#i get migraines and stomach aches every day | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reiding-writing · 11 months ago

Note

Hi i am absolutely in love with your writing. If you want to, could you write Reid having one of his migraines and reader just comforts him, yk massaging his scalp and forehead and whatnot while he lay in her lap. Idk man i just wanna see my boy get some relief from his headaches because in the show he just suffers through them ☹️

migraine massages [ s.r ]

Summary:

Migraines are the worst. They hurt and they stop you from doing absolutely everything. Spencer was silently pleading for relief from his own body, and you plan to fulfil those needs.

WARNINGS: details of migraines, vomit mentions, mentions of spencer’s addiction, mentions of relapse

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: ANGST, hurt/comfort

wc: 2.7k

masterlist!!

a/n: can’t have hurt/comfort without the hurt. from a personal perspective, migraines suck bro. they suck so bad.

i’m also mildly disappointed that they didn’t expand the migraine thing after they dropped the original tumour reason, like they could’ve done so much with it-

thanks for the request! <33

Spencer felt like his skull was being hammered from the inside out. Like his brain was silently vying to escape it’s confines and break out of the bone. He felt like every nerve of his body was working against him to make sure he had the most miserable day humanly possible.

He felt like if he moved an inch from his position that the coffee and croissant that he had for breakfast this morning in an attempt to make himself feel better was going to force it’s way up out of his stomach and paint his desk in a sea of vomit.

The tinnitus ringing in his ears didn’t help, nor did the agitatingly bright while florescent lights of the office that he’d never seemed to take much notice of before.

His shoulders ached as he rested his head in his hands, his thumbs negligibly working against his temples to attempt to relieve some of the aching pressure that sent waves through his head and made him want to curl up into ball under his bed covers and never wake up.

“Spence? Are you okay?” Your voice is deliberately quiet as you approach his desk on your return from the kitchenette, steaming mug of coffee cupped in your hands and concern written all over your face.

You can almost hear the sigh of relief as he realises it’s just you and not Hotch asking him for the fourth time today for the file he’d been trying to finish for the last almost three hours.

He doesn’t look up at you yet, merely replying a weak “hi…yeah…just a headache”

You can see him try to suppress a grimace as his own voice overloads his eardrums and sends another wave of pain through his head.

You knew what a headache looked like. And what he was experiencing looked nothing like ‘just a headache’.

“A headache? You look like you’re in a lot of pain, have you-” You begin to question his pain relief, but catch yourself before asking about painkillers. As much as they definitely shouldn’t be, opioids are the most common form of pain relief prescribed for migranes, and you knew that if he had gone to the doctors for the pain, he would’ve turned them down.

At least you hope so anyway.

“Have you… had it for long?”

There’s a pause, before an almost imperceptible nod comes from him. “Three hours… three hours and eighteen minutes…. I thought it was gonna pass but… it’s getting worse….” he swallows before forcing out the next part “…I feel sick….”

You give him a small nod and a pursed expression, becoming increasingly concerned as he continues his explanation, and you can just barely catch how pale his face has gone underneath his hands.

“You should go home Spence…”

He looks up from his desk at that suggestion. As he’s trying to answer he gets cut off by a blinding pain that explodes behind his eyes. He gasps and clutches his head, dropping back into his chair before closing his eyes. “Agh….”

“Spencer…” You can’t help but wince slightly at Spencer’s clear display of pain. “Let me drive you home, you’re not fit to work right now,”

He wants to argue but his mouth is dry. The pain is just too much for him to focus on anything else, including having an opinion, so instead he simply nods.

“Give me two seconds okay? I’m going to go and tell Hotch and then we can go,”

That seems to be a satisfactory answer for now, because he just nods again. He’s not quite ready for the onslaught of light and sounds that will be the outside world just yet. He simply leans his head back and closes his eyes, trying to relax and focus on his breathing.

It takes you a little under two minutes to return, and the first thing you do is take both of your messenger bags onto your shoulder and dispose of your coffee mug on your desk.

You hold out a hand tentatively to him to help him up from his chair. “Here, let’s get you home,”

He takes your hand, slowly getting on his feet as his change in positioning sends another wave of pain shooting through the front of his head. He’s leaning on you for balance as you lead him out of the BAU office. His vision is still blurry, but at least having someone to lean on stops him from having to risk tripping over.

You have to help him into your car once your reach the parking lot, reclining the passenger’s seat as far back as it’ll go so that he’s not forced to sit upright for the whole ten minute drive.

You make an effort to keep the vehicle smooth as you pull out of the office, checking periodically over at your side to make sure that Spencer is alright. Or as alright as he can be anyway.

Once you reach Spencer’s apartment complex, you shut off the car and collect both of your belongings, getting out yourself and then walking around to assist Spencer in getting up.

It’s clear from his expression that he wouldn’t’ve managed the task on his own. He leans on you in a combination of gratitude, comfort and convenience, and he continues to use you as a crutch through the front entrance to the elevator and all the way up to his apartment door, where he struggles to insert his key in the lock through his shaking hands.

“You got it?”

He gives a weak “mhm” as he fumbles with the keys in the lock for a few seconds more, but eventually manages to unlock the door and step inside with you.

“Take a seat Spence,” You lead him carefully over to his couch and sit him down before walking across the room to pull his curtains shut and dump your bags on his reading chair.

As you pull the curtains shut and turn around again, you notice the room being a little messier than usual. Books and papers have been scattered over the room, and there were several mugs and glasses dotted around.

Clearly this wasn’t his first migrane.

Spencer is increasingly grateful the room isn’t too bright as the shade covers the room, allowing him to relax into the cushions of the sofa as you kneel to help him remove his shoes before removing your own.

He doesn’t resist your assistance. The pain still hasn’t subsided enough for him to be in the mood to resist anything. He keeps his eyes closed the whole time you unlace his shoes, just grateful for any relief he can get.

“l’m going to get you some water okay?” Spencer nods at this suggestion. At this point he’s too tired and nauseous to try and fight you, so as you leave the room, he lays his head over the back of the couch and just waits for you to come back with the water.

You return with both a glass of water and a small holding a few ice cubes, handing Spencer the glass and leaving the towel on the coffee table to chill under the presence of the ice. “Drink,”

He takes the glass from you, before slowly leaning forward and sipping the water. Your presence seems to bring him a lot of comfort, much more than he probably realises.

He continues drinking until the glass is empty, seemingly more dehydrated than he realised.

You take a seat next to Spencer has he finishes the glass, and you take it from him gently and place it down on his coffee table.

He takes a deep breath in, and out, leaning back into the couch once more.

