting in his lap while he’s still totally dressed in his suit. 

He wanted to-

There was a flicker of light at the window he knew was hers, and everything in him stilled. He watched like a peeping tom as y/n opened her window and crawled onto the fire escape. She was in a flimsy pair of shimmery shorts and a t-shirt that just barely grazed her belly button. 

She wasn’t wearing a bra, and from his vantage point he could see the peaks of her nipples poking against the fabric, taunting him. 

Harry groaned, low in his throat. 

And then she looked at him. 

Eyes wide, lips parted, her hands clenching and unclenching against her thighs that were pressed together and-

A breeze swept through in his direction, and carried the scent of arousal. 

Her arousal. 

She mouthed hi. 

And then he was on her fire escape, standing right in front of her. His body was tense, ready to spring into action. Silently, he crouched at the opposite end of her, the space between them small on the rickety fixture. 

“Spider-man,” she whispered, as if testing the waters. There was an eagerness in her tone, and Harry had an idea of why that was. He felt it too, hard in his cock. 

“Hello, y/n,” he rasped. 

“What are you doing here?”

“You know. You know why I’m here.” He tilted his head and beckoned her, “come. Sit.” Harry pointed at his thighs, and sluggishly, y/n got up and straddled him. He could feel her thighs quivering around him, weak from nerves or lack of balance, so he placed his hands on her hips and guided her so their centers aligned, and they were looking right at each other’s face. 

“I don’t understand,” her lips were pouty, shiny under the mooonlight. He wanted to bite them until they were swollen.

“Don’t lie,” he pinched her thigh in punishment and then soothed it with a soft caress. “Lift up my mask.” 

Her shaking hands crept up his chest, feeling, and he groaned, absently thrusting up into her. She gasped, but her hands continued to move, wrapping delicately around his throat in search of the seam. When she found it, she pulled the mask up, but stopped so it rested at the bridge of his nose. Just as he knew she would. 

Chilly fingers skittered on the line of his jaw, over his lips. Her eyes dazed, memorizing, “What’s going on?”

“Will you do as I say, y/n?”

“Yes.” 

Their mouths came together in a rush, wet and lacking any order. Like they were picking back up in the middle of a make-out session. She tasted like mint, cool and fresh and dulcet. Her tongue was timid, submissive to his, but equally as curious. His teeth grazed her lips, and she purred. Her core felt molten hot even through his suit, and he knew without even having to touch her that she was so wet for him. 

 Harry pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, their chests heaving as they greedily suck in air, “take what you want from me. I’ll give it to you. But don’t ask questions. And don’t take off my mask. Understand, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Good. Now sit,” to emphasize, he pushes her down on his thick cock and rubs her back and forth, “in my lap and grind your sweet little pussy on me until you come.” 

Y/n flushes at his vulgarity, and leans back in to kiss him, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders as she begins to move just how he showed her. The weight of her pussy on him engulfed him, and as she dragged up against him, slowing down and pausing at the head of his dick and swiveling so he could feel her clit, stars exploded behind his clenched eyes. Y/n was already whimpering, hot mouthfuls of air puffing into his mouth so it was clear she wasn’t breathing right. He pulls back and dips his head so he’s able to kiss down her throat and to her chest, bringing his mouth to the plushy mouth of her tits. 

“That’s it,” he praises against her nipple, “that’s it, sweet girl, you’re almost there.” 

Her moans fill the air, increasing and climbing until she shatters and Harry fucks up against her like it’s the real thing. A wet spot darkens the front of her panties, and he’s sticky inside his suit. They’re both spent, heaving as they clutch each other on the fire escape. 

Y/n nuzzles against him, “will you come back?” 

“I’ll try, sweetheart,” he whispers kissing her forehead and standing with her in his arms so he can place her safely back inside. 

He doesn’t follow, doesn’t cross the threshold.

Because if he does, their night won’t end just yet.

[writing-mlm]

could you please please please write a jaime reyes fic where reader is sick so jaime takes care of his boyfriend ☹️

Sick Days

Summary: Jaime’s boyfriend is sick and he’s, of course, going to stop everything to help him. Pairing: Jaime Reyes x Male reader Wc: 1k A/n: wrote this while I was (still am) sick so it’s pretty short >:(

“I told him; it’s cold, wear a jacket. It’s cold, don’t go outside with your hair wet. It’s cold, put on thick pants. But did he listen?” Jaime rambles as you’re blowing snot into yet another tissue. He’s not even in your vicinity, you can’t hear him but you can just tell he’s rambling to himself. “No, claro ‘Jaime, I’m from Alaska I’m used to the cold’. You moved to Texas when you were five and haven’t been back since!” 

“You talkin’ ‘bou’ me?” You cough, turning yourself to look into the kitchen. He stops stirring the chicken noodle soup and smiles at you. The tension in his shoulders drops and he shakes his head. 

“Course not, my love. Get your rest,” He cooes, pointing the wooden spoon in your direction. “The soup is almost done.” He adds, killing the fire and covering the pot to let it simmer for a bit longer while he gets a bowl and a plate. 

“Thank you, Jai,” 

“His lymph nodes are swelling, I recommend giving him the water bottle now and a warm rag,” Khaji-Da tells him and he hums in acknowledgment, rushing along the apartment to grab a clean rag and let it run under warm water while he fetches a new water bottle.

When he returns to the living room, he pushes you so you’re lying down and places the rag on your neck. You shudder, eyes closing while he drags the blanket up your body, tucking it under your arms and sides. 

“He needs to be in a more upright position in case he falls asleep and chokes on phlegm,” Hurriedly, he lifts you up a bit, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it behind your back. He reworks the blanket, tucking your feet under the cover despite you trying to flick them off. 

“You’re gonna stop fighting me on this,” He chuckles while staring over at you. 

“It’s hot,” You whine. “I’m already wearin’ socks, Jaime.” The fuzzy blue and green polka dot socks kick off the blanket again and he sighs, hands on his hips. 

“Blanket over feet or you don’t get to watch TV.” You gasp, although it comes out gagged due to your sore throat. He nods, now crossing his arms and you huff. Fine, if he wants to resort to his evil ways. Again, he tucks the blanket under you and nods when you don’t put up a fuss. 

“I’ll bring you the soup now. Do you want saltine crackers with it?” Shaking your head, he hums and disappears into the kitchen. He reminds himself to clean up his mess later and then to buy canned chicken noodle soup— even if he knew his mother would kill him for making canned soup over the special homemade one. 

With the soup bowl on top of a plate, he cuts up a bread loaf and places it on the plate with a Benadryl for when you’re done eating. 

“Want more tea, cielo?” 

“Y’s plea’e,” He chuckles, although he knows he shouldn’t, and brings the kettle with him. 

He sets the plate and kettle on the coffee table and goes off to grab a chair, placing it between the couch and the table. Sitting down, he pours more tea, letting it steep while he starts feeding you. 

“I can feed m’self,” Turning your head away from the spoon, he scoots closer and puts the spoon back into the bowl. 

It’s bad enough you’re sick, although you won’t outright admit it. Because, sure, maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to go for a late-night walk during a storm and then walk to work in the light rainfall that came the following morning. But! But, in your defense. You never got sick from doing it before. 

“Considering you couldn’t feed yourself cereal this morning, no you can’t. Let me feed you.” Sighing, you turn your head back, unable to look at him as he holds the spoon out toward your mouth. If you could smell anything you’d know just how tempered Jaime was to eat the soup himself. “Open for the airplane!” He grins. 

“Ja—“ Slipping the spoon into your mouth, you glare at him while he just smiles and pulls the spoon out. The soup is good, you’ll give him that. You couldn’t smell it being made, clogged nose, and all that jazz. 

“Khaji says you’re swallowing too fast, slow down.” With another spoonful, you don’t put up a fuss this time and he’s nearly giddy. He looks away, a sign that Khaji is speaking, and removes the rag from your neck. It had long since gone cold and wasn’t doing anything. And it could make it worse. 

The two of you fall into that rhythm for some time, he talks about random topics during the commercial breaks and you listen with half-lidded eyes. The warmth from the soup already making you feel good enough to take a nap without the worry that you’re going to cough yourself to death.

With the soup and bread gone, he hands you the pill and your cup of tea. This time, he lets you drink on your own and you swallow the pill with the tea as a chaser. He checks, making sure you didn’t slip the pill under your tongue before he nods, confirming to you that you had, in fact, swallowed the pill. 

“Time for bed,” He says, standing to clean up the items. For now, he’ll just place them into the sink. That’s an issue for tomorrow Jaime. 

“Stay with me?” You ask when he walks back around the couch. 

“Of course, baby.” He grins, kissing your forehead before he picks you up. God, you love having a superhero boyfriend who can lift a semi-truck with one arm. Holding his neck, you sigh and lay your head on his chest. 

When he sets you down on your shared bed, you don’t let go of his shirt, too afraid he’s going to leave. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” He promises, squeezing your hand before moving across the room to dig inside one of the drawers. You know what’s coming and work on taking your shirt off. When he turns around with a Vicks VapoRub jar in hand, you’re sure that he’s truly becoming his parents. 

Sniffling, he sits on the edge of the bed next to you and carefully rubs it along your chest. He works in small circles, humming along to the theme song he’d always hear whenever he was sick. When he’s done, he caps the bottle and sets it on the nightstand before going to turn off the lights. You lay on your side, a towel on your pillow to collect any snot that comes out while you’re sleeping. 

“Get some rest, okay?” The bed dips as he crawls in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

“Mhmm, ‘m tryi’g.” You respond, holding his hand while your eyes slowly close. He kisses your shoulder before he gets comfortable himself. 

“Night, Jai.” 

“Goodnight, mi amor,”

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Could we have octoville reaction to octo merchild misbehaving like attempting to beat them up , trying to escape, thrashing in their arms , and even biting , and even cussing them out and giving the middle finger

Yandere Octorio x Octo Mer Child reader

Children get fussy that’s just a known fact. Even the cruelest and most coldhearted know that children are slaves to their unhinged emotions which can be kicked off by the absence of a nap, not being given their dinosaur nuggies, or not getting to play longer. But only the best guardians know how to handle these kinds of behavior at the very least eliminate the ones that cause it:

Azul Ashengrotto 

More than anyone Azul has the greatest authority over you so he claims

You are the mini to his mega octopus status

So when he says your going back to your tank 

Your going back to your tank

“Nooooo!”

“Let him go, (Y/n). It’s time to go!”

“Noooooo!”

He didn’t mind that you were getting cozy in Scarabia 

It meant getting to keep an eye on Jamil

Kalim was perfect for keeping up with your energy 

But Azul notices how your skin gets dry or how sluggish you are returning 

You’re not just tired…you’re drying out 

On a deeper level, Jade’s discovered that your hybrid status has you needing things a mini octopus needs

You have an extremely thin phlegm that keeps you from drying out

And drinking water is part of it 

But with heat like Scarabia’s its best if you spend at least two hours in some actual water 

Letting the water give you oxygen through your skin

But for whatever reason, you don’t want to do that

Annoyed with how much time is taken away with putting on and taking off the bathing suit 

And the way Jamil demands you sit on the scratchy towels so you don’t make everywhere wet

“Nooooooo! Rgh! Noooo!”

With Kalim’s push, you’ll leave Scarabia 

But when you return to Octavinelle Azul gives you some guidelines about going 

And when you refuse he thinks aloud about not letting you go at all

he's mostly joking maybe not

And that sets you off

In the middle of the Monstro lounge your flailing, crying causing a huge scene

And like a struggling single mom that’s just trying to wrangle her kid, He’s straining as he pulls you into his office

Away from the invasive stares and curious looks of patrons

When he’s in there he pushes you in your mini tank clipping on the hole-filled top 

Which doesn’t move at all despite your little tentacles pulling and banging on the glass

He’ll start working on contracts, counting bills, studying all while ignoring your little tantrum

He waits until it stops, sleeping in your little hidey-hole

Then He cries 

Reduced to his baby octopus days he tries to remind himself that his baby just doesn’t want to listen

Not that you really hate him for stopping you from hanging out with someone more fun than him

All the parenting books couldn’t prepare him for this 

But when you awake still willing to wrap your little tentacles around his fingers he gains confidence again

“(Y/n)...how about we make a little contract, okay? Just something promising me you’ll always come back, okay?”

“Mmmm okay.”

Jade Leech

“(Y/n) did you hear me? I said you can’t eat these. (Y/n)? Look at me, do you understand?”

You were being a little toad

Pouting and turning away after Jade didn’t let you eat one of the mushrooms he was dissecting

Some may say that previously working on edible mushrooms and giving one to you every other time may have conditioned you to expect it but whatever

You’ve squatted down low and plopped on the cold floor of his club room

Refusing to look at him with your little noises of refusal

He doesn’t mind being ignored…he knows you’ll forget anyway

But what he does have a problem with is when he turns away you’re reaching your tubby hand into his work station

He snatches your little hand using this closeness to grill it into you to listen

“(Y/n). Look at me.”

“Mmmm!”

“(Y/n).”

“Mmm!” 

“Fine, then you're going to your tank.”

“Noooooo!”

“Yes.”

He’s dragging you or rather carrying you to your tank 

And as he shut whoever’s door to put you away he hears something mumbled under your breath that sets him off

“-old fish. S-upid klunt!” 

“...What did you just say?”

He turns his head like those dolls in horror movies

He gets that you were trying to say something else and he will hunt down who you got that from later but for now he’s bringing the hammer down

No one knows what happens when you're being particularly naughty

The best equivalent for what happens is that he commits to emotionally spanking you

a single look portrays that you're in for it

Talking you down until your begging for forgiveness while you nuzzle against his pant leg

He becomes that parent that you know to behave around

And its Azul who uses the most

“I’m going to tell Jade when he gets home!”