He’s trying so hard to focus on something other than his pain, but it’s difficult. So instead he focuses on one of the only other things he can feel, which is the warmth you radiate as you sit next to him. “Here, lie down Spence,”

You put a hand on his shoulder to help try and ease him down slowly so he doesn’t put himself in any more pain. “But there’s no space..”

“You can put your head in my lap it’s okay,” You lean over to grab the now cold towel, leaving the ice in the empty glass before patting your thighs as an indication for him to lie down. “Let me see if I can relive some of that lingering tension,”

If he were of his right mind right now he would’ve been somewhat embarrassed in such a scenario, but right now he’s just too tired and in pain to do anything else but submit to the situation.

He lays his head into your lap slowly, his face relaxing as he looks up at you with grateful eyes.

You chuckle softly as he blinks up at you, leaning down over him slightly to brush some hair off of his forehead. “Close your eyes Spence,”

You can see a slight pinkness in his cheeks as he closes his eyes. His expression is the perfect combination of relaxed and sleepy, although you can still see the traces of the pain he’s feeling through the knit in his eyebrows and the tension in his shoulders.

Just hearing the sound of your voice fills his head with warmth and relaxation; Even if his head is still pounding he feels a lot better just being able to listen to you.

As his eyelids flutter closed, you place the damp cold towel over them, raking your fingers gently through his hair to ensure that nothing gets caught underneath the fabric ans slowly detangling it in the process.

For a moment your touch sends him into heaven, and he can actually feel the tension and pain receding from his body.

As he relaxes, his body slowly begins to respond to the touch with warm and fuzzy feelings. He wants to savour every second of this, to commit the sensation to memory, to never forget the feeling of your warm and gentle touch.

“How long have you been having migraines for Spencer?” You make an effort to keep your tone as soft as possible, moving your attention from running your hands through his hair to kneading your fingers against his temples.

“they’re a fairly recent thing… been having them on and off for a few weeks now….” As your hands work on his temples the pain once again starts to recede significantly. It’s still there, it probably will be for a long time, but it’s no longer all pervading. “…they can be a little debilitating some days….”

“Have you…” you trail off your question, unsure if your right to ask him it. “Never mind-“

He pulls the fabric of the towel from his eyes and blinks them up at you. The dark circles under his eyes are still clearly evident, but it’s not really surprising considering all that’s been happening to him. “…you were gonna ask if i’ve been using again weren’t you?”

“…i’m just worried about you…”

You continue to gently massage at his temples as he sees right through your apprehension.

He can’t help but sigh softly as you indirectly admit to him being right in his assumption of your question. Your concern is appreciated, albeit unnecessary. “…I’m not using anymore… I quit… I’m serious…”

He plasters a small smile on his face as a form of reassurance, though it’s pretty weak considering the fatigue his headache was providing him. “Just having a bad bout of migraines this week… that’s all….”

“Can I just- see your arms? Please?” Your fingers halt their movements as you ask the question, fully focused on receiving an answer. “I just want to make sure…”

His body tenses up a little bit as the request is made, but he complies nonetheless. He slowly raises his arms and hikes up his shirt sleeves, exposing the flesh of his forearms to your view.

There’s no marks on them, no dark scars and no signs of track marks.

He’s clean, and you can tell from his body language alone that he’s telling the truth.

You can feel your shoulders physically relax as your eyes examine his skin, and your expression softens as you look down at him. “thank you…”

“I told you, I’m serious about staying clean….” He lowers his arms, closing his eyes again. He’s back where he was a few minutes ago, a man almost fully at peace despite the fact that he’s still in pain.

“I know Spence..” You scratch gently at his scalp, feeling a little guilty about unofficially accusing him of a potential relapse. But you had to know. You had to know that he was alright.

“I just care about you… I want you to be okay..”

As your fingers brush the base of his scalp he shivers slightly. The feeling is incredibly relaxing, more so than even the previous massage. He smiles softly at the fact that the pain has at least become bearable for now. “Thanks for looking after me…”

“Always,” The pad of your thumb brushes lightly against his cheekbone as you move to tuck a stand of hair behind his ear, knocked loose by him pulling on the hand towel that now laid crumpled on the floor.

Spencer’s eyes flicker slightly. The movement of your fingers across his cheeks is soothing, but also makes him feel something else entirely. It’s hard to describe.

He can’t deny the sensation that rises up from his stomach at these small gestures of affection. A part of him is enjoying it more than is probably okay, given the situation and how tired he is. All it amounts to are butterflies, but that’s enough to make his cheeks flush slightly. “you should take a nap Spencer,”

“mhm…” He nods in agreement. “but can I ask you a small favour first…?”

You mirror his nod with one of your own, your fingers returning to scratching gentle lines against his scalp. “Of course you can,”

There’s a small moment of silence before he speaks again, his eyes flickering between you and the ceiling.

“can you stay with me?”

His question is more of a request, and you swear that you melt from the innocent pleading in his tone.

With you around it’s almost like he doesn’t notice the pain at all. When he closes his eyes it feels like the world is completely at peace, like there’s no need to worry about anything else at this moment in time.

“…please…?” the last word is almost a whisper.

You don’t hesitate in your answer, giving him a soft smile. “of course i will..”

You let out a small breath of air alongside your words, your eyes entranced with the relaxed expression on Spencer’s face, mixed with relief at your willingness to spend a few more hours with him.

Spencer feels a small smile form on his lips as you respond. His hands raise slightly and clutch at your thighs, gently gripping at them almost compulsively.

Now that he knows you’ll be sticking around for a while, all he wants to do is fall asleep in your company.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #spencer reid angst #asks 🫶

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harmslength · 7 months ago

Text

Milk and Honey —

Paring | Neil Lewis x Reader

Word Count | 4.9K

Summary | Being a mother is no easy task. After a long day of muscle pains, sleep deprivation and overall exhaustion—your adoring husband comes home to help.

TLDR - Post pregnancy hormones, pent up sexual frustration and— oh dear god milk?!

Info | SMUT (18+ only), unprotected sex (p in v), established relationship, breeding kink, lactation kink, mommy and daddy kink, impregnation, pregnancy body mentioned, milk sipping and titty sucking (hell yeah)

Notes | posting this now or I genuinely never will. Not my proudest work but here we are. I’m also incredibly aware that I am subjecting y’all to my own weird kinks…Don’t worry! It will only get worse from here :)

This piece is dedicated to my coworker Bay who told me she accidentally took 90 “period cramp relief” pills that ended up making her lactate. Love u girl 🫶🏽

Build Your Own Adventure | you already know ;) tested it out, it’s fiiilllthyyyy

You laid in a ball on top of your bed. Freshly washed linens and clothes circling you like vultures.

You were exhausted, sleep deprived and you ached all over. Every movement made your muscles tense and your migraine grow.