“No no! I sorry! No, please don’t tell!”

But in the end Jade is always willing to forgive you

Always willing to genuinely smile as you tearfully apologize before even being reprimanded

“Aww that’s my good octopus, I’m not angry no no no…I was just disappointed…but you did so well to apologize, good job.”

Floyd Leech

“Eh?! Octobaby hasn’t had their nap yet? Ohhh so that’s why you're so snippy!”

He’s down to play with you but he knows it’s a nightmare when your hungry or tired

He knows right now you need a nap

Even if he has to force you to take one

Now Jade says he can’t strangle you to sleep because you're just too fragile

So he just has to lock you in your tank, play your music, and make sure no one interrupts

That’s who he’s allowed to strangle

Even when you’re biting and thrashing in his hold 

To be honest he hardly notices 

Until your little pincers actually prick him some

“Did you just…bite me…?”

“...n-no..”

“Yes, you did.”

“I-i sorry. I sorry!” 

His silence speaks loudest

He’s angry

It just won’t be at you

He’s oddly nurturing putting you to sleep 

Then he’s raging at everyone who gets in his way 

“Who. The. Heck. Made them miss their nap?!”

He’s not letting anyone hurt you let alone ruin your schedule

There is a schedule for how they take care of you

He actually is really vigilant about it

So he is livid when others come and mess with that

“Octobaby bit me today…”

“Oh did you reprimand them?”

“Nope did it themselves! Besides it was the cutest little prick, if they weren’t acting out I’d want them to do it again!”

[himezoro]

Hey

In your last comment ( in love wins all part2) you meant that I could ask you for a story at any time.

My idea would be a story about Zoro in which he first has to admit to himself that he loves the female reader and asks his crew how he can confess his feelings to her and then does it in his usual shy but direct way ^^

We both know he is a big softie at heart x3

tysm for your request and undefeating support, it’s the reason i went back to writing and found the strength to write today. i really hope you’ll enjoy it, and tysm for your patience. i love the introspection your idea offers, it was so fun to write that i added the strawhats as a tool for Zoro to realize his feelings! some parts are before timeskip, and the parts after the timeskip will be mentioned, i hope you’ll enjoy it <3

tw! mention of gender (female) + fluff + sfw!!

wc : 4,31k (i went crazy sorry....)

It was a cool and breezy spring day when Luffy asked you to join the crew. You were a talented strategist during battles and tough times, gifted with a brilliant vision of finding a positive issue to win, while exulting warmth and tenderness, so much that it could tame the devil itself.

And by that, it meant Roronoa Zoro.

The tall swordsman perfectly remembers this day where you officially climbed onto the ship after the events of Enies Lobby, after helping the crew with astute tactics to get Robin back. He was impressed with you back then, by your phlegm and knowledge of the field, your calm, your determination to grant them victory, like you knew them all along, like you loved them all along. It was the love you gave people that allowed your brain to come up with the best solutions. And as a warrior and a solution giver, Zoro was admirative.

Or in trance. Mesmerized. In awe. Struck by an angel. If he were to be honest with himself.

And because Zoro imagined himself talking to you and getting to know what your brain hid, asking about your whereabouts, your culture, your likings and the drinks you drink, he really thought he did.

Yet, other than the casual “Hi”, “Thanks”, “Food’s ready” and “Good night”, the swordsman never uttered a word of what he wished to really share. Was it laziness? Cowardice? Fear? Indeed, he was not the most talkative of the crew, but he knew he could talk to anyone if he wanted to. Hell, he could even talk to the cook.

But when it came to you, he found himself out of breath, and looking at you seemed enough. Seeing you beam at the dinner table while savoring the shitty cook Sanji’s delights, hearing your chatty and bubbly voice when gossiping with Nami and Robin, your laughs when in company of Usopp and Luffy and the soft hums escaping your lips when Brook would play a song. Looking at your plush thighs where Chopper’s head was resting, and the pearl of cola dripping from your pink lips when drinking under the hot weather with Franky.

He both felt like you were a sight bestowed by the Gods for him and forbidden, like the Apple of Eden.

And in magnificent Zoro fashion, he decided to not pay attention and focus on his training.

But even with the best of will, it was hard to pretend you did not exist and that the fluttering in his stomach were not butterflies, especially, on the Thousands Sunny.

THE CAPTAIN, MONKEY D LUFFY

One night, before reaching the Sabaody Archipelago, Zoro was standing quietly by the ocean. His mind was clear from troubles and aches, and he simply stood by the quietness of the sea. You’ve been apart of the crew for what has not been so long, yet, you were fitting beautifully. The way the breeze would caress your hair, the way you would sometimes trip on the ship because of the waves, the way the lemonade you would make tasted so much better than the cook’s. The first time you offered him the said refreshment was the only time he managed to stay close to you. Because you were not leaving, he thought. Or maybe because he was frozen on the spot when you bent down to his sitting/close to napping form and could smell your floral scent.

He was so lost in his thoughts he failed to hear his captain coming.

“Isn’t (Y/N) cool? Like, super cool?” the captain beamed at his first mate and best friend, clapping his feet together as he sat on the rail of the ship. The swordsman did not mind looking his way as he stood by the railing, watching the moon glistening on the ocean.

“I guess, I barely talk to the girl so I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged, hearing your soft giggles from afar as you enjoyed your time with the rest of the crew.

“Well I know she’s cool. And she was so cool when she made all of these plans on her notebook with that fancy swooshing pen thing.” He said, mimicking writing (ndlr : like that light yagami meme lol). “Sanji says she’s pretty. Do you think she’s pretty?”

At that question, Zoro almost chocked on his own air.

“Why would you ask me that? And since when do you Luffy know when people are... pretty?” he said, hoping the moonlit night would hide the pink hue on his cheeks.

“I know when people are pretty! You are pretty! You’re my friend so you’re pretty.” Zoro scoffed at his words, letting his captain talk.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get along super well. Like super buddies. She’s so cool. You should listen to her. Nami said we must listen to her advices during combat or else we EXPLODE!! BOOM!!” he enthusiastically said before jumping off the railing and shaking Zoro’s shoulders before running to pest on someone else.

Zoro stole a glance towards your way and sighed. You did not look pretty. Hell no you didn’t. And to that extent, he disagreed with the cook again. Because you were gorgeous, ethereal. It was beyond being “pretty”, it was beyond being pleasant to look at. You were a gift. And he knew he could keep on looking at you for days if allowed.

And because you caught him looking, you offered him a gentle smile and a wave, which he forgot to reciprocate as he simply nodded and turned back to gazing at the ocean.

I know we would get along well… he sighed, silently wishing he had Luffy’s or Usopp’s social skills to stay by your side.

THE NAVIGATOR, NAMI

Before docking on the Sabaody Archipelago, Nami said it would be nice to dock on a small island to enjoy a day of fun at the beach, which led to having everyone in their bathing suit enjoying the scenery.

Zoro sat on the sand and did not realize his eyes landed on you. You were in the water with chopper on your shoulders, trying to keep steady as you feared for him to fall in the water. Usopp was in front of you with Luffy on his shoulders, trying to make Chopper fall in the water. Zoro claims to not pay attention to the way your (favorite color) bathing suit was perfectly suiting your form. He claims to not pay attention to your wet hair nor to the drops on your eyelids.

“You need a tissue to stop the drooling?” Nami said, standing in front of her crewmate as she put her sunglasses on top of her head.

Zoro glared at her without saying a word, clearly annoyed by the navigator.

“Well if I hadn’t known you were enjoying the view before I would certainly know it now. Would you stop staring at her, you look like Sanji.” she smirked, moving the way as she sat next to him, looking at you as well and smiling.

“Really Zoro you should stop staring, that’s creepy.”

“Did she say anything?” he surprised himself asking. Now at least she stopped blocking the view, and he could go back to “not” pay attention to the way your hand would hold Chopper’s pawn, or the way Usopp would splash water all over your chest.

“Well well well, what do we have here? A request for insights on my girl (Y/N)? By Roronoa Zoro? Is it going to snow in hell? Let me check…” she mischievously snarked, earning a grunt from Zoro in return.

“It’s so funny because I’m sure she talked about you in our quarters a few times ago… or maybe it was in my dream? Maybe your errand money would jog my memory.” she proudly stated, earning another annoyed grunt from Zoro. She looked at him and waited for him to nod his head and wave his hand as a sign for her to continue.

“Thanks for your generosity. And the only thing she said is that you don’t seem to like her because you never talk to her, so she doesn’t want to bother you.”

When he heard what appeared to be your words, he swore his heart broke. How could you reasonably think he doesn’t like you? While you were the only thing on his mind beside training?

“And what did you say… I mean, what did you tell her.” Zoro shyly asked, wondering if his friend Nami did any help.

“Well I did say you hated her, but I’m sure I could tell her you love staring at her like a perv.”

“For fuck sake why would you say stuff like this?!”

“I did not tell her that you idiot!” she said, laughing wholeheartedly. “In fact, I said you were like a bear : terrifying on the outside but kind of nice if you think about it.”

Zoro sighed, instantly feeling sick in the stomach at the idea of you thinking he hated you… or was a perv.

“Why don’t you try talking to her? She’s such a sweet and smart girl, I feel like she was the missing part of this crew. I mean, it’s clear you-

“Do not say that word. I don’t.”

Zoro cut her right off, but that did not stop Nami from stating her piece.

“Fine I’ll use the word fancy. It’s clear you FANCY her. Just because you never had a girlfriend or thought you could like anyone other than your swords or MIHAWKE doesn’t mean you should not act on your feelings right now. Be a normal guy and get her flowers, or I don’t know, you could also just talk.?You know Sanji likes her too right?” she added that last part only to shake Zoro off before leaving with her new found cash.

Zoro kept on looking at you with longing, thinking about what Nami said.

Sanji cannot like her. And how did she know I never had a girlfriend?

THE SNIPER KING, USOPP, AND THE DOCTOR, TONY TONY CHOPPER

Later that night, Zoro decided to sit next to you for dinner. He was set on proving Nami wrong and showing the cook that he did not stand a chance (the poor guy did not get Nami’s joke).

But because Nami is the lively and vibrant human being she is, she, of course, told Usopp and Chopper about her little talk with Zoro.

Which of course, led Usopp to do some teasing, with the help of little

“Hey (Y/N)! What does it feel like finally sitting next to Zoro after weeks of sailing together?” he pried, wiggling his eyebrows at the sight of the two of you sitting together. You smiled and let out a small laugh as you responded.

“Well I have to say, I’m quite flattered. Surprised, but flattered. Zoro is nice to stay with.”

Your voice felt like the greatest of songs, and it only made Zoro’s heart beat faster.

“Wooo wooo!” Usopp cooed, pounding on the table as he did so. “Do I hear a confession in here? Zoro what do you have to say? Isn’t she nice to stay with? Come on just say the magic L word!”

He was so engulfed in his thoughts and the desire to slash Usopp in half, that he did not feel Chopper creep on his lap.

“Your heart is beating really fast right now!” the reindeer said in Zoro’s ear, trying not to embarrass him too much as Usopp was already talking about planning a future wedding.

“Because you guys are giving me a headache”, he angrily uttered, suddenly getting up and leaving the table, not noticing the sad look in your eyes as he turned his back, not looking at you.

After these milestones only a fool would try to deny the blatant truth.

And after the Sabaody incident, only a masochist would refrain and hide these feelings away.

But with Roronoa Zoro, nothing is easier than sweeping his feelings under the rug of Mihawke’s manor.

Nervertheless, being separated from you for those two years only left him with thoughts of you mingling with the ones he felt of guilt. Were you alive? Did you get Luffy’s message? Where were you training? Who were you with? Will you come back to him?

In his quest of longing to be the strongest, he got even more confident, if that could happen. Not only would he never let anything happen to the crew again thanks to his new found abilities, but he swore he won’t let you in any form of danger. Yet, he claims it to himself that protecting you is only his “swordsman way”. Nothing more.

He waited for the day of the reunion with a lot of excitement. Seeing Luffy and Chopper again, sailing the seas to prove himself to the world. He would not say it aloud, but he missed everyone. Yet, his heart led to an unusual feeling. His chest felt knotted. Was it fear? Anxiety? Regret? He caught himself thinking about many scenarios that did not make sense, nonsense he would have smacked someone’s head for. What if you decided to leave the crew and stay where you were? What if you forgot about him, since his past relationship with you failed to be the most intimate one? What if you hated him and thought of him as weak? What if he never saw you again?

Why does it matter, anyway.

The D-Day was approaching, and Zoro’s questions only grew more and more.

And as the Day finally arrived, he looked at the Sabaody scenery and let out a deep sigh, but the small smile on his lips never left. Each step he took were different from those he took two years ago: he was determined, stronger.

He would not admit it to himself, but he was worried you won’t show up to the ship. He also was worried he won’t be able to talk to you like he wished to.

During his walk to find the Sunny, he stumbled across the last person he wanted to see first.

THE COOK, SANJI VINSMOKE

Even though Zoro disliked the cook, he had to admit he was reassured to see his fellow comrade in good shape. But that feeling quickly faded the second the Cook started speaking.

“And here I thought a musclehead like you couldn’t understand nor form a sentence.”

“And here I thought you might have learnt to use twizzlers in those two years but well. Nothing’s new here.”

The pair had no choice but to walk together, which surprisingly led to somewhat of a conversation, even though neither looked at the other. Zoro was walking with his bag over his shoulder while Sanji smoked his cigarette.

“So you trained with Ivankov?”

“I tried to escape everytime which turned out well. I can fly now with my technique, which I’m sure (Y/N)-chwan would love! Think about it, this could be really useful in defense combat. I will be useful for (Y/N)-chwaaan, and Nami-chwaaan and Robin-chwaaan.” The cook chanted, only to earn Zoro’s deep and usual silence, which lasted for what seemed to be a while.

In spite of being used to Zoro’s quietness and awkward silence, the cook noticed the sudden shift in his behavior once your name was mentioned. Call him curious or accuse him of having a death wish, but he decided to break the ice.

“Hey, mosshead.”

The swordsman did not bother to answer and kept on walking.

“Did you miss anyone in particular during those two years?”

“Yes, my hammock.” he quickly answered, his usual sass coming back as a defense mechanism Sanji swore not to fall for this time.

“See?” Sanji said, pointing his cigarette towards his crewmate, still walking. “That’s exactly why no one wants to approach you. You’re brute. How do you expect people to let you in if you don’t let them in in the first place?”

“Who said I wanted to let any people in? I don’t care about people.”

“You know who I’m talking about here. I have eyes. We all have eyes.”

“Technically Brook doesn’t and I only have one left.” he corrected, looking at the cook’s annoyed face with his good eye. “And for the reminder, I can understand sentences just fine, you talked about people, not (Y/N).”

Sanji smirked: the cook had won.

“Indeed. I never talked about beautiful (Y/N). You just did, though." he cockily pointed. "If I were you, which I’m not thank God, I would take her hand, squeeze it and tell her a poem. That’s it if you can read.”

“Tsk.”

Sanji lit himself another cigarette to savor his small victory. Zoro bit the inside of his cheek and averted his gaze to the scenery around him again.

Did he just tell the cook about you? When he was talking about “letting people in”? He would lie if he said he did not want you to let him in. He thought you were a strong woman with admirative skills. He thought you were kind and caring, with a high sense of ethics and fairness. He thought you were beautiful. You were his ideal, the sole reason why he never bothered looking at women before.

But why would someone like you let someone like him, in? Sanji was right: he was a brute. And spending time with his swords medidating for two years did not make him a social animal. He lacked Usopp’s ease or Luffy’s communicative smile. He lacked Sanji’s ability to compliment women or make them feel beautiful. Hell, he remembers his conversation with Nami like it was yesterday: you thought he hated you.

Would it be unfair for a brute like him to long for someone like you? Does he have the right to hold these feelings? Is he allowed to share them to you?

The poor boy did not have time to find his answer that Luffy had found them.

He would soon see you. He felt it. And by that time, he better come up with something other than “Hi”.

When they arrived to the ship alongside their Captain, everyone was already here waiting for them.

Including you.

Before fully looking at you, Chopper jumped on him, crying his heart out from having missing him too much. Unfortunately for him, the swordsman did not pay attention to all his ranting as you approached to enthusiastically hug Luffy, Sanji, and him.

Because of the awkward position he was in with Chopper, you gently wrapped your arms around the small reindeer and told them both how happy you were to see them. And because of his cute comrade, he did not have the chance to say “Hi”.

He missed his opportunity, the chance to finally let you in.

Perhaps it is better this way.

Everyone climbed onto the ship, ready to celebrate the reunion, and even though the best sake was provided, Zoro quickly walked to a small and intimate area: his crow nest.

THE STRATEGIST, (YOUR NAME) ♡

Two years without seeing your friends were long to pass, without hearing their laughters and benters, their antics and adventures. Even though you joined the crew at later times before being teleported by Kuma, you dearly loved each crewmate and felt apart of a big family.

During those two years, you sometimes caught yourself thinking about the swordsman. To say the green-haired figure rarely talked to you would be an understatement, and you never understood why. You never were mean to him, you let him nap during night watch, you poured him lemonade, smiled at him each time he would look at you.

You admired his strength, his determination, his oath to become the best in his craft. You were honored to conceive combat strategies that would enhance his abilities and show them to the world.

He was the legend to the story you were writing. The hero.

It would be lying to say you did not fancy the swordsman. He was handsome, peaceful, intelligent when in need, and reassuring. He was confident, opinionated and reliable.

Your heartbeat grew faster as you saw him walking towards the ship with Sanji and the captain. He looked even taller than in your memories, and even more built. His hair seemed softer, and his voice much huskier. Your heart ached when you noticed he had lost an eye.

But because everyone was around, you could not possibly go to him and cry your eyes out as you talked about his injury. Instead, and because you were so happy to see everyone, you decided to go for a small hug, hopping it would offer you both a fresh start.

After the feast following your reunion, you noticed Zoro walking out to his favorite spot. Pretending to be in need of the ladies room, you decided to follow the swordsman to the crows nest, set on trying to finally, communicate with the future best swordsman on the Planet.

When Zoro heard someone going up the crows nest, he did not pay attention. For this once, would he allow someone to go up unannounced.

“Pardon me Zoro!” you said while climbing, breaking his composure. Out of everyone he thought would come up tonight, he never thought it would be you. He could not even figure out what to come up with first as he saw the top of your head from the top of the ladder and your adorable eyes peeking up to him.

You waited to have fully climbed the ladder before talking.

“Hi, I hope I’m not bothering.” You gently said with a radiant smile on your face, standing in front of him in your newest outfit. He felt ashamed for not taking in all the details of your new attire earlier under the sunlight, from the way it hugged your form to the way the color compliments your eyes.

“Actually, I’ve never been up here before.. it looks.. nice?” you said, your eyes going from the surroundings of his room to his good eye.

He looks handsome.

She looks gorgeous.

“Then what are you doing here now?” Zoro responded, harsher than what he intended. He instantly regretted his sentence and his tone. These were so distant from what he felt.

His words sent shivers down your spine and made you gasp a little, slowly looking down to your feet in embarrassment.

He looked down at you with his good eye and quickly shook his hands.

“N-No (Y/N) this is so not what I meant. Gosh now I understand why Sanji said I was a brute and Nami said you hated me.”

“What? Nami said I hated you?” you asked, your head going back up and looking at him with concern. “I could never hate you Zoro! Why would she say something like this?”

“N-No!” he said, trying to correct his wording, again, but it seemed harder after hearing what you felt about him.

You could never hate him.

“I mean, she said you thought I hated you. No wonder why you think that, I’m a brute.”

In spite of his awkward phrases, you let out a small giggle. His tan face was tainted with shades of a dusty shy pink, and his good eye was desperately trying to connect with yours. Maybe if you would look at him for just long enough, he would not have to say a thing.

You walked closer to him, trying to pierce what his eye was begging to tell you. You could feel the shift in the air, the tension building high. Your voice, soft as silk and sweet as honey, asked.

“So, Zoro, do you hate me?”

The question sent him in a trance. In his mind, he told you a hundred times about how beautiful you looked and how admirative he was of your work on the ship. In his mind, he told the world and the stars a hundred times about his will to protect you and be the strongest.

His body ached to be closer to yours. It was only the two of you, and it seemed so natural. So real. He slowly inched closer to you, his overpowering frame letting yours aware of his presence and scent. Wood and peppermint.

Crossing his arms and closing his eyes, faking tiredness, hoping his demeanor would hide the shyness away, he bluntly stated:

“I could never hate you, (Y/N).”

Five words. These five words alone lifted a whole weight off your shoulders. Slightly blushing from his statement and the proximity you two were in, in what seemed like a forbidden whisper, you said, gently touching his hand.

“I… I should probably go downstairs. The others are going to wonder why I’m taking so long to get you to drink sake with us. They’ll think you got sober.”

Zoro slightly scoffed and nodded, his eyes never leaving the tenderness of your touch on his large hand.

“Promise me you’ll come back later. Just you.”

His wish was spoken with such adoration and secrecy, you won’t ever refuse. But teasing the swordsman seemed a little more fun.

“By later, do you mean in two years? Who knows maybe by that time you’d have lost your other eye.”

Zoro laughed a little, gently squeezing your hand like an oath spoken just for the two of you.

“Like I would ever let you go again for so long, idiot.”

[kaisers-house-of-desires]

I'm kinda leaning on the Toji x reader, Kokoshibou x reader, Muzan x Reader, or Ganondorf x reader stuff we mentioned, ngl - H

I'm partial to the Muzan x Reader one sooooooo You'll find it below~!

My apologies for how short it is, but sometimes, short is sweet

Title: In Sickness and in Health

Characters: Muzan x m!Reader

Contains: fluff, sickness, near death, pet names (love, dear)

Fandom: Demon Slayer

Full request below the cut

All characters are 18+

MINORS, FEM ALIGNED, AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI (This may not be smut, but I still want the above to be followed)

Reblogs > likes

"My love...I think...it's time."

You lie on your back on the bedding Muzan had made for you, a bedding befitting royalty. Pillows softer than an angel's wings propped up your heavy head, and blankets more plush than a sheep's wool covered your body.

A sickness had attacked your body, and despite his knowledge in medicine, Muzan was unable to find a cure for this disease, leaving him to become a mess you had never seen him become. Worry took over his own body, panic slowly creeping up on his face as you spoke the words he never wanted to hear you say.

"My dear, please, don't say such things. You merely want to rest, yes? Then please, rest."

"Muzan..." A weak, pale hand raised to gently caress his chilled cheek. "We both know what I mean...and I'm ready."

You were grateful, as this sickness had taken the years to finally get you to this point. You were able to enjoy what time you were given to your husband, and throughout that time, you had come to accept what was to come, especially since a cure seemed further and further out of reach.

You had never seen this man cry, so to see him shed so many tears at your bedside only made your heart ache, even more so when he gripped at your hand, thinking holding it tightly would keep you down to earth with him.

"Muzan, shhh...please...I promise...it's better I go while I'm ready...than to leave with regret."

He knew that. He of all people should know that, especially with the time he has spent alive. He has seen many people come and go, but never, never has he felt such a fear of losing anyone before.

"...You can't leave me...I'm sorry..." Muzan's voice shook as he spoke, pressing your hand and his to your forehead. "Please...give me more time. I can find a cure! I know I can!"

"As great of a doctor as you are...not everything is meant to be cured..."

Ah, that's right. That's what he told you. He told you he was a doctor. He had almost forgotten his little white lie amidst his rare emotions.

"But...you cannot expect me to just let you die..."

"No...No I don't." Your voice was weak, and it only weakened by the minute. "I expect you to let me go, to allow me to move on. I told you, love...I'm ready."

"But I'm not! Please just..." He choked on a sob, wracking his thoughts around for an idea.

And one came to mind.

Immediately, his emotions flipped like a switch, and he slowly gazed at you with red, puffy eyes.

"My love...If I...If I may be selfish..." He stood from his seated spot, his hands moving up your arm until one rested under your head, gently lifting it so you two could meet eyes. "Please...allow me to..."

"Muzan...?" You furrowed your brows, tiredly meeting his eyes as he moved around. "What is it you wish to do...?"

"I...I have not been honest with you, dear. There is...a part of me I kept hidden from you for so long." He thought carefully about what to say, about how to say it. "This part of me...I never wanted you to see, to experience, but..."

You chuckled lightly before it turned into a phlegm filled cough, only startling Muzan further. However, you spoke before he could utter a word. "Alright, love..."

Muzan froze, unsure if he heard you correctly. "A...Alright?"

You gave him a weak smile. "I'm not sure what you're wanting to do, but...heh...I trust you." Honestly you thought maybe he was finally losing it at this point, considering how he had behaved with you during your sickness. Your sickness was lighting the fuse, and you dying was the explosion you never wanted to see. However, who were you to deny him at this point?

Your trust was all he needed, and it was like all fear and sadness left like water rushing out of a dam. Adrenaline kicked in, and with a bite of his tongue, Muzan's lips met yours.

At first, your suspicions felt correct, though you weren't complaining. His kisses were always lovely, and you'd be a fool to leave before receiving one last kiss from your husband.

But what you weren't expecting was the rush of blood that poured into your mouth.

Metallic liquid settled against your tongue, sliding down your throat. You had never tasted anything so foul, but as you swallowed it, you wouldn't remember the taste. In fact, you wouldn't remember anything for awhile.

It felt like a blink, and you were sitting up in bed, panting heavily as your eyes darted around the room. Your vision felt...cleaner, clearer. It was...sharper than before. Your body felt famished, like you hadn't eaten in weeks.

"M-Mu...zan...?"

Even your voice was affected, hoarse and weak. At first you thought it didn't change based on your sickness from before, but no. It had changed. You just didn't recognize it yet.

Muzan stood by the bedside, his red eyes gazing down to meet similar red irises. He knew well what he had done, and he was ready to accept the consequences of it, whatever they may be. For now, he saw this as a moment of joy, and he reached for your hands once more. Again, an emotion you never thought you'd see on him molded his face, leaving him smiling slightly wider than usual.

"My dear...you're just like me now. We can walk the earth to the end of time...as demons."

In all honesty, this is a nice segue into a possible part 2, so should you desire that, please let me know once requests open back up!

[colormepurplex2]

Beneath The Boughs | A Kiss Hello

↳ Namjoon x f.Reader ⤜ Robinhood Retelling, Strangers to Lovers/Soulmates, Ruined Arranged Marriage AU ⤜ Rating: MA🔞 ⤜ WC: 8,752 ⚠️ crass language, mentions of parental illness, melancholy feelings, crude innuendos, light descriptions of smut/v. sex

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Namjoon

“This is madness. A terrible idea. What’s wrong with you?”