It’s been three months since you had given birth to your little bundle of joy. Right about now though, your child was a lot more like a bundle of terror.

The baby rarely ever slept, too hungry to sleep and too stubborn to latch. It’s not the babys fault though, you knew that. It’s just—well, it’s fucking hard work.

——

You tried your best to wait up for your husband, you truly did. But your eyes grew heavy and your body aches slowly melted into a soft tingle as you fell into a much needed slumber.

You were awoken by the sound of your bedroom door closing. Groaning at the sudden intrusion of your dreams, you rolled over to look at your intruder.

“You’re home.” You mumbled to him groggily. Neil quickly slipped off his shoes and climbed into bed next to you, pushing off the clothes and freshly folded linen off the bed in the process.

You groaned and reached out for it, a heavy complaint ready to be expelled. But Neil just grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it, shushing you with the promise of the laundry being cleaned up later.

“The baby asleep?” He asked while he buried his face in between your shoulder and neck. You felt him take a deep inhale as his fingers trailed down your sore body.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, relaxing at the touch of your loving husband.

“Good.” He smiled and placed a gentle kiss to your neck. You craned your head slightly and welcomed it.

Neil’s soft hands traced the peek of skin that was exposed below your shirt. Lines of stretch marks covered your stomach, but he didn’t mind. He never did, he loved every part of you.

“Thank you for taking care of the baby,” Neil placed kisses along your collarbones.

“I’m so lucky to have you.” Fingers trailed up your shirt to the soft and supple mounds that were your breasts.

You didn’t even realize it, but milk had soaked through the thin layer of your shirt; dripping down and making it sticky against your skin.

“So lucky to have you,” he echoed, his hands slightly trembling, his fresh hard on pressing into your thigh.

You loved the attention Neil gave you, but with how sore your body was from recovering, the constant care of your baby and the ever-growing pressure from the milk trapped in your breasts; you were almost at your breaking point.

“Neil— baby, not tonight.” You protested and gently pushed him away. Neil clung on though, his desire for you borderline insatiable.

“What’s wrong, is Mommy not feeling well?” He cooed into your ear, making you tingle all over.

He had started calling you that—mommy—right after you both found out that you were pregnant. It was sweet for the most part. Mostly coming off as innocent, but when he said it like that—

His fingers tweaked at your sore nipples, always hard and leaking these days. You winced slightly, clenching your teeth and letting out a soft hiss.

“Come on, use your words Mommy.” He teased, making your lower half grow slightly hot as you attempted to fight off his advances.

“I’m so exhausted, my body—“ He interrupted you with the slide of one his hands ghosting past your navel and onto the radiating heat between your legs.

“Mhmm, keep going.” He urged you to continue.

You were slowly getting overwhelmed, your shirt dampening more and more, your arousal slowly building, slowing making its way up a steady hill as it always did.

“My body is overworked, Neil. I-I love staying home and caring for the baby, but with the feeding and the—“ His hand slipped between your thighs, cupping your mound.

“—changing and never sleeping, it’s been so tough.. I’m just so overwhelmed.” You breathed out, little tears of frustration stinging your eyes. You took a deep, long breath in and exhaled.

Neil understood, or at least made sure that you knew he listened to your every word. He was always attentive and kind with you but something about carrying his child for nine months really pushed him into overdrive.

During the pregnancy you had made a habit— or well the baby had made a habit of craving weird foods at the oddest hours. Neil spent plenty of nights standing in 7/11’s at 3 in the morning, or mixing all kinds of weird concoctions that you asked for.

Pickles and ice cream, a Banquets Salisbury Steak dinner, a whole raw onion— you could go on and on.

Massages and bubble baths became a nightly routine for you as well—as Neil insisted. Even closing up the store earlier so he’d have time to cook you dinner.

You thought about these moments as Neil coddled you close to him. Even with all these wonderful things he’s done, there was never an expectation for repayment or a favor due. You simply being his wife, the mother of his child was more than enough.

Neil pushed back the strands of hair that clung to your forehead, you just knew you looked like a mess.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He consoled you as the tears started to build up, you were exhausted and your pregnancy hormones haven’t exactly worn off yet apparently.

“I know it’s been really hard on you since I’ve been back at the store, but you have been doing such an amazing job.” Neil said softly, running his thumbs over your damp cheeks and kissing the top of your head. He wrapped you close to his chest; the damp patch on your shirt now soaking into his.

He cupped your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to look at him.

“You’re the best wife anyone could ask for.” He said earnestly, his gaze passionate and affirming. He always told you this and it never got old. Butterflies would swoon in your chest at the sound of him calling you his wife. It felt like most days you were lucky just to have him.

“But you’re right, this isn’t a job for one person..” He shifted and pulled himself closer to you so you were both eye level.

“Let me take off just a few more weeks, so you can get a break.” He tried reasoning with you but you were having none of it.

“Neil you can’t, you’ve already taken off more time than you should. John and Lucien need you, the store needs you.” You objected. This wasn’t the first time you’ve both have had this conversation.

“They’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Plus I miss you and the baby so much, every minute I’m counting down till I can see you guys next.”

Neil’s words made your heart grow fonder but the answer was still no.

“Neil—“ you protested and finally he caved.

“Okay, okay well at least let my mom come and help, she loves you guys so much and I know she wouldn’t mind.” He offered.

“Are you sure…? I really don’t want to bother her-“

“I’m positive. I can call her tomorrow.” He assured and you pondered over it for a minute. It was a no brainer really, so you agreed.

“Okay..” you relented, nodding your head while he held it in his hands.

“Yeah? Okay.” he nodded with a big goofy smile on his face. He placed a passionate kiss to your lips before peppering your face with little pecks. You laughed, already your dampened mood brightening. He always knew how to cheer you up.

Carefully, he placed himself between your legs, pushing himself up so he was leaning over you. One of his hands traced your hip as he stared down into your eyes.

Your hair had been pulled back into a bun except for the few stray pieces, you had slight bags under your eyes and now even more the milk stain was obvious.

“You poor thing..” He purred, as he took you in.

“Overworking your body to take care of my child..” He brought his hand up to trace your cheek lightly.

“I think it’s time you let daddy take care of you.” He whispered against your ear, making the room grow steadily hotter and hotter.

You looked into his eyes, basically swimming in them as his pupils grew wider with each passing second. He was ready to dive in, to pamper and devour all in one.

Before you could say anything, his hands crawled up your wasted shirt and cupped your enlarged breasts. Every chance he could he’d have his hands on them. Rubbing, groping, licking, pinching—all of the above. It was only lately where you couldn’t stand them being played with and it was driving Neil insane.

You winced and grabbed his wrist, urging him to stop.