Namjoon tunes out Hoseok’s constant string of uncertainty. No matter the risk or how reckless it might be, he can’t let this opportunity slip between his fingers.

“If you have a better one, let’s hear it,” Namjoon grumbles as he adjusts the strap of his bow across his back.

Hoseok sighs, glancing Jungkook’s way. “Why are you so silent on this? You can’t possibly think this is a good idea either.”

There is a moment of silence as the trio trudges through the thick underbrush of Sherwood Forest. Jungkook finally breaks the silence, saying, “I think this idea is better than not taking action at all. If what Friar Park provided to Namjoon is indeed true, then this is fate guiding us. Who are we to question that?”

“Never been much of one for trusting fate,” Hoseok huffs, dragging a thumb over the scar that angles along the side of his jaw and down his throat, courtesy of The Sheriff of Nottingham. Yoongi is the reason Hoseok disappeared into the Woods all those years ago, bloody and nearly frozen to death in nothing but his underthings. It was dead of winter, and he was lucky that Namjoon had found him before the wolves could.

The history between Hoseok and Yoongi is nearly as thick with tension as the one between Jungkook and Seokjin. Namjoon glances between his two closest friends, wondering not for the first time whether or not he’s leading them to their demise. They both escaped the crown’s wrath once; there is no guarantee of a second time.

Namjoon knows Hoseok is right; traveling to Nottingham in an effort to participate in the Royal Games is absolutely nonsensical. But on the chance that Namjoon might once again lay his eyes on the ones that tracked him with hawk-like grace nearly a week ago, it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

“You’re both welcome to stay behind,” he reminds them. “I can do this on my own. It’s my risk to take.”

“No,” comes Hoseok’s terse reply. Despite his woes, Namjoon knows there is no way Hoseok would abandon him to do this alone.

“As someone with experience in these Royal Games, I can say that you, in fact, could not do this on your own. They wouldn’t allow you to compete without at least a squire or attendant by your side. Even the low-born must bring a partner. It’s simply the rules,” Jungkook explains. His easy stride is so full of assurance that it is as if walking into the place he was exiled from is just a casual stroll through a meadow.

Namjoon just grunts his acknowledgement. Because, once again, one of his friends is right. He knows, without a doubt, he’d be lost without them both and is tremendously grateful for their company. He tells them as much before a comfortable, if anxious, silence befalls the group as the stone walls of the city come into view.

“Name?” the gruff guard asks before hawking a glob of phlegm into the dirt beside Namjoon’s leather-boot-clad feet.

“Haejoon of House Lee,” Namjoon says, pointedly ignoring the ill-manners of the guard. Best not to draw more attention than necessary by commenting.

“That a local house name?”

“No. We’ve traveled from—”

“Don’t care. How many?” The guard barrels over Namjoon’s carefully constructed story that he guesses is not actually needed.

Taking a shallow breath to keep his head, Namjoon answers, “Just one, with two escorts.”

“Specialty?”

“Archery.”

The word is barely out of Namjoon’s mouth when the guard jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Stable seven. Next!”

Jungkook grabs Namjoon’s elbow and hauls him forward around the guard before he can say anything further, the guard having already moved on to the next person in line.

“Best to move on,” Jungkook mutters. “We can provide names that aren’t our own, but our faces will always be the same.”

A pang of guilt twinges in Namjoon’s chest. It’s very likely that the gate guard worked under Jungkook before his knighthood was extinguished. There is still a sour bitterness that coats Namjoon’s tongue whenever he thinks about his friend’s topple from the highest ranks.

There is a dark underbelly to this city, controlled by a man who prefers slithering through shadows and dabbling in the darker arts. Jungkook’s future changed the moment he was discovered to have overheard the Prince’s mage, Taehyung, divulging his nefarious courtly plans to Seokjin. According to Jungkook, King Seokjoong is on crusades under completely false pretenses thanks to Taehyung’s dark magick and trickery.

Of course, no one in the city believed Jungkook thanks to those same dark methods. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. The only thing that kept Jungkook from the gallow ropes was his pristine reputation and the fact there would have certainly been a mutiny of the masses.

The story that circulated through the public after his exile was a web of lies concerning Jungkook’s moral compass and supposed salacious dealings. These were all falsities but better than the truth…which would have found the Prince and his mage at the mercy of the King. Well, better for them, at least. Indeed, if King Seokjoong knew what his brother and Taehyung were up to, he’d ride post-haste from the frontlines to reclaim his throne.

All of the stables are open, giving a grand view of the competition field beyond. A dozen other participants, all with bows of varying quality, dot the straw-covered space. Hushed conversation filters through the air, eyes on swivels casting cursory looks their way before sliding away once more.

Namjoon has never attended one of these competitions, much less participated. So, all he has to go on is the little Jungkook was able to impart to him as they journeyed through Sherwood Forest.

“Look there,” Hoseok whispers, nodding to somewhere off in the distance. “The dais.”

Even from so far away, you steal the breath from Namjoon’s lungs. He’s frozen, paralyzed in his admiration of the regal figure you cut against the crimson backdrop of the dais. The deep plum-colored gown hugging your body shows Namjoon all the places his hands itch to trace.

A throat clearing snaps Namjoon out of his reverie. “Can you feel it?” Jungkook mutters, catching Namjoon’s eye.

By it, Namjoon knows Jungkook refers to the pull described in Prophetia Somniorum. The book provided many details, some more vague than others, as the experience can vary from person to person. However, one thing was sure with each storied account: the subtle echo of another heartbeat alongside your own.

Namjoon can feel it now, that soft lub-dub that he knows is the match to his own heartbeat. It’s right there. He presses a gloved hand over where that rhythm thumps in his chest. “I can,” he finally replies, words low and full of awe. “With every glance, it grows stronger.”

Just to prove to himself he’s right about that, he chances another look in your direction. If it weren’t for the grip Hoseok has on his shoulder, Namjoon would be on his knees in the dusty stable. You’re looking right at him. Can you feel him? Do you know he’s here? He has to know—

“Whoa, hey, not so fast.” Jungkook and Hoseok both have a hold on him now, and Namjoon realizes he has taken a few steps forward. “All in due time, my friend. You can’t just go approaching the dais. You’ll earn a sword to the belly before you make it five feet before her. Best to do this the way we planned.”

“By winning,” Namjoon sighs, resigned.

His friends echo murmured agreements, “By winning.”

🍂🍂🍂

You can feel it. Him—he’s out there somewhere. Your best guess is between stables five and nine. It’s impossible to tell precisely, considering your view is obstructed by the hundreds of bodies packed into the staging stables. However, you can feel it all the same: the same sensation that carried you away on foreign currents that fateful night nearly a week gone. 

What you once thought was a soft hum in your chest, you can now tell is actually a heartbeat. Though it is separate from your own, it is a subtle echo that you know, without a doubt, belongs to the mysterious man from the road. How you know that, you’re not sure, but you know it is the truth nonetheless.

It started shortly after your first encounter, once the adrenaline had subsided and you had a moment to reflect. Each thready pulse is stronger than the last. You swear the longer you let your eyes drift between stables five and nine. The intensity increases until it almost seems like you have your ear pressed directly to a chest—one you’ve become intimately familiar with, if only in your dreams.

The hours tick by, filled with shouts from the jeering crowd and the scuffle of the first few games. You watch, bored and barely able to keep your seat without fidgeting, as faceless men are paraded before you. They all smile and bow, hats tipped off their heads and pressed to their chests as they scrape and beg favor. You do your best to smile and nod, maintaining a polite facade, all the while screaming in your head.

You almost miss him in the monotony of it all. The moment he strides across the field before the dais, your eyes slide right over him. It’s not until you feel your heart leap into a gallop in your chest that your eyes scramble backward and alight on his formidable figure. The heart knows, even if the eyes are unsure; something your mother once told you and that you can now attest to be true.

He cuts a regal form against the dark wood of the stable, his height putting him above many of the other participants, though he’s of a similar size to one of his attendants, the other slimmer and almost as familiar as the man himself. The brown rough-spun wool garb and worn leather boots from the road have been replaced with sleek riding leathers and shiny, new boots with brass buckles, though the dark green cloaks are the same.

Thick, inky hair peeks out from the hood, feathering across the man’s forehead as his eyes scan the crowd on the dais before landing on you. All the air in your lungs heaves out in a strangled gasp. Those dark depths beckon you, will you to come closer and fall into their endless beauty and intrigue.

You’re out of your seat before a vice-like grip on your arm tugs you back into your chair. “Are you well, My Lady?” Prince Seokjin’s pleasant, though terse, voice carries to you, drawing your focus away from the mystery man on the field and to the one sitting by your side.

Prince Seokjin’s focus is on the field, but you can tell by his rigid posture that he’s displeased by you. You clear your throat, settling back into your seat and carefully rolling your shoulder as a means to dislodge his grip on your upper arm.

“I’m well, Your Majesty. I was just trying to adjust my seat, that is all.”

“Do you desire more cushion?” Before you have a chance to respond, he barks, “Yoongi! More cushions for my beloved. Now.” As if Yoongi needs the emphasis, Seokjin snaps his fingers several times as he speaks.

By the time two more cushions have been added to your chair and you’re finally settled back down, the man is just a dot on the horizon. All of the archers are milling about in the distance, just specks against the steel-grey sky, and the dozen targets they’ll be aiming for are lined up right in front of the dais. You have a front-row seat to their marksmanship skill display.

Each participant is announced as they take aim and loose their arrows in an effort to impress. Many find their targets, while others fall short. But there is only one that genuinely draws awe from the crowd and the dais. A singular arrow that splits the wooden shaft of another arrow. A round of applause follows the feat, the game crier announcing the participant as a representative from House Lee.

“House Lee?” Duckie mutters softly beside you. “Must be from the east.”

Somehow, you know it’s him, but something tells you that’s not his proper name. Clearly, a highwayman—though you hate to think of him like that anymore—would not be able to enter into the Royal Games without providing some sort of alias. It makes you wonder about his attendants; who they are to him because surely they would have to have a fierce loyalty towards him to risk being here.

Though, that thought has a thrill all its own inching its way down your spine. You don’t want to be presumptive, but you can’t help thinking he’s here to see you, to be near you…that he’s here for you.

Your thoughts are spinning, your mind trying to devise a scenario where you can abscond away into your highwayman’s arms. Forget being a princess, forget the titles and the money…the power. You couldn’t care less about those things, not when what you truly want is right there…walking across the field—towards you!

“Haejoon of House Lee, Your Majesty, My Lady,” the game crier announces, addressing Seokjin and then you.

Prince Seokjin stands, flicking an impatient hand your way. You lurch to your feet, closing the distance from your seat to the railing guard of the dais. Everything narrows to a singular point of focus; the world could end, and you’d be none the wiser with as consumed as you are by that mahogany stare.

“Impressive shot, splitting another’s arrow. I believe that feat alone has earned you the fair maiden's favor,” Prince Seokjin announces as if he’s doing you both a service. “Please, come claim your prize, Haejoon of House Lee.” He adds a flourish with a begemmed hand in your direction.

Duckie tucks a square of embroidered cloth into your hand from behind. “For the competitor, My Lady,” she whispers.

You glance down at the handkerchief, noting the soft purple thread forming your initials on one corner and the white rose denoting your status as a maiden on another. Lace frills line the edges of the dainty fabric.

The railing digs into your belly, but you don’t care as you press forward and lean out over it. He’s so close, inching up on his toes, arm extended. You silently plead for a breeze to flutter through, your body craving just a small taste of his scent. If only to add another piece to the puzzle that is this mystery man of your dreams.

“I know you,” you whisper. “I’ve dreamt of you.”

The sound of his breath is audible as he exhales, a warm smile cutting across his handsome face. “I was worried you wouldn’t recognize me. There is so much I need to tell you. Where can—”

“Kim Namjoon!” Court Mage Taehyung’s hiss cuts off whatever it is he was about to say. “Guards, seize this criminal! Ah! A fool you are, Jeon Jungkook, to dare step foot back in this city! Guards, his attendants, too!”

“Wait, no!” you cry as a mass of red and gold figures descend on him—Namjoon. “Please!”

The handkerchief in your hand is snatched away, crumpled and lost in the fray of bodies. Chaos erupts around you as the two men who were standing as Namjoon’s attendants spring into action, producing blades from under their cloaks.

“Come away from the railing, My Lady!” Duckie tugs on your arm, but you refuse to be moved.

It’s a quick, fierce battle that somehow sees the two men escaping through the thick crowd. Part of you is angry at them for leaving Namjoon behind, but another part of you knows it would have been a futile attempt to disengage him from the guards surrounding him. Your heart aches, but you try to remain hopeful that perhaps they’ll return with help. Though, what kind of help would be needed to free him from Prince Seokjin’s clutches now…well, you’d rather not think about that now.

Maybe…just maybe, you can do something.

“Come on, Duckie,” you mutter, finally tearing your eyes away from the anguish shining back at you from Namjoon’s. Glancing at Seokjin, you want nothing more than to wipe the smug look off his face but instead ask, “Permission to retire, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, yes, as you will.” He barely pays you any mind, dismissing you in favor of barking orders at the guards to have Namjoon taken to the dungeon to await the gallows with the rising sun.

That gives you a timeline, one that your heart beats frantically against. You glance at the sky, judging how many more hours there are until nightfall. That’s when the real testament of time will begin. Under the guise of darkness, you must find a way to free Namjoon, lest he become a man only in your dreams.

🍂🍂🍂

Namjoon

The stench of hopelessness nearly overwhelms the stink of death and decay that Namjoon knows is soaked into the weathered stone of the dungeon cell he was tossed into.

There are half a dozen other limp bodies clumped into the small cell. It’s hard to tell if any of them are even breathing, but the occasional hacking cough and groan tells Namjoon that there is at least one other pitiful soul with him in the darkness.

“Ye ought be askin’ for a last words wi’the priest, ach,” a gravelly voice cuts through the dank air. Namjoon squints into the darkness, trying to find the source of the voice. “Tha’s right, I be talkin’ to ye.” Movement sounds from the far side of the cell. There are a few muttered curses, the shuffling of feet, and the rattle of chains, but slowly, a figure materializes out of the dark.

“Who are you?” Namjoon asks tentatively.

Namjoon barely makes out the wave of something—a hand, maybe—in the air before him. “It is not me ye should be worryin’ ‘bout, ach. It be yer head fittin’ for the gallows wit the sun. I ‘eard all about ye, the guards like ta talk. Ye best ask after a priest for yer forsaken soul…or wha’er else might be in tha skull o’yers.”

Believing he’s picking up on what the man is insinuating, Namjoon slowly nods. “Right. A priest. For my last words.” A plan begins to form in Namjoon’s mind almost instantly.

Shoving to his feet, he shuffles around the man, glimpsing a gnarled face and scraggly grey beard, until he’s close to the large, iron-clad wooden door. All it takes is a few pounding knocks on the door with his fists to draw the attention of the guard stationed outside the cell.

“Fuck off with that noise!” the guard snarls. His pock-marked face appears suddenly in the small barred window in the door. “Sit back down before I come in there after you!”

“A priest,” Namjoon says. “I’m owed my last words. I need a priest, as is my right. I must—I need to see a priest.” The guard’s eyes narrow. “For my soul,” Namjoon tacks on. “For absolution.”

Namjoon watches as the guard absently fingers the crude iron chain with an even cruder cross dangling from it around his neck. The guard tucks away the chain when he realizes what he’s doing, but not before giving Namjoon a gruff nod.

The guard turns away, taking a sliver of Namjoon’s hope with him. Just in case the guard disregards the request or decides better of it, Namjoon needs to come up with something else, another plan that might could see him released from this cell without the immediate meeting of the gallows.

Night set in a few hours ago. Even though he can’t see the outside world, Namjoon’s internal clock has always been reasonably accurate. If he had to wager, the moon would be approaching its apex sooner rather than later.

There is still no sign of a priest, not so much as a whisper from beyond the cell. That sliver of hope the guard took with him has festered into a gaping wound of anxiety at this point. Namjoon’s eyes grow heavy, and he’s fighting sleep when whispers carry to him from outside the cell door.

“Open the door at once.”

“Listen, Brother, we have rules—”

“I said open the door!” Friar Park’s voice echoes, rousing a few of the slumped bodies pressed in close to Namjoon.

He perks up, fatigue quickly washing away at hearing his dear friend's voice.

The guard grumbles, “Pompous arse.” But not a second later, the telltale sound of metal grating against metal screeches through the air before the door heaves open. Weak torchlight floods the space, illuminating countless dirty faces and even grimier bodies.

“Namjoon,” Jimin’s voice greets him. “Please, come kneel with me, and let us pray.”

The iron circling Namjoon’s wrists chafes, but the cool air in the hall outside the cell is a welcomed inhale into his lungs as he moves around the guard who is half-blocking the doorway.

“Make it quick, Brother. This one has a courtship set with the hangman. Just as soon as the sun kisses the sky, he’ll be kissing this life goodbye.”

The guard makes an obscene, wet smacking noise before falling into a fit of phlegmy laughter. He slams the cell door and turns his back on Namjoon and Jimin, returning to a small table set off to the side where a discarded, worn deck of playing cards sits half-shuffled.

There is a small alcove near the entrance to the dungeons, created for just this very thing. Namjoon kneels beside Jimin, barely registering how the rough stone digs into his knees.

“Friar Park, there is something that I need—”

“Bow your head. We’ll start with a prayer to—”

Namjoon knows he’s being uncouth in his approach, but there is only so much time left, and if Jimin agrees to this, he’ll need every minute that can be spared. “Jimin, please. I’m sorry, but this can’t wait. I swear to you that I’ll say as many prayers as you wish upon me once I get out of here…but only if I get out of here.”

Jimin’s frown vanishes, his eyes growing round. “Get out of here?” he mumbles as if the words are odd to him. “Right, of course,” he says a little more assuredly.

“Please. If you’ve ever considered yourself my friend…”

It’s there in Jimin’s eyes, the memories of their shared history on the streets and all the ways Namjoon sacrificed in order to see to it that Jimin never met the same fate as Namjoon.

Namjoon can see when Jimin makes up his mind, a small, private smile tipping up the corner of his mouth before he says, “Tell me what you need from me.”

🍂🍂🍂

It’s impossible to sleep. You’ve tossed and turned for hours now, all to no avail. Not that you want to sleep anyway, not when you know what the sun will bring with it in the early hours of the morning. Something you refuse to allow to happen, only haven’t figured out how to prevent from happening. All the ideas you’ve managed to come up with have been blunders, things that simply would only lead to disaster.

So, here you are, lying in your bed and wishing you were anywhere but. The pillows aren’t as soft, and the goosedown mattress might as well be lumped with stones with as much comfort as you find in it now. All you can think about is cold, damp stone floors and the greasy air from the fat-burning torches they use in the dungeons.

You’ve only been to the dungeons below the castle once. The stench of unwashed bodies and wet-moldy rot lingered long after Seokjin allowed you to escape back up the stairs. You know he’s down there…the man who has breathed life back into your existence despite being a total stranger.

Kim Namjoon.

His name tastes as sweet on your tongue as it feels saying it in your mind. You whisper it to the silk canopy hanging over your bed, “Kim Namjoon.”

“Did you say something, My Lady?” Duckie’s voice startles you. She peeks her head through the door that connects her small servant's room to your bedchamber. The bonnet on her head sits askew as if mused from sleep, the loose silver curls of her hair hanging around her robe-covered shoulders. “Trouble sleeping?”

“It’s been a dreadful day,” you inform her with a restless sigh.

You know she doesn’t understand your true meaning, so it doesn’t surprise you when she says, “Terrible criminals ruining the day, trying to steal a Lady’s favor.” Her slippered feet shuffle over the rugs covering your floor as she draws closer, the light from her candle sending long shadows dancing across the tapestry-covered walls. “I could send down for some warm milk. That used to help you sleep as a child.”

“No, Duckie, that’s quite alri—”

Knock, knock, knock.

The soft but succinct rap on your door cuts through your dismissal, drawing your and Duckie’s attention.

“Whoever could that be this late? Nonsense, a day full of nonsense dragging into the night,” she titters a string of comments as she swiftly approaches the door, clearly ready to throttle whoever is on the other side.

The one thing you were not expecting was to find a frazzled and out-of-breath Friar standing in the hall, a large green book clutched to his chest. 

“I beg your pardon, My Lady. May I come in?” He’s pushing past Duckie before you can even respond. “I have something very important to show you. This isn’t proper, I know, me showing up like this, but it could not possibly wait.”

The Brother bustles through your rooms, making a beeline for the small sitting area near the balcony doors. “Friar, what could possibly be so important you must burst in here like a madman? My Lady is in naught but her shift, at least give me a moment to see that she’s properly dressed!” Duckie squawks after him, flapping her hand, which is not holding the candle, as if she could shoo him from the room like she would a fly.

Bewildered eyes swing around the room and land on your maid, the Brother startling like he’s only just now realizing she’s also in the room. “What? No. This cannot wait, I’m sorry, Good Ma’am, but a man’s life is at stake.”

“A man’s life?” you ask eagerly. You tumble from your bed, quickly snatching up your overcoat and shrugging into it. You’re across the room by the time you’ve got the belt hastily tied around your waist. “You bring word of Namjoon?”

If the Friar is at all surprised that you know that name, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, that’s exactly right, My Lady. But we must hurry, there is much I need to tell you and our time is running quite short. Please, please, sit…sit and listen.”

It all makes so much sense now—the feelings, the heartbeat echoing in your chest—soulmates. Something you once believed could only be found in fairytales and fables. You can’t help but think back to how your mother reacted when you asked about the dreams you had, how wistful and lost in her thoughts she seemed, her whimsical words about always daring to dream.

Part of you wants to take a moment to write to her and tell her what Jimin just explained to you. Maybe even show her the book, Prophetia Somniorum, the prophecy of dreams. It explains the connection that goes beyond someone’s heart, right to their very soul.

“So, you see, it’s inevitable. He is to be your future,” Jimin reiterates, closing the thick tome with a whispered thump of finality. “If he falls with the rising sun…well, I’m afraid the repercussions would be devastating.”

Yes. Something else the book provided grave details concerning. Because a soulmate's match is one of the soul, once the bond has begun to form, the life forces of all those involved are irrevocably tethered together. If something untoward happens to one, the other would be grievously depleted, even to the point of perishing.

This whole time, Duckie has paced behind your chair, an unusual quietness in her demeanor. So when she speaks, you’re unsure what you expect to hear. “And you believe this, Friar Park? A man of your faith…you’re certain?”

Jimin—Friar Park—picks at a loose woolen string snagged in the knee of his rough-spun brown robes. He’s quiet for a moment before finally looking up and catching the clinical gaze of your ladymaid. A beautiful smile graces his face as he says, “With all my heart, Verna. With all my heart.”

“It’s settled then,” Duckie announces. She sets her nearly burnt-out candle off on a side table and quickly disappears into your attached dressing chamber. “You’ll need to dress warmly,” she says, reappearing a moment later with a thick velvet and wool garment draped over her arm. “A few minutes, please, Friar Park. I’ll have her ready to flounce into the night in no time.”

“Really?” you laugh softly, bewildered by her proclamation.

“Don’t just sit there, My Lady!” Duckie pipes up, successfully shooing Jimin away this time. He disappears into the hall with a promise to wait while your maid hastily strips you of your nightwear and trusses you into a warm and, most importantly, practical dress.

You’re shoving wisps of your hair beneath a bonnet that’s tied under your chin as you slip from the room. The supple leather gloves on your hands are meant for riding, but they’re warm enough and not nearly as fumbly as the velvet ones Duckie tried to press on you as you laced up your boots.

“You’ve brought friends,” you note, taking in the two cloaked forms framing either side of Jimin.

Duckie stays behind just in case someone checks in on you during the night. It’s for the best, you think, as much as you will miss her motherly presence and charm. She refused to let her tears fall, but the emotion was there in her whispered words of luck and hope.

“A man must need to know when to ask for help. Tonight is very much one of those times, My Lady.”

One of the figures steps forward, the cowl of his hood slipping back as he brushes a gloved hand across his forehead, allowing you a small glimpse of his face. “Name’s Hoseok, My Lady. It’s a pleasure.”

“Pleasantries can wait. We need to move,” the other figure states gruffly. He’s larger than his counterpart. Even with his bulk covered in the dingy green of his cloak, it does little to hide the breadth of his shoulders. “We only have a few minutes at most before they blow the hole.”

“Blow the hole?” you question.

Hoseok gestures with one of his hands for you to follow after the other man, who is now striding down the dimly lit hall. Jimin falls into step behind you. “Don’t mind him, that’s Jeon Jungkook. He might seem prickly, but he’s harmless…mostly.” The name is familiar to you—everyone knows the exiled Jeon Knight. You’re just not certain many have realized that he is now part of the band of highwaymen that had been harrying the King's Road. Hoseok continues before you can give it much more thought than that, “But, to give you the short of it, My Lady, we need a distraction if we’re to get into the dungeon and get out with little issue. The eastern wall of the coffer holdings has a few minor weak spots, and we plan to exploit them.”

That explanation is vague but provides enough information that you can piece together some semblance of what might be coming. Mere seconds later, the stones beneath your feet shudder, and you catch the distant sound of thunder. Only, as the floor continues to quake and rumble, you’re certain that’s not thunder at all.

“Are they using dynamite?” Jimin sputters from behind you. “Those fools will bring down the whole city!”

That earns a chuckle from Hoseok, who shrugs before urging you to continue. “We had to use what we could on such short notice, Brother. Surely, even you can admire that.”

There is no reply from Jimin, not when Jungkook increases his pace, leaving your group solely focusing on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not exactly pleasant running in the low-heeled boots you’re wearing, but they were the only somewhat sensible footwear you had with you here at the palace.

Not a single guard is in the hall as you careen around corners and shuffle down sets of stairs. It would seem that every man-at-arms in the palace has been called to whatever distraction is still rocking the far side of the palace.

“How many…holes…are they…blowing?” you huff out the words between puffing breaths that cloud in front of you. The farther down you go in the palace, the deeper the chill that’s hanging in the air.

“As many as it takes,” Hoseok offers, his words far less broken than yours. He lopes at your side with ease, the falls of his feet a mere whisper compared to your ground-pounding steps. It’s apparent these men are used to being light on their feet, all the better for being shadows in Sherwood Forest, you suppose.

The stairwell to the dungeon looms ahead like a gaping maw of darkness waiting to swallow you whole. You don’t give it a second thought, barreling down the stairs after Jungkook, hoping your feet find their way with each step. The last thing anyone needs right now is a tumble to the bottom.

You wind left and left and left some more, spiraling right into the belly of the palace. It’s a dizzying and disorienting experience, hurtling down the steps in the dark. But, eventually, you catch the faintest glow of guttering torchlight in the distance.