“They’re sore.. please.” You begged and Neil leaned down to place another kiss to your hand.

“I’ll be gentle.” Neil assured and went back to what he was doing. He slid the shirt over your head, lifting your arms and slipping it past your head and shoulders.

His hands gently wound their way around your tits, pushing them together and watching as the milk dribbled out, just a little, just enough for a taste.

“Neil—“ you whispered in distress and he shushed you lightly. He craned his head and scooted down so his hard on was pressing up against your heat.

“They’re so full.” He admired, his eyes taking mental shots at the sight of them. He had been touched starved for the past three months, his body basically itching to be close to you.

Since giving birth you’ve both been either too exhausted to be intimate or too busy. Any other chance he could though, he was rubbing himself against you or fondling you. Each time being met with a giggle and swatting him away, or him finishing in his pants while you laid there and encouraged him.

He couldn’t help it though, when it came to you he was a depraved man. Never getting enough of you—truly insatiable.

You watched him as he slowly licked the circumference of your nipple, lapping up the droplets of milk like he was dehydrated. You gasped seeing him relish in the taste and latch his mouth to the bud.

It started slow, his mouth kitten licking and prodding, never using his teeth no matter how badly he wanted to nip at you.

Soon though his focus was completely centered around your tits. His eyes fluttered shut and soft moans escaped his lips, vibrating around it.

It still hurt of course, and not necessarily in a good way. It was painful for him to even touch them but you enjoyed seeing him like this so much that you fought through it. You carded your fingers through his hair and tugged lightly, knowing he loved when you did that.

That elicited a whimper from him as his eyes snapped open and softened when he met your gaze. Your pupils equally the size of saucers as you stared down at this wonderful sight in front of you.

Neil’s lips latched tighter and gently he started to suck, keeping his eyes on you the entire time as you gasped at the feeling—the pull.

He brought both hands to your breasts as his hips ground into your clothed heat. He had one focus now, and it was drinking every last drop of you till you were spent.

“Fuck, Neil,” you whined, finding all of this oddly pleasurable. This was most definitely new, sure he had sucked on your nipples before but he’s never drank from them.

You watched his eyes roll to the back of his head, his breathing labored, body hungry for more. You watched a droplet of milk spill from the corner of his mouth, his throat swallowing, basically gulping down as much as he possibly could.

He pulled off just enough to take a breath, and move to the next one. The one hand that wasn’t being occupied holding your tits in place, slithered down and slipped past your pants and panties, finding a goldmine of wetness waiting for him.

Neil moaned and looked up at you to watch your reaction as he brought two digits to your clit. Moving in slow, diligent circles and making you squirm as you pressed your body up into his fingers. It’s been a long three months for the both of you.

“Does that feel good, mommy? Do you like when I touch you like this?” He teased, making you bite down hard on your bottom lip to stop yourself from whimpering.

“Y-Yes.” You choked out, slowly losing your mind to his aggressive touches.

Neil licked at his milky lips, savoring the taste before he pressed them to yours, forcing you to taste your own creation.

His tongue tasted sweet, like cantaloupe juice, and you wondered if that’s what it really tasted like. Neil pulled back and smirked at you, his fingers still working you into a frenzy.

“Tastes good right? Tastes so fucking good.” He moaned and finally couldn’t take it anymore. Without even consoling you, he yanked at the hem of your pants and underwear, shoving them down your thighs and passed your ankles.

You clung to yourself now, not entirely used to your post pregnancy body being put on display. Neither of you has made love quite like this in a while.

“Fuck baby,” the words slipped right off his tongue like melted butter. He pried your arms back and hungrily kissed at your chest, slowly making his way down.

His movements were quick and passionate, diving into your body like a sweet dessert. He kissed down your stomach, leaving a trail of spit behind, stopping close to your abdomen and just loving the feeling of your bush rubbing against his chin.

“You just taste so good— I can’t help myself.” He mouthed at your supple skin. His hands still trailing behind him, groping and fondling at every inch of your skin.

“I needed this. I needed this so bad baby, you have no idea.” He whined and his lips trailed over your inner thighs. He wanted to take his time with you, to make you feel good, and he would even as his own erection was pressing harshly against his jeans.

He latched his mouth to your dripping cunt, the warm, wet heat calling out to him, begging to be licked clean.

He did just that, filling the room with lewd slurping sounds as a mix of your moans blended together perfectly. You almost forgot about the sleeping baby in the other room.

“Neil, the baby is sleeping, w-we have to be quiet.” You warned in between a gasp, his mouth mercilessly working you into a mind-bending orgasm.

He sucked especially hard and pulled off, making you clutch the sheets for dear life.

“Yeah?” He whispered to you, his voice low and raspy. Even in the dimming light of the room, as the sun started to settle; you could see him. His lips and chin were slick with your juices. It was like a scene straight out of a porno—a good porno, of course.

You nodded at him and swallowed hard, he wasn’t asking for clarification, he was challenging you.

“Well then we better be quiet, right?” He teased and you nodded again.

His hand gripped your breast and tweaked the nipple, little teardrops of milk spilling out onto his fingers. You winced slightly at the manhandling but let him continue.

“Here, try some.” He said, collecting some of it and shoving his fingers into your mouth. Just when you started to suck them clean, he slipped two fingers inside of you making you arch your back and moan loudly around his digits.

“That’s right, Mommy can take it. Mommy can take it real good.” He praised you and moved both sets of fingers in sync. You clenched around him hard when his thumb swiped up at your already aroused clit. Slow and steady at first but picking up speed quickly.

You mouthed obscenities around him as he continued finger fucking you and he just took it all in. Biting his bottom lip, he was at the precipice of his own desire. The fact that he could do this to you, the fact that he could drive you crazy like this.. it was his only purpose.

Neil became uncomfortably aware of how much clothes he had on shortly after and pulled away just long enough to slip himself free of his confines. You laid there, trying to catch your breath and trying to stop your legs from shaking.

You watched him flip back the buckle of his belt and yank down his trousers and underwear in one swift move.

You stared at his erection, making mental note that the tip was slick with precum, it made your cunt ache more than it’s ever before.

You reached for him in desperation and he met you halfway. Neil pulled himself on top of you and feverishly ground himself against you.

Slipping his cock between your folds, right against your clit and using your own arousal as his lubrication. He bucked into you, a deep growl escaping his lips with each thrust upward.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this all week..” He confessed with his eyes closed.

“Every time I watch you put the dishes away or bend over to pick something up—“ he slid his cock roughly against your clit once again.

“—all I could think about was fucking you right then and there.” you mewled at his confession though you already knew he wanted to.