It draws you like a beacon, your feet moving impossibly faster. Your stride barely changes as you hit the bottom. Jungkook is sprinting ahead of you, his green cloak billowing wildly. You glance to your right at Hoseok, who still keeps pace beside you. There is a manic smile cutting across his handsome face, and you can’t help but smile, too.

That echoing thump in your chest has been growing, increasing with every step closer to its source. It’s like an erratic war drum now, beating so heavily you can feel every pulse all the way down to your fingertips and toes.

Another blast rocks through the palace, rumbling the ceiling over your head and causing a few loose rocks and dust to tumble from the weaker joist points. Shouts sound from up ahead, gnarled fingers jutting from between the bars in several doors.

“Help us!”

“Let us out!”

“The ceilin’ is comin’ down on ‘or heads!”

“Jungkook, is that you? Hoseok?”

The man in question abruptly skids to a stop in front of one of the cell doors. You nearly collide right into the solid muscle of his back, only stopping just short of him thanks to Hoseok hauling back on your arm.

“Namjoon!” Hoseok shouts. “Stand back, as far away from the door as you can.”

“Please don’t tell me you brought dynamite down here, too,” Jimin pants from behind you. “You’ll kill us all on top of bringing down the whole city.”

Hoseok laughs softly, moving to stand beside Jungkook. “Don’t be silly, Brother. We would never waste dynamite where simpler tools can be of use.” He pulls a slender, wrapped bundle from the small of his back.

Simple iron tools are displayed in a row as Hoseok unfurls the roll. Jungkook pulls several small implements from it and goes to work, setting pins against the hinges. With a few quick smacks of a rounded hammer, there are iron pins sticking out from all of the hinge joints.

“Door’s coming down, Namjoon! In three, two…” Jungkook and Hoseok both heave themselves against the solid wooden door. “One!”

The crash is so loud that you slap your hands over your ears. Dust hits your nose a second before the stench of unwashed bodies spills from the gaping doorway. Your heart thuds hard against your ribs as a tall figure lurches into the hallway, shackles hanging from his wrists clinking loudly. Several gnarled and frail bodies follow until the hallway is filled with wheezing and half-starved men.

“We don’t have time to open all the doors,” Hoseok mutters. “Hard to tell who belongs here and doesn’t.”

“Ach, this be the only door ye want open. The rests ‘er full o’murderers and scoundrels alike,” a gravely voice hacks into the silence, answering Hoseok’s question though you’re sure it was rhetorical.

“Shall we be on our way, then?” Jimin asks into the silence that follows.

As if to punctuate his query, the ceiling rumbles once more.

Jungkook swivels on his heel and presses through the gaggle of disoriented men. “Gladly. Those cuffs will have to wait. Let’s go.”

You get your first real glimpse of Namjoon as he steps through the crowd. His gaze immediately lands on you, and time seems to stop. He’s so close; all you have to do is reach out, and you can touch him. You are touching him. Your hands cradle the sides of his face, thumbs tracing over the smooth contours of his jaw.

One moment, you’re standing there, awestruck at having your hands on him, and the next, you’re using that grip to pull him to you. You push up onto your toes and slant your mouth over his. Your eyes slide shut, stars bursting behind your lids, lighting up like bursts of luminous effervescence. Namjoon’s lips are soft, pliable, and welcoming against yours.

A throat clearing draws you back, and you suck in a stilted breath, feeling light and giddy. 

“Hi,” you breathe, blinking up at his wide eyes. You’re far too full of bliss to be embarrassed.

“You’re so beautiful,” is his reply. “I can’t believe you’re here…you’re real. I thought I had dreamt you.”

“I am—”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but we really do need to get out of here. You love birds can sing to one another more later,” Hoseok says, breaking through your bubble.

Reality bounces back around you, and you’re instantly aware of dozens of pairs of eyes looking at you and Namjoon. Your cheeks heat now, and you drop your hands from his face. Only for him to slide one of his shackled hands into yours at your side.

Nothing further is said as you and Namjoon jog down the hallway back towards the spiraling staircase. Already, there are several of the escaped men scrambling their way up the steep steps.

You can’t help stealing glances at Namjoon every few steps. Even in the pitch black of the stairwell, you find yourself glancing over. His presence alone is reassuring, the ever-consistent warmth of his palm pressed tightly to yours.

There is a giddiness that’s bubbling inside of you, itching for a way to get out. Adrenaline is pumping, coursing through your veins, and you want nothing more than to throw your head back and laugh out loud in delight. You don’t, though. Not yet, at least.

Jungkook is a brown and green streak through the night. He seems intimately familiar with the grounds. As a former knight, you expect no less from him. It’s almost too easy how quickly he leads your small band out of the palace grounds. The dark, moss-colored leaves of Sherwood Forest are overhead before you realize it.

A few of the escapees follow behind, sharing low words amongst themselves, only to be hushed several times by Jimin. You’re surprised the Friar is still with you. Though, the fact he helped Namjoon—and you—to begin with, gives you an inkling of his connection to these men—this band of merry men, as you’d like to think of them now, highwaymen no longer.

“Wait, wait,” Namjoon urges, pulling you to a gentle stop. Everyone else continues on. Hoseok is the only one casting a curious look back, but Namjoon just waves for him to keep going.

“What is it?” you ask. You’re not sure, but you can’t imagine you’ve made it all that far into the forest. If you stay here, you could get caught. Undoubtedly, the guards are in pursuit by now. You glance around anxiously.

Namjoon loosens his grip from your hand to cup your face. The chain connecting his shackled wrists brushes against the column of your throat. “I couldn’t go another moment without doing this…again.”

The word is barely out of his mouth before he kisses you this time. It’s brief but no less fierce. Fire ignites deep in your belly, and the echoing heartbeat in your chest thunders into a pounding rhythm.

The whisper of your name on Namjoon’s lips is like the most beautiful sonnet. It breathes life into you. He says it again, fervently as he searches your face. “This is truly real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real,” you confirm with a smile.

“I’ll spend all of my days learning every beat of your heart,” Namjoon swears. “If you’ll have me.”

“You are mine, as I am yours. I’ll follow you wherever you go. Take me into your world.”

Sherwood Forest stills for a moment as if the entire wood is holding its breath and waiting. And as Namjoon nods, slipping his hand back into yours, and you disappear with him beneath the boughs, the forest exhales a sigh of relief, coming to life once more.

6 Months Later, Sherwood Forest in the Spring

Life in the little city suspended in the treetops of Sherwood Forest has been more than you could ever have imagined. At first, you were intimidated and anxious, traversing the wood and rope bridges between the platforms. But you grew in confidence and now are pretty sure you could walk from one end of the community to the other with your eyes closed. You’ve yet to test that, though, of course. You might have given up your station as a Lady, but you’ve still got your wits.

You’d be remiss in saying you haven’t had a single worry since stealing away into the night with Namjoon and his band of merry men. In the beginning, you entertained many worries. All of which have since been eased.

For weeks, you jumped at every little sound and brush of the breeze thinking it Yoongi and Taehyung come to steal you back to Seokjin. Jimin assured you after a month had gone by that your name had practically been erased from any and all stories. 

It’s like you never even existed, a runaway, lost to the world. When you asked him about your parents, he told you that they’ve gone through a mourning period, but there hasn’t been much else said about it. You love your parents dearly, but perhaps it’s for the best this way. Luckily, Duckie and all her motherly energy joined you shortly after you were whisked away. She insisted and pestered Jimin so much that he had no choice but to show her the way through the Sherwood Forest.

For a while there, you also weren’t sure how you would be welcomed among Namjoon’s community. Nor where your place would be exactly. Sure, you’d be by Namjoon’s side. But you wanted more in your life than just that; you needed purpose, some way to contribute.

So, you decided to offer your services and knowledge to help Namjoon. Now, you work closely with Jungkook and help secure the goods and services needed. You’ve been so successful in this endeavor that a small team of masons has even come in to begin excavating and renovating the stone ruins.

By this time next year, there should be enough rooms prepared so that some of the families can move down out of the treetops. It will especially be suitable for the elderly, who have had limited mobility so high up.

“Flower for your thoughts?” Namjoon asks. You blink away your drifting thoughts, focusing on the brilliant purple petals in front of your face. You nod, and with delicate fingers, Namjoon weaves the flower into your hair just above your ear.

“I was just thinking about my time here.”

Namjoon’s steps don’t falter as he continues to lead you through the stone ruins that spread out a short distance from his humble community in the treetops. The flowing cream-colored gown you’re wearing swishes around your feet with every step, the lacy train held tight in your hand to keep it from snagging. Your other hand is clasped steadfast in Namjoon’s.

You haven’t let go of his hand since Jimin tied them together with a length of velvety ribbon and pronounced you as one. It’s been a magical day so far. One that you’re sure will only grow more so if the grin on Namjoon’s face is any indication.

“A marvelous time it’s been. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. I wonder how Seokjin fares,” Namjoon laughs with the last part, giving you a charming, coy smile.

There was one last thing you wanted to accomplish before genuinely giving your life over to your own wants and desires, which was to see Prince Seokjin and his cronies put into their proper places.

The courier you sent last month should have well and truly reached King Seokjoong by now. You were able to provide him with an extensive account of everything nefarious that Seokjin and Taehyung have orchestrated. Having once been a Lady has its perks.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of correspondence about it with our next bushel of goods from Jimin,” you trail off, frowning as Namjoon winds you further and further through the ruins. “Where are we going?” you ask.

Namjoon leads you through a few more turns, past half-constructed scaffolding and piles of building supplies. The masons have taken a few days off, the whole settlement in jovial celebration for this special day.

“We are….” Namjoon sing-songs the words, drawing them out as he pulls you around a corner. “Going right here.”

You blink slowly, momentarily struck with astonishment.

Before you is a romantic dreamscape with blossoming spring flowers and mounds of silky pillows. A tinkling spring cascades in a series of small waterfalls coming off a slick cliff face that forms one wall of the sprawling space. Ivy-covered stones make up the other walls, and the doorway you’re standing in is cut into one of them. The floor is polished marble, swept free of debris and litter. Alcove windows mark the two far walls, and clay pots of blossoming purple flowers cover the elegant sills.

In the center of the open space, there is a large platform bed covered in a mountain of pillows and downy blankets. A washing basin and pitcher sit on a small wooden table in the corner by the waterfall. Riverstones are stacked about three paces high, creating a small retaining wall that keeps the water from the falls contained and from flooding into the room.

“What is this place?” you ask in wonder, gazing up at the thick panels of stained glass overhead that allow in a cascade of colorful late-day sun rays.

“The histories I’ve managed to find indicate that this part of the ruins was where the royal family resided. They used the natural falls as a life source, drinking the crisp water to ensure their health and longevity. Now, it’s yours…if you want it.” Namjoon gives you a sheepish look. “I asked the masons to restore this area first. They’ve been working in secret for weeks to make sure it was safe.”

You move within the room, your fingers slipping from Namjoon’s as you make a slow turn to take in the whole space. “This is for me?” you ask, finally facing him once more. “Truly?”

He answers you with a kiss, closing the distance you created between the two of you and wrapping you up in his arms.

“Truly,” Namjoon murmurs against your lips before deepening the kiss until you’re breathless and your lips are swollen and wet.

The smart brown and green doublet Namjoon donned today slips easily from his shoulders under the insistence of your trembling fingers. The fashionable shoes, hose, and underthings Hoseok pressed upon him go next. You welcome the press of his body against yours, moaning into his kiss as his hands disrobe you with just as much ease.

The fragrance from the lavender plants in the pots and the running jasmine that mingles with the ivy is a heady attribute to the spicy cinnamon and clove scent of Namjoon. You like to tease him about the amount of spiced tea he consumes. But, when it makes his lips taste like fire and his skin smell like warmth and comfort, you bless the merchants who introduced the drink to him.

Namjoon follows you down onto the soft mound of pillows, his bulk fitting into the clasp of your thighs. The heft between his legs sits heavy against your belly, leaking wetness every time he presses his hips against yours. You writhe beneath him, digging your heels against the small of his back, silently begging him to give you what you both so desperately want.

“I love you,” you whisper, lips finally breaking from Namjoon’s.

Those dark-honeyed eyes with their endless depths bore into yours as Namjoon shifts over you, using one of his hands to ready himself against your entrance. “And I you, my love…my soulmate.”

Your lips part, a silted gasp-turned-moan escaping as he gently presses forward, sliding into your body. He’s gentle, staying his hips to let you adjust before pressing even deeper until he’s finally sheathed to the hilt, and you’re both gasping.

The light coming in through the stained glass overhead bathes Namjoon in a myriad of tones that shift and darken as the sun sinks lower in the sky. It feels like he touches your soul as his hands move over your body, his lips plucking and drawing out each and every pliant moan and shudder.

You are finite and yet infinite all at once. Every breath you take is spelled with triumph and disaster, a coalescing of the cosmos that you know could rip apart the universe with its power. Your body breaks against his over and over again like a tempest against a neverending shore. Only this shore is full of life and light, drowning out all your worries and leaving nothing but beauty and decadence in its place.

With one final, desperate cry, Namjoon gives himself over to you. His liquid heat floods your body, and you welcome it with a languid smile, luxuriating in the bliss you’re sharing. Namjoon cradles you to him, stroking the glistening beads of perspiration from your skin.

“Are you happy?” you ask him after some time. The sun has long since slunk beneath the horizon, its bright light and warmth replaced by the calm serenity of the moon. It hangs full and silvery overhead, creating its own beautiful tapestry of colors through the stained glass.

Namjoon turns over onto his back, draping an arm around your waist and pulling you close to his side. His hand absently brushes over the lush curve of your waist as he stares up at the night sky.

“Mm. How many stars do you think are up there?” he asks.

You cast a glance in the direction he’s looking, letting your eyes sweep over the endless number of sparkling facets spreading as far as you can see. “Too many to count.”

“Well, then, the amount of happiness I have right now rivals the amount of stars in the sky.”

He smiles, those eyes twinkling with the reflection of his joy. “Tell me about it,” you urge, your voice low and sultry as you push up and slide a knee over his hips. “Tell me of what your heart speaks.”

His words come whispered and fevered, full of truth and passion, punctuated by the sounds of your bodies coming together as one. It echoes through the forest, a proclamation to nature and the heavens above, a love sparked and forever kindled beneath the boughs.

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[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: another deal. another oath

tw: grief

Marco got you sick. 

Building pressure throbs between your eyes, ravaging your sinuses with tightly packed snot. It moves to your throat until you’re constantly hacking up phlegm and the pressure in your ears swells so viciously that you can hardly hear anyone over the idle chatter in the restaurant. Of course, there is no evidence to prove that it was Marco himself who got you sick. There are countless people who flood through the doors of Sapori with empty stomachs and noses running from the bitter, humid cold of London. Anyone could have gotten you sick. 

Yet, over the last week, no one has gotten as close to you as he did. Fingers digging into your arm. Legs pinning yours to the bench. Gentle hand—the hand of a killer, his hand, that brutal fucking hand—caressing the side of your face, holding you hostage. Taking, and taking, and taking—tongue shoving past your teeth—

Blurry eyes glance away from the assaulting brightness of your phone screen. Sapori is quiet; it always is this early. Early for late night dining, anyway. Half past ten, you’ve spent most of the morning cleaning every single corner of that building. It’s how you rationalize spending more hours at work even without customers—you have to keep your hands busy and cash flowing. Except, after a while, you got too dizzy to continue, so you’ve taken refuge at a lonely table. The dust and carcinogens you’ve inhaled haven’t done anything to ease your symptoms, but you can’t afford to stay idle. There are numbers to be crunched, cash to be earned, and debts to be paid. 

Which brings you back to your phone. 

Having only graduated school without any sort of higher education, your options for jobs are limited, but working one job isn’t cutting it anymore. You can either pick up more hours like you have been doing this past work, or attempt to find a job that will pay slightly more to help cover the difference in what you now owe Marco every month. You’ve been staring at hourly wages for so long you feel your eyes begin to cross, and you don’t exactly like what you’re seeing. An early morning librarian job for £10.44, coffee shop barista for £9… nothing salary. Nothing that will save you. 

“Job hunting?” 

The ache and throbbing in your ears suffocates your senses so viciously that you didn’t hear Bruce’s footsteps approach. Jumping, you stare up at him like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Nothing like looking at other job postings with your boss staring over your shoulder. The embarrassment is enough to open up a black hole in your stomach where it consumes your organs bit by bit until you’re liquified. Your phone screen goes black, and you choke out a sheepish smile through the snot leaking into the back of your throat. 

“Just for a second job. Part-time,” you explain. Your voice sounds louder than his—ears too clogged to properly receive soundwaves. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving any time soon.” 

Bruce’s mellifluous laugh is the first thing that’s warmed your soul all week. It’s contagious. He’s always been a jovial man—you’ve heard a few of the cooks call him The Italian Santa Claus because of his rosy cheeks and round stomach. The smallest of smiles flitters across your lips as he carefully takes the seat across from you with a large bowl in his hands. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t be upset if you left. Sad, yes, but everyone finds their way out of here eventually,” Bruce assures. His accent is odd. Immigrating from Italy at a young age, his vernacular is a mash of proper English, Italian, and what you’re guessing is Italian-American slang. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been able to gather from the movies, anyway. “You’re a hard worker. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” 

A wave of tears build up behind your eyes at his words, and they’re held back by a flimsy, half formed dam. Your emotions have been strewn about in your brain all week—cluttered, sticking halfway out of folders and filing cabinets. It’s hard to shove them back when you can hardly shut the drawers. 

“Here,” he continues as he pushes the bowl toward you. The hard lines of his face soften as he watches you curiously peer at the contents. Tiny bits of pasta shaped like stars swirl around in some sort of thickened broth. “Pastina. Good for your health. You sound sick. Eat up and go home.” 

Your hand is hardly gripping the spoon when he says that, and it nearly slips out of your grasp to clatter back into the bowl. Mouth half open, you stare at Bruce with wide eyes. There’s not a single hint of maliciousness on his face—his eyes twinkle bright as he runs a hand over his balding head. Though he appears happy—proud of himself, even—you feel nothing of the sort. 

“I can’t go home,” you try to argue, but he quickly cuts you off with a wave of his hand. 

“You’re sick, and you’ve been working too much. You’ve worked more hours than I can legally give you this week, and though I don’t mind paying you under the table, it’s not exactly good for either of us. Rest, before you really make yourself sick,” he dismisses. 

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to fruitlessly hide the tremor in your voice. “But I… I really need the money.” 

It’s all you can think about. Money. Numbers This vicious counting game. How you’re going to cough up the extra cash for Marco and still have enough to feed yourself. To do anything. To live. Or worse—what happens to you if you can’t make enough? How many more times is he going to change your payments based on stupid mistakes that aren’t your fault?

Waving your words off again, Bruce stands to his feet, hands pressing flat against the swell of his stomach as he does so. “I’ll give you a raise, then.” 

Jarred, the side of your spoon taps against the edge of the bowl as you follow him with your eyes. “A raise?” 

“Sixteen,” he replies. “Should be enough. I’m tired of you working so many hours. You need to go out and be a kid before you get old and useless like me, yeah? Pick up a hobby. Hang out with that guy Bianca won’t stop talking about. He seems nice, hm? I just want you to be happy, kid. Now, eat up. You’ll feel better.” 

Bruce vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with a bowl of pastina and your thoughts. It’s good that he did, because if you tried to thank him for such a gracious gesture, you’d certainly crumble. Perhaps he knew that, too. 

In a poor attempt to save yourself from crying in public, you quickly turn your attention to the food Bruce lovingly whipped up for you. Steam wafts and twirls upwards, hitting your face in a fine mist. Its flavor is difficult to discern with how congested you are, but the rich texture is enough to satiate the hole in your stomach. It always seems ever growing these days. A barren cavern; a void that wants to swallow you from the inside out. Not ravenous, just gutting. 

Maybe one day it will fill itself up again. 

For now, it grows. Slowly. Insidiously. Taking bits of you and shredding them into ribbons. They trail behind you, fluttering in the wind as you walk up the steps to your flat where they then roll down the stairs. It would look beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that it was you. You, with quiescent feet trudging through the door. You, with the fatigued body that can hardly dress herself into pajamas. You, who curls into bed, a motherless child—a creature waiting to vanish. 

Too broke to afford cold medicine to aid you with your congestion, it takes time before you can finally fall asleep. When you do, it grips you like a vice, pinning you down, spoon feeding you dreams you haven’t been able to see with the hours you’ve been pulling at work. They’re heavy, holding your head under water, threatening to suffocate you; you can do nothing but watch. 

You dream of your mother. 

She’s folding your school uniform in the laundromat—the very same one you use as common ground to meet up with Marco. Washers swish water in their drums as dryer alarms chime the end of their cycle in terrible cacophony. Pristine white blouses become ruined with burgundy—her hands are soiled. Covered with blood. She folds, and you sit and watch her, hands tangled in string, fingers unable to move. Each fold is done with purpose. Crisp. Effortless. Blouses, skirts, and ties stack up taller than her on the table, threatening to scrape the ceiling above. 

“Throw them away,” you say, voice weak. 

She does not look at you. 

“They’re ruined. Throw them away,” you say. 

She does not look at you. 

“Did I ruin them?” she asks. 

You blink. The string around your fingers tightens. You feel them turn cold as ice. Lack of blood. Festering wounds. Irritated nail beds. An extension of the sins trapped inside of you. 

“It wasn’t you,” you murmur. 

Finally, she looks at you and you flinch. 

“Who was it?” 

Fibers snap, and the string falls free from your hands. Fluttering and dainty; it lays on the floor in generous spirals. There’s so much blood on her shirt. An artistic splatter of violence. You can’t look away. 

“You already know,” you choke out. 

She smiles. A toothy grin. Teeth perfect and whole, lips curling, but it’s not real. Her eyes are cloudy—her eyes are dead. Her smile is dead. Your mother is dead. Cold skin, colder gaze, coagulated blood on linoleum. Rotting. You still smell it: stale blood, cologne, and mint. It follows you everywhere. 

He follows you everywhere. 

Your phone is under your pillow, and someone is calling you. Vibrations rattle through the cotton filling, yanking you out of your dream like you’re being pulled out from under water. For a moment, you think you’re home. Really home. Yet, the room is too cold, and you are too alone. Blinking the sand from your eyes, you shove your hand between the comforter and mattress to yank your phone from underneath your head. The screen flashes. 

Incoming Call from Captain Jack Sparrow

You hit accept and bring the speaker up to your right ear. “Hello?”

“Chip!” Aelin’s voice purrs on the other end. “What are you up to?” 

“Uh…” You pause as you turn to lay on your back, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling. You forgot to turn the heat back on when you got home, and you swear you can almost see your breath. “...relaxing.” 

“That’s a first. Hey, I’m stuck at Terminus, and I’m bored. John wanted to have a quiet evening together but got caught up with some work stuff. Wanna get dinner or something?” she asks. 

You sniff, and the pressure behind your eyes and ears nearly doubles. “I… don’t think I’m feeling up to that tonight. Sorry.” 

“Oh wow,” Aelin gawks. Her voice drips with concern, and you hear shuffling on her end. “Are you sick? You sound very… congested.” 

“Yeah, I got sent home from work. Must’ve caught a bug from… somewhere.” 

Aelin says something in response, but you can’t hear it. There’s nothing but ringing as you force yourself to sit up and hack up snotty phlegm, trying not to choke on it as it comes up. Acidulous liquid coats your tongue, and you wince. Vile. Why can’t you ever have anything that tastes sweet? Something easier to stomach than an unwanted tongue or blood? 

“Chip?”

Her voice brings you back to the present—back to your cold apartment with frigid sheets and your pounding headache. There’s no reason for your tears, yet they plague you anyway. Maybe it’s from your cold. Maybe it’s because you dreamed of your mom. Or maybe it’s just because you’re sad, and you have been for a while. You’re just not able to hold it back anymore. 

“Do you wanna spend the night with John and I?’ Aelin finishes. 

Lips curling inward, you try your best to hold back a sob. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

“Lovely. Riley’s driving. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

An attempt is made at making yourself look somewhat presentable, but it’s hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling. Nothing can cure you of the red irritation plaguing your scleras, nor the constant sniffing from congestion. You make do with fresh clothes and a washed face before shoving a few necessities in an overnight bag. Simple. Small. Something that won’t take up much space. 

When Aelin arrives, it’s a very unceremonious occasion. There’s gentle greetings. A pitiful look. There is no mention of how cold it is, or how the place looks sparsely lived in. She’s beautiful in her peacoat with pristine curled hair and flawless makeup. Perfect for a quaint dinner with a friend. Her viridian eyes look at you with a pity that’s nearly palpable. You feel bad for being sick—she seemed so thrilled to eat with you. 

Simon waits for both of you in front of the building in a sleek, black car that you’re surprised he can fit into. It’s terribly appropriate for him; something that would look perfect hidden in Terminus’s car park. Yet now it’s being used to transport you—a pathetic, ill woman—to her friend’s house as if you’re nothing more than a child. 

It isn’t until you find your seat in the back that you realize just how long you slept for. Dusk pulls its cimmerian shadow over the sky, obscuring the streets in the pale yellow glow of streetlights as Simon pulls into traffic. You got home around noon. Nearly a whole day wasted with sleep. 

Little is said between the three of you as you struggle to stay conscious. The consistent gentle hum of the car’s engine is better than any lullaby that you can recall. A siren’s song. A loving hand on your back. Head bobbing and swaying with the turns of the road, you listen to whatever Simon has droning on the radio; some sort of rock station that plays so quietly you almost can’t hear it at all. Every now and then, you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at you like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep watch over you. 

It seems he’s still taking Aelin’s request to heart. 

As the car approaches the house, Aelin digs into her purse where she quickly shuffles through a small, periwinkle wallet. She fishes out some cash before handing it to Simon as he parks. 

“Here,” she whispers, quiet enough that your poor hearing can’t catch. “Get her some medicine, please.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters in reply. 

Before you know it, you’re tucked into a quiet guest room on the second floor of the house. Heat radiates from the baseboards, yet your muscles tense and ache in a shiver. To combat this, Aelin has found every spare blanket and duvet she can find and has tossed them on top of you until you are nothing more than a heaping pile of laundry. At first, she had recommended throwing them in the dryer to help warm them up further, but you rejected it. 

You hate making her go through so much unnecessary effort on your behalf. 

Still, she refuses to leave you as you curl into a ball, face pressed against her side as she sits on top of the covers next to you. Aelin always smells lovely. Fresh rosewater and lavender. You’re enveloped by her scent like it’s a warm hug as she rubs a hand along your back, but it’s muted. The considerable amount of blankets only allows you to feel the ghost of her touch. 

“How long has this been going on?” she asks tenderly. 

You shrug. “Day before yesterday, I think.” 

She pouts with a huff, hand ceasing its movement as she silently chastises you. “And you were still trying to work?”

“I have to,” you mumble against her. 

A terrible quiescence soaks the room. Everything hurts, and you want to rest, but you know that won’t come soon. Not when Aelin’s concern is eating her alive—a vicious plague ripping through her heart. You can hear the beasts feasting on her marrow even now. 