“I just want to fuck you over every countertop, rip your fucking clothes off of you and fill that pretty pussy of yours.” This desperate act of him humping against you was pushing you close to the edge, as pathetic as it was to admit. Again, it’s been a long three months.

“Can you imagine that? Us having another baby, your belly all big again—and god those milky tits getting bigger than ever.” He fondled at your breasts, making more warm milk leak from them.

His depraved words only brought both of you closer to the edge. You knew he wouldn’t finish this way, he liked it inside.

You moaned and arched your back with each drag of his cock down your sensitive bud, each movement only producing more and more lubrication.

Your fingers made lines of red down his back as you clawed. Each heave of your chests making the room grow stuffier and stuffier.

“Can you imagine that baby? Tell me how badly you want it.” Neil urged, his hips slowing down, adding more pressure every time he moved towards you.

“Y-Yes..” you said weakly. You were completely loss for words, you had no idea he was so into that. “I can—I can imagine that.” You croaked, which only made a wicked smirk form on his face.

“Just look you, poor thing hasn’t been properly fucked in months. Hasn’t had Daddy’s cock to come all over.” His words basically made your eyes roll to the back of your head. His never-ending teasing making your pussy twitch and physically yearn for him.

Neil felt it, oh he felt it alright and it only drove him more mad. “Ooh you like that don’t you? Why don’t you come like this. Come on, come for me.”

You went to object, opening your mouth to beg him not to make you come like this; like you were some horny teenager rubbing herself off on her pillow, it felt dirty and depraved—which you were by all means— but you wanted more, you wanted to feel him.

Neil stopped you, “No whining, just do it.” He insisted and you could barely contain the high pitched whimper that left your lips as your cavern squeezed around itself, desperate for something to latch onto as wave after wave hit your body over and over again.

You threw your head back and about halfway through your orgasm you remembered the importance of staying quiet.

Neil kept on rubbing his perpetually leaking cock up and down your clit till your thighs twitched and you became desperate to get away.

Now that your opening was slick and so beyond ready, he slowly slid in. Inch by inch, he filled your sensitive cunt. He relished in the feeling, the grip tight and still fluttering from your orgasm.

“Neil!” You gasped, not expecting the burn from the stretch that met you. It hurt, which was to be expected but this felt different compared to what you were used to. It felt like he was tunneling a hole into you. Splitting you but also igniting you in the best way possible.

“Fuuuck…” he drawled out, his eyes fluttering shut as he rocked himself slowly in and out, over and over again.

Neil knelt over you, his elbows slotted on each side of your head. He leaned in so his lips were just grazing yours, his tongue slipping out to swipe at your parted lips.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this—you have no idea how much I’ve missed this.” He said, emphasizing his words with deeper thrusts. “How much I missed you.”

You felt your ears grow hot as your arousal bubbled up again. It was a heat that was so indescribable and so delicious it made your mouth water. You nodded, your chest rising and falling, labored breaths leaving you.

Neil fell into a slow and brutal pace. You could feel every inch of him, every curve and vein as he fucked you into oblivion. The speed only made your head spin and you found yourself digging lines down his back once more.

“Oh my god, baby. You know how I love it when you do that.” He moaned for you, slotting his head in between your shoulder.

Each word made you wetter and wetter. Soon enough the whole room was filled with soft squelching noises. It only seemed to spur Neil on because in seconds he pulled back, sitting back on his knees and gripped your hips for support as he looked down at you.

“I could come right now.” He said, his glazed eyes roaming over your body. He watched the way his thrusts made your breasts move, watching them jiggle as little droplets dribbled down the curve of them and onto the sheets.

“I could fill you up so good, have you walking around the rest of the day with my come leaking out of you… but I can’t.” He resigned with a sigh and angled his hips slightly upwards before slamming into you full force.

The wind was knocked out of you instantly. Gasping and trying desperately to ground yourself you clawed at the sheets, inevitably pulling them loose from the tucked corners of the bed.

He was fucking you so hard you could hear the loose screw in the frame rattling with each thrust inward.

“Neil please!” You begged but you weren’t even sure for what. For him to slow down? For him to stop? Oh no, no, no—that just wouldn’t do.

“I can’t baby, not when I need to feel you come all over me. Need to see that pretty little face as I—“ He gripped at your cheeks for emphasis, making your jaw hang open and your lips pouty. He leaned over just enough to spit into your gaping mouth and moved your jaw closed so you would swallow it.

“—fuck you into this mattress.” He finished. You felt your chest tighten, all the muscles in your thighs and stomach seizing for a moment as another wave of ecstasy hit you.

His filthy words filled your ears like angels singing and you nodded along, your body already climbing to your next orgasm.

You would do anything he said in this moment as long as he kept doing what he was doing. If he wanted another baby—fine. If he wanted you to scale the Empire State Building—that’s fine too.

You felt pressure building up, like weights were being placed against the bundle of nerves inside of you. You knew you could come like this if he kept up his brutal pace but you needed more and well—Neil had no problem delivering.

He moved your legs so they now rested against his shoulders and leaned forward. He went impossibly deep and both of you let out an animalistic moan.

He sped up quick, sounds of his thighs slapping against yours echoing off the walls. He reached for your hand that was bunched in the messy sheets and placed it between your thighs.

“Touch yourself for me.” He ordered and you didn’t hesitate.

You brought two fingers down and started rubbing in rhythmic circles making the deepest parts inside your pussy start to twitch. Neil’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, his mouth hanging open as you watched him tremble at the feeling of you—at the sight of you.

You were so clearly everything to him, and having you like this—your knees to your chest, split open and fucking writhing underneath him.. He’d call it heaven—scratch that—better than heaven.

“I-I’m close.” You choked out, your voice growing higher in pitch as he continued pounding his cock deeper and deeper into you.

Neil’s eyes returned to you, meeting your lust filled gaze before latching his lips down onto your nipple and starting to suck again.

It felt like he was dragging every ounce of energy out of you. Purely sucking the soul out of you.

You brought your free hand up to his hair, latching on and gripping so hard onto his locks you thought you’d rip them out.

“Neil, Neil, neil…” You chanted his name. The bed shook with you both, squeaks and rattling, the sound of flesh meeting flesh. It was too good. Too raw. And there was little to no care in keeping quiet anymore.

“Yeah baby, keep saying my name. Let everyone know who fucks you this good.” Neil purred, removing himself long enough from your tits to speak and then immediately returning back to suck them dry.

“Fuck!” You gasped one last time as you clamped down on him. Everything tensed for a long minute and you swore you blacked out. A soft ringing filled your ears, toes curling beside his ear, thighs trembling.

Neil moaned loudly, his mouth full and vibrating around your sore and hardened nipples. There was pain and pleasure mixing like a lethal cocktail, making you spill all around him.

The base of his cock grew sticky and the wet sounds only amplified. His thrusts grew erratic but never lost their strength.

You watched Neil detach from your nipple long enough to see the milky liquid stain his lips. He gaped at you, mouth hanging open and breathing heavy. Hunger. Deep and vicious in his eyes.

“Tell me you want another baby.” He said in a strained low voice.

“Tell me how bad you want it.” He ordered. You were surprised he still had the strength to tease you, to make you beg.

“I want it.” You said without hesitating. He was still fucking you through your sensitivity which was starting to make you squirm but he liked it that way.

“Say it again.” He demanded with desperation.

“I want a-another baby Neil.” You could barely get out as he slammed particularly hard into you.

“More.” He all but growled. You could tell he was there, right on the tipping age. He was always more.. demanding when he was close.

“I-I want another baby. Fuck—I love you so much, I’d do anything for you.” The words spilled from your lips without even thinking.

It was a drop of tenderness in an act that would surely get you both sent to hell if you weren’t already married. But it buried Neil, hammering in the last nail towards completion.

Neil stilled for a moment, his full body weight pressing down on you as his thighs shook against yours.

He gaped for a second, the room falling eerily quiet as his orgasm sucked the air out of him. He gasped loudly, “Fuuuck..” drawled from his throat.

You felt him flex inside you over and over again, the head of his member hitting your sweet spot every time a hot gushing dose of come spilled from it.

His hands gripped the back of your knees for support as he pumped the last bit of it deep inside of you.

You tried to catch your breath but under the weight of him, it was proving to be difficult. Before you could say anything though, Neil pushed his lips to yours.

Lazy, sweet and all tongue. He lapped at your lips and then pressed his tongue to the back of your teeth. You hummed into the kiss, pulling him in deeper by the back of his head.

You both laid there for a moment, lip locked and absolutely wrecked. You pulled away just to tell him that he was starting to crush you, but of course, just a second later you heard the crackles of the baby monitor next to you, and soon enough the baby’s cries could be heard.

Neil smiled down at you, that same goofy smile that had you hooked from day one. “I’ll get him, you stay here and rest up.” He said already pulling away and out of you.

“You deserve it.” He added, placing one last kiss upon your nose and turning towards the closet to pull out some fresh clothes.

You deserve it.

#holy moly this was a process #becs fics #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy characters #cillian x fem!reader #neil lewis x reader #neil lewis #watching the detectives #READ THE TAGS PLS

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thatlotuscookie · 15 days ago

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👋👋i wanted to request for dabi, when he has a crush on the member of the league (reader) but it's uncomfortable for him so he decided to just be the biggest dick he can be to her. and one day he snaps at her even though failed mission wasn't her fault. and above all she felt so bad physically this day, she was so sick. and her fever or whatever she has is making her feel so bad. and next day she doesn't even appear in league's hideout. and she doesn't appear in next few hours either and when dabi looks for her it turns out she's got a serious sickness when she feels like dying, she can't breathe, she's anxious, her vision gets blurry and all that shit. PLEASE MAKE THIS ONE LONG BECAUSE I'M BORED AND YOU'RE A GREAT WRITER❤️🥺and end it with some hugs, kisses or whatever you feel like ending it with, just fluff

✧･ﾟ: a/n : thank you to the lovely anon that requested this one! its funny cause right now i have the worst headache ever, but im trying to send these reqs <3

✧ Title: ✧ Behind the Walls ✧ ✧ Characters: Dabi x Fem!Reader ✧ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: After a rough mission, Dabi’s constant criticism has you questioning your worth within the League. When a migraine and fever take you down, Dabi finds himself reluctantly stepping in, his unexpected gentleness hinting at feelings he’s tried to hide for so long. ✧ Content Warnings: Emotional Hurt, Illness/Injury Care, Soft Dabi Moments, Mild Swearing, Vulnerability, Dabi being a dickhead xd ✧ WC: 2162 words // 12k chars

Dabi had a way of turning even the smallest inconvenience into a reason to snap at you. Every time you entered the room, his glare would follow, sharp and dissecting, as if he were daring you to give him a reason to unleash whatever was brewing under his skin. You tried to shrug it off, reminding yourself that he was harsh with everyone—but with you, it felt personal. The jabs cut deeper, lingered longer, especially when you’d worked hard to contribute to the League.

After a particularly challenging mission that had taken a chaotic turn, you returned to the hideout, feeling utterly drained. You’d kept pace with everyone else, even stayed back to hold off a security team that had almost blown the entire operation, but despite your best efforts, the mission hadn’t gone as planned. It wasn’t even your fault—none of it was, in fact. Still, the weight of everyone’s fatigue hung in the air as you walked in, trying to blend into the background and head straight to your quarters for some much-needed rest.

But Dabi wasn’t about to let you off so easily.

“Hey,” his voice cut across the room, dripping with irritation. “Nice job holding us back out there.” He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as he leveled you with a stare, his words slicing through the quiet like a knife. “Not like it was important or anything.”

You stopped, feeling the familiar knot form in your stomach as his words washed over you. You knew you hadn’t done anything wrong; in fact, you’d practically saved the mission. But it was like he was looking for any excuse to tear you down, and today, he’d found his opportunity.

“It wasn’t my fault,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended. The dull throb in your head, which had started as a manageable ache, was intensifying, and each syllable felt like it rattled inside your skull. You wanted to keep your composure, to stay calm and collected, but the exhaustion weighed heavily on you, amplifying every ache and pain.

“Oh, so now you’re making excuses?” he sneered, his voice raising just enough to make the others in the room glance your way. “Funny, that’s what people say when they know they messed up.”

You could feel your face heat up, a mix of frustration and hurt swirling together as his words hit home. The pounding in your head became unbearable, the pain radiating behind your eyes as you struggled to keep yourself from lashing back. It was already humiliating enough; you didn’t need to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to you.

“It’s not an excuse,” you said, trying to keep your tone steady, but your voice wavered despite your efforts. “I stayed back to cover everyone, and you know it.”

Dabi scoffed, rolling his eyes as if your words were nothing but empty air. “Sure, whatever you say, hero. Maybe next time, do us all a favor and stay out of the way if you’re not up for it.”

That was the last straw. You turned away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over as you left the room, your vision blurring not just from exhaustion but from the sting of his cutting words. The tension in your head exploded into a full-on migraine, each heartbeat sending a sharp pulse of pain through your temples as you stumbled back to your quarters.

Curling up on the bed, you couldn’t hold back the silent tears that finally escaped. You felt feverish, your body heavy and weighed down as you lay there, the ache in your head growing worse with each passing moment. Dabi’s voice echoed in your mind, the harshness in his words replaying in a loop that made it impossible to find any comfort in the quiet of your room.