“Well, I brought an old friend to come visit,” Aelin grins. Before you can gather the strength to ask her what she’s talking about, she pulls something out from underneath the covers to set it in front of you. “Tada!” 

An old, well loved stuffed animal sits before you with lopsided eyes and a faded smile. Once vibrant, crimson fur has now faded into an off-tone auburn, but the resemblance of a fox is still unmistakable. 

“I thought I told you to get rid of that,” you mutter. 

“I can’t get rid of her! You used to love Pumpkin,” Aelin says as if offended. 

For a long moment, you stare at your old stuffed animal and relive the memories that soak it. It was a gift from your father when you were a child—something you used to hold close with you every night, even after his death. Even after you went to live with John and Aelin after graduation. You don’t know why, but one day you decided that you couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. You’re not sure if it’s because it was gifted to you by your father—the man you’ve tried so hard to continue loving despite his flaws—or because sweet Pumpkin had become so tainted with you that you figured you should take pity on the poor thing. 

When you don’t respond, Aelin sighs and sets the stuffed fox on the nightstand. “Alright, fine. She’ll sit right here for when you’re ready.” There’s a short pause that stretches between the two of you, but it doesn’t last long before Aelin decides that the silence is driving her mad. “I’ve heard you and Riley have been getting close,” she prompts like she’s about to spill the daily gossip. A change in subject. A way to ease you into what she really wants to talk about. “Visiting him at the club, then?”

The club. Andrei. Spilled pasta in an alleyway. Your unfortunate run in with Marco made you forget all about how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The blade of Andrei’s knife glints just as brightly in your mind now as it did that night, and you cover your urge to puke with a well timed cough. You wish she wouldn’t bring it up, but it’s a good sign. 

It means Simon was true to his word. 

“Just to deliver food. He kept fixing stuff at my apartment. Had to pay him back,” you explain like a broken record. 

Lips stretch over ivory teeth as Aelin shifts next to you. “Is that so? Sounds like he fancies you.” 

“Or maybe he’s just doing the job that you assigned him to do,” you reply bluntly. 

Aelin doesn’t tense at your insinuation, but she does sigh as she settles back against the headboard. “Thought he was better at keeping secrets than that.” 

“He didn’t tell me, I figured it out on my own,” you claim, stuffy voice unable to land the plosives of your consonants. 

She chuckles amicably as she looks down at you. Eyes closed, you’re nearly asleep, and you would have been if it weren’t for her conversation. 

“Well, you were always the smart one. Still, I won’t retract my statement. Riley’s had a lot of… partners, but he never lingers around anyone like he does with you,” she insists. “He’s a good man, really. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself.” 

“Can’t entertain that,” you say. There’s a sour stoicness to your tone; too tired to be annoyed yet yearning for silence. “I’ve got work.” 

Another stillness—a suffocating one. Aelin’s smile has long since vanished as her lips press together tartly. There you go, talking about work again. Like you can’t stand to do anything else. Like you’ll die without the money. 

“Chip… you know that if you need help, you can always ask, right?” she prods carefully. “Anything. I mean it. John and I… we’re here for you.” 

Help. you think of that word, and a sour cordolium rips through your chest. Asking for such a thing from someone is out of the question. You made that deal with yourself ages ago. 

“I don’t… I don’t need help. I just… miss my mum.” 

You feel the moment when the room freezes. It’s when Aelin looks down at you, doleness unleashed in her gaze. Bringing up your late mother was a mistake, but she’s all you can think about after that dream. You wonder if you’ll ever have a normal dream of her again—fresh, normal, and void of all blood. A dream where she smiles and it’s not dead. 

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say. 

“Me too.” 

When Simon returns, you’re fast asleep. Aelin can hear the sound of his boots on the floor from a mile away; purposefully making his existence known as he opens the door to the only room with the light on. His eyes are drawn to you, body curling into Aelin like you’ll fall through the bed without her. He approaches the bed and holds out the bag for her to take, and the very first thing she finds is every bit of cash she had given him to buy the items in the first place. 

Instead of chastising him, she rummages through the rest of the items. NyQuil, Sudafed, Vicks, various soups and electrolyte drinks. It’s a variable feast to fight off your cold. Aelin looks up to poke fun at the man—at this raging chink in his armor—but she loses all words when she sees the way his hand presses against your forehead. Careful fingers gently brush against a faint scar by your temple as he feels the heat radiating from your body. He watches you with gentle devotion as your shoulders rise and fall with your breaths, congestion causing you to quietly snore. You do not stir awake, but she witnesses the way your brows furrow when he pulls away. 

“She’s got a bad fever,” he concludes quietly. “She looks exhausted. Dehydrated.” 

“Yeah. She’s been overworking herself too much. Hasn’t been resting or healing like she should,” Aelin concurs. 

Fragile silence breaks as you breathe, airways too clogged for you to sleep peacefully. Simon and Aelin stare down at you for a moment, each of them considering the circumstance. Her lips press tightly together in thought before she carefully slides away from you, leaving your coiled form. She sets the bag of medicine and supplies on the foot of the bed before facing Simon with crossed arms. 

“Can I talk to you before you leave?” she requests. 

Simon answers her with a curt nod before they exit the room with the lights off and the door shutting tight behind them. Aelin’s heart pounds away in her chest as it fights against the tightness of her ribs. It’s an ever constricting cage. Relentless. Vile. She ensures that she’s not facing Simon as they traverse down the stairs. 

“Chip is… really scaring me,” Aelin breathes, and she feels her voice crack nearly as bad as her heart as her feet hit the landing. “I’m more than a little concerned or worried now she… she’s always been something of a workaholic, but this is different. It feels like she’s trying to run away from something and she’s just—I don’t know—keeping something buried inside of her. Pushing away any help anyone tries to offer her. I’m… scared she might hurt herself.” 

“Hurt herself?” Simon repeats in disbelief. “Has she done anythin’ like that before?” 

“No. Not that I know of. It’s just…” 

The words die as Aelin’s lips press tightly together once again, and she finally forces herself to look at Simon. He’s nothing but a stone—this immoveable being who won’t be swayed by anything physically or emotionally. She steadies her breath as she wills away the tears welling in her eyes. 

“I’m going to tell you this because I trust you,” she says, gaze attempting to harden. It’s a silent vow. A demand that he not repeat any of the words she’s about to speak. 

“Of course,” Simon nods. 

Aelin swallows the guilt in the back of her throat. 

“Chip’s parents are dead. They have been for a while. First it was her dad, and then her mum. My dad was the Chief Inspector working the cases of their deaths. It wasn’t… from natural causes. She holds a lot of guilt and she gets in a bad headspace over it, and I think that’s a bit of what’s happening and… it’s worse than I’ve ever seen it before. This time of year is always hard for her considering the anniversaries of their deaths, and I don’t know if it just seems worse because she’s sick right now but… fuck, Simon. The way she talked about her mum just earlier, I swear I nearly broke.” 

Crisp eyeliner marks the edges of her eyes, yet it smudges as Aelin banishes the tears from her vision with the tips of her fingers. Still as ever, Simon watches carefully and without judgement as she gathers herself in order to finish. 

“She needs to talk to someone about it, but I don’t think she wants it to be me. There are many things I think she would share, but there’s no way she’d give me the whole story,” she concludes. 

Confusion clouds Simon’s stern gaze, and he shifts on his feet. “What, you’re thinkin’ she’ll tell me and not you?” 

“Yes.” Her reply is speedy and sharp; a warning. No one knows you better than her. “She carries guilt for a lot of stuff. For… There’s just some things I know she won’t want to tell me. Things she can’t tell me because it’s… well, me.” 

Something is off—Simon can smell the stench of it from a mile away. He knows better than to question Aelin, and she seems very convinced that this is the true issue at hand, but there’s an uncomfortable trepidation that hangs somewhere in the balance of it all. A picture half developed. The brittle edge of a cliff. It’s the same feeling that afflicted him the night he fought Andrei in the alleyway—a deja vu that screams trouble if he even attempts to entertain it. 

“Please,” Aelin begs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy, I just don’t want her to be alone. Swear to me you won’t let her be alone through this. Simon, I’m not strong enough to cut through her walls but the thought of… the thought of her like this kills me.” 

Another deal. Another oath. Simon has always been a protector, in some way. A tool which one uses to bludgeon. He doesn’t know if he can be gentle. He knows he’s certainly not palatable. But he thinks of your sleeping form in the VIP room after the tussle with Andrei, and the heat of your fever against his hand, and he thinks he’d at least like to try. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her. 

Nodding, Aelin attempts to strengthen her resolve with a deep breath. Frayed nerves still poke out of her skin, completely wired with worry. It sparks and fizzles, yet she still glances back up the stairs, as if she can feel the aura of exhaustion seeping out of the bedroom. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper as she looks back at him. “Truly, I appreciate it.” 

“Can’t do everythin’ on your own,” he says. 

She scoffs playfully. “Tell that to Chip.” 

Once the front door locks shut behind Simon and the house is still and quiet, Aelin sneaks back upstairs. You’re hardly conscious when she gently urges you awake to press cough syrup to your lips, but you don’t complain. You never complain—not when there’s bitter liquid on your tongue; never when you should. Silent. Pliable. Once you’ve swallowed every last drop, you collapse back into bed, body weak and overheated; slick with sweat. 

She knows she should leave once your snoring starts back up again, but she can’t. There’s something to relish in how peaceful you are in this moment. Not working yourself to death. Not running from the grief that’s been strangling you since you were a child. For a moment, as you lay there in bed, Aelin gets to see you as you were when you were a kid. 

As she stands at the foot of the bed, she recalls the first time she ever met you—both clad in black and unable to look at one another without timid smiles and tear filled eyes. Aelin was the one who had to break the silence. To introduce herself as the daughter of Sean Gilroy; the man who sat in that coffin so adorned with flowers and love. You’ve grown so much since then. A fine woman who should be proud of herself. She wants to shake you awake. Yank you out of your sleep and scream at you that there’s nothing to be forgiven—nothing to punish yourself over. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, she turns around and leaves, ensuring that the electrolyte drink Simon bought is on the pillow next to your for when you wake up in the morning.

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[halcyon-writings]

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Sometimes an almost hurts more than what ever could have been.

— Metal sings in the air as blades clash. You feel it in your forearms, the pressure of gravity as your soles of your shoes dig into the grassy dirt.

Your lips form an 'o' shape as you look at the Princeling (Prince, he insisted once upon a time), your brow raising in an impressed arch. Before he swings his arm down, you disarm yourself, letting the blade disappear.

"You haven't lost your touch," You note. He regards you wearily.

Snapping your fingers, like you're trying to remember something until your smile sets again. "Pardon, you haven't lost your touch, Your Highness." Your smile is a cold thing, nothing like the friendly or trusting one he had been on the end of long ago.

"You know that title is one I've left behind," He says quietly.

Xavier gets no response, as you've already disappeared into the dense trees. Your laughter drifts behind you, and he is left standing alone in the clearing.

Just like the rest of us? He can already hear your voice mocking him.

You were the child of his father's Knight Commander, the Grandis Knight, and at such a young age, your potential had been spoken of with no less pride.

You'd even gotten yourself words of praise from the King. Which meant to the young prince, you were automatically considered a personal enemy.

Of course, you had no such qualms. You were not deterred by his short or clipped answers to your questions or attempts at conversation. More often than not, you had sought him out when your fathers met with the King's counsellors. Your voice was a happy chirp, a toy sword in your arms.

To the point where your persistence began to grow on him. Until one day you didn't accompany your father. Well, you hadn't shown up to the Academy for a few days either, missing three days of lessons. (Xavier had refused to acknowledge then, that he was worried. Not you, loud, chatty.... friendly... you.)

A maid had hurried to try and at least get you presentable for the visit he had made. But you had promptly turned green at standing up too fast, so that killed this idea faster than a royal hunt could kill any quarry. Instead he finds you sniffling and coughing into a crumpled napkin in your fist, he tries not to make a face when a cough sounds too full of phlegm.

"Sorry, Prince Xavier," You try and wheeze out, "I would stand to greet you but I think I might just puke all over your shoes if i do."

“I’ll ignore such a break in protocol this once,” He shrugs, striding through the door like he owned the place. But then again, he sort of did…

You join him when he plans to leave Philos in his search to stabilize the planet’s core. He tells you about the dangers of this mission. How it could be years until you return. More so that he doesn’t want to imagine yourself in harm, at risk of whatever may come from this venture.

All you do is laugh, shaking your head, “What sort of Grandis Knight would I be if I didn’t follow my future King?”

Your future King. Xavier coughs, hiding the nervous stammer, into his fist.

Elbowing him, you even wiggle your eyebrows playfully, “Besides, if I’m right, isn’t there someone special waiting for you? All the more reason to make sure you return in one piece.” It makes him blush, which only makes you laugh.

He shook his head at the memory. As he roused from his short afternoon slumber, his cheek pressed against his open palm as he stares outside of the window to his apartment.

Without realizing it, your name leaves his mouth in a whisper. It’s a rattling thing, to be so undone by a name he once could recall with fondness… with something he can’t name. He can’t, lest it undo him completely.

Do you think about him too?

It’s a question that Xavier doesn’t know if he wants the answer to.

Not when it’s no longer the happy and joyful smile you had directed at him. Not when it became something cold and unfeeling.

Instead Xavier curls deeper into his blanket, his phone buzzing, but he doesn’t check the screen. Hopefully his dreams provide happier memories this time. Of ones where you’re still at his side.