You lost track of time as you lay curled up in your bed, cocooned in your blankets. The world outside felt distant and muted, the sounds of the hideout fading away as your headache intensified. The pounding in your skull grew sharper, almost rhythmic, and a wave of nausea rolled through you, leaving you breathless. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, hoping to block out the chill that seemed to seep into your bones.

As the hours passed, you drifted in and out of sleep, the comfort of unconsciousness momentarily easing the pain before it came crashing back. Each time you stirred, you felt the remnants of your fever—your skin hot and clammy, the bed beneath you soaking up your discomfort. You had no idea how long it had been since you last left your room, but eventually, the noise of the League’s activities began to fade into a more oppressive silence. You’d missed dinner, and the absence of the usual bustling energy in the hideout felt eerily wrong.

But it was when you heard footsteps approaching your door that a cold shiver of anxiety shot through you. You didn’t want to see anyone, especially not Dabi. You didn’t want to face him again, especially after everything that had transpired. But when the footsteps stopped, a knock broke through the quiet.

“Hey, you in there?” Dabi’s voice cut through the stillness, low and slightly muffled. There was a pause before he continued, “You gonna just hide in here all night?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing desperately that you could disappear. “I’m fine,” you managed to call out, but even to your own ears, you sounded weak.

“Yeah, you don’t sound fine,” he shot back, the irritation in his tone mixed with something else that you couldn’t quite place. “Open the door.”

Against your better judgment, you found yourself pushing off the blankets, each movement sending waves of nausea crashing against you. You tried to take a steadying breath, but the tightness in your chest made it difficult, leaving you feeling more anxious than ever. With a reluctant sigh, you got up and opened the door just a crack, barely able to look him in the eye.

Dabi stood there, his arms crossed, the annoyance on his face quickly morphing into a frown as he assessed you. His eyes widened slightly, the harsh lines of his expression softening as he took in your flushed cheeks and the way you swayed slightly on your feet.

“You look like shit,” he muttered, the bluntness of his words a strange juxtaposition to the concern creeping into his voice.

“I feel worse,” you admitted, letting the door open wider as you leaned against the frame for support. “What do you want?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m coming in.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open further and stepped inside, his presence filling the room. You felt a mix of annoyance and vulnerability, not sure how to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the disheveled sheets and the empty space beside you. “You’ve been in bed all day. Why didn’t you come out? Everyone’s worried about you.”

His voice held a note of genuine concern that caught you off guard. You swallowed hard, fighting back the lump forming in your throat. “I didn’t want to deal with anyone,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Especially you.”

“Yeah, well, too bad.” He moved closer, his gaze never leaving your face as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead. “You’re burning up. What the hell is wrong with you?”

You flinched at the sudden contact, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. “I think I have a fever,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just need to rest.”

“Rest isn’t going to help if you’re sick.” Dabi sighed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, I know I’ve been a dick, but—”

“Yeah, you have,” you cut in, your voice sharper than you intended. “I didn’t deserve that today, Dabi.”

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly as he took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I know,” he finally said, his tone softer now. “I’m… sorry. I don’t know how to deal with this, okay? I don’t do feelings.”

His admission hung heavy in the air, and you felt the tension between you begin to ease slightly. “You could’ve just talked to me instead of being an asshole,” you replied, a little more gently this time.

Dabi nodded, the irritation on his face replaced with a somber expression. “I get it. I messed up. But right now, you need help.”

Before you could respond, he stepped back and grabbed the blanket, folding it over his arm. “Get back in bed.” It was an order, but it felt more like concern, and you found yourself obeying, fatigue washing over you as you settled back under the covers.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress slightly, and you felt a mixture of comfort and unease at his proximity. You watched him, his expression thoughtful as he looked at you, seemingly wrestling with his emotions.

“Just—just stay still for a second, okay?” He reached out again, his hand finding your forehead once more, his fingers cool against your skin. “You’re burning up. I can’t believe you let yourself get this bad.”

“Like I had a choice,” you muttered, your voice tinged with frustration. “I thought I could tough it out.”

“Clearly that didn’t work,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, but it quickly faded. “You need to take it easy. I’ll get you some water or something.”

Before you could respond, he stood up, moving toward the small kitchenette in the corner of your room. You watched him rummage through the cabinets, grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the sink. The sight of him, so focused and intent, made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with your illness.

When he returned, he handed you the glass with an unexpected gentleness, his expression softening as you took a sip. “Drink,” he insisted, watching you carefully. “You need to stay hydrated.”

You nodded, the cool water soothing your dry throat as you gulped it down. As you set the glass aside, you caught a glimpse of the concern etched on his features, something almost tender that made your stomach flip.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now as you met his gaze.

Dabi shrugged, his usual bravado faltering for just a moment. “Whatever. I just don’t want you to die on me. You’re too useful to the League for that.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, a little incredulous, but it felt good. “You really know how to charm a person, Dabi.”

“Yeah, I’m a real charmer,” he replied, rolling his eyes. But the corners of his mouth twitched upward, betraying the faintest hint of a smile.

You both fell into a comfortable silence, the tension easing as you allowed the moment to settle. Despite the heaviness in your chest and the throbbing in your head, you felt a warmth creeping in, a connection blooming in the quiet space between you.

“What did I do to make you mad today?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “Was it something I said?”

He shifted slightly, the laughter fading from his eyes as he contemplated your question. “It’s not about you. It’s—” He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “It’s me. I just don’t want anyone to see that I care. I thought being a dick would keep you away, but it only pushed you closer.”

“Why do you care so much?” you probed, trying to understand the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.

Dabi met your gaze, and for a brief moment, vulnerability flickered behind his usually guarded eyes. “Because you matter. And I don’t want to lose you.”

His honesty hung in the air, leaving you momentarily speechless. You hadn’t expected such a revelation, especially from someone who had built their walls so high. “Dabi—”

Before you could finish, he reached out, taking your hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle. “I know I’m not the best at this, but just—just let me be here for you. I want to help, even if I don’t know how.”

Your heart raced, warmth blooming in your chest as his fingers intertwined with yours. “I’d like that,” you admitted, the sincerity of your words breaking through the fatigue that clung to you.

“Good,” he said, a smirk creeping back onto his face. “Now, let’s get you better. I’m not done with you yet.”

As you leaned back against the pillows, a sense of calm washed over you. Dabi might not have been perfect, but in that moment, he was there for you, a presence that grounded you as the ache in your head gradually faded, replaced by the warmth of his closeness and the promise of something more.

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moondirti · 1 year ago

Text

11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing.

You don’t know how you got here.

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud.

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression.

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal:

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light.

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white.

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole.

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is.

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt.

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend.

It tends to go something like this:

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself.

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it.

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm.

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place.

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you.

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father.

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses.

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is.

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb.

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed.

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today.

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but…

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand–

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you.

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.)

So, you try.

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand.

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good.

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah.

He’ll understand.

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00.

You’re pathetic.

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead.

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried.

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was.

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart.

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.)

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time.

Where’s that progress now?

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence.

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better.

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later.

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if.

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that.

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth.

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again.

Christ.

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door.

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked.

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched.

So–

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him.

Is he checking up on you?

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time.

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern.

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient.

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace.

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours.

In the complete opposite way.

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that.

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.”

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs.

You just blink in acknowledgement.

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.”

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.”

“Sick?”

“Something like that.”

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.)

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper.

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another.

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.”

And then he leaves.

He just… fucking–

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return.

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous.

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance.

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing.

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things.

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch.

And, really. What were you supposed to think?

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this.

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment.

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger.

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.”

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?”

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.”

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat.

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.”

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt.

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going.

As it stands, you’re blind.

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.”

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.”

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.”

“Remind me of the other half of it again.”

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway?

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash.

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look.

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?”

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak.

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties.

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.”

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all.

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out.

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further.

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…” Your nerves spark. “For this–”

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out.

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer.

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly.

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro.

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control.

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now.

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves.

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless.

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to.

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.)

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core.

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement.

Fuck, he’s good.

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go.

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow. Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.”

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips.

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board.

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.”

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help.

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command.

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak.

Growls, actually. “Hold on.”

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both.

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut.

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so.

You can’t last very long, anyway.

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise.

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace.

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there.

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face.

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash.

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity.

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed.

“Are you married?”

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow.

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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bensonoliviasstuff · 6 months ago

Text

“Turning Page”

Chapter two! “ Loml”

Masterlist for “Turning Page”

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Once Bucky regained consciousness and was no longer the Winter Soldier, all he missed from the 40s was his wife. But maybe she's closer than he thought.

Warnings: English is NOT my first language, so I'm sorry if there are too many errors. Futhermore i don't think there are many warnings, a little bit of angst, memory loss, betrayal, trauma, Insecurities and other things that you will discover throughout the story. And the best part: Thanos doesn't exist here

“Steve?” You said with a mixture of shock and joy. “Long time no see!”

Bucky frowned as he saw Steve smile at the beautiful nurse before them.

“I thought you were still in Washington” Steve flinched when you gave him a hug, squeezing the bruise that threatened to form on his rib.

“Did you get into another fight?” You said observing the dried blood on his cheekbone “Some things never change”

As you turned to grab the material you would use to clean Steve's face, Bucky discreetly elbowed his best friend before whispering. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?”

Steve rolled his eyes before you turned your attention back to him. “Y/N, this is Bucky, Bucky Barnes, I already told you about him” Steve pointed to his smiling friend next to him “Bucky, this is Y/N Y/L/N, my friend and ex neighbor since we were 16 .”

You looked up at Bucky and it seemed to him that things went in slow motion when you smiled, he almost didn't hear you when you said “Nice to meet you”.

He gave a slight shake of his head to regain consciousness and turned to Steve. “If you've been friends for so long, why have I never met this beautiful girl?” You gave a sheepish smile as you bandaged Steve.

“First: you would flirt with her exactly like you are doing now” You laughed softly and Bucky was sure that was how angels laughed. “Second: She went to nursing school in Washington a while ago, I didn’t know she had come back until now.”

“I'm sorry I didn't warn you, I came back a little while ago and things have been busy, but we'll see each other more often from now on.” You said, taking off your gloves.

“That’s a splendid idea” Bucky said, if you had gone to college maybe Bucky should start improving his vocabulary.

You smiled at him before turning to Steve “I finished, you can go, I have to do a blood draw, but let's plan to have a milkshake, I missed you” then you turned to Bucky. “I hope to see you again, Bucky Barnes.”

“You can count on it” He winked at you before you left the room shaking your head.

“Look, we've been friends for a long time, don't even think about it” Steve pointed his finger at Bucky who was smiling with hearts in his eyes. “I'm serious, if she doesn't want to be my friend anymore because I introduced you two, I'll break you”

Steve stood up and left, Bucky behind him muttering “It’s easier for her to break me” with a smile.

After that day, it was quite funny for you to see Bucky every day in the hospital with some mysterious illness that only you could treat.

Sometimes he would arrive saying he had a really bad migraine, sometimes he would arrive with a terrible stomach ache, all this when he didn't arrive saying he had a fever only for you to put your hand on his forehead and say his temperature was normal.

Your friends from work at the hospital were already more excited than you were, always talking about how that handsome man was wooing you.

You always laughed at these crazy ideas, for you he was just a flirt who flirted with all the girls, but you had to admit that you were starting to get attached to his visits to the hospital.

One day in particular changed your view of him.

Your duty was almost over, you had already changed your clothes and grabbed your bag to leave, Bucky hadn't come to see you today.

You were sad, you spent half of the duty wondering what could have happened, you had come to the conclusion that he had found another girl and lost interest in you.

You said goodbye to your friends and were leaning against the reception desk, looking for a hair tie in your bag.

You had found it and were finally tying up your hair when you heard a familiar voice call out to you.

You turned around and found Bucky a few feet away, holding a bouquet of colorful flowers.

Your friends who were behind the desk began to sigh and squeal excitedly, you placed a hand over your mouth, hiding the wide smile that was about to spread across your cheeks.

“Oh Bucky, what happened now?” You teased, crossing your arms against your chest. “Pollen allergy?”

He laughed, hiding his face behind the flowers. “Actually, miss, it's a very serious allergy to 'being away from you'” You blushed when he approached and your friends sang a chorus of “Ownnn how cute!”.

“This one should be easier to deal with” you said as he approached.

“There is only one treatment option” He said with conviction, making you laugh.

"And what would be?"

“You agree to go out with me” he said and extended the flowers towards her.

You took them and smiled “I would love to.”

“Exams state that she has some internal injuries that have not been treated correctly, her brain has been badly affected so she is going to be treated for the headaches that will definitely bother her for the rest of her life” Tony was listing while Steve and Bucky followed him towards the medical wing with quick steps.

“She's also going to need physical therapy because apparently her shoulder ligament was torn at least three times, and lastly most importantly…” Tony stopped in front of a door turning to Steve and Bucky with a hard look “She She hasn’t spoken a word since she opened her eye, we don’t know if she just didn’t want to talk or if there was something behind it.”

Bucky was shaking, he couldn't even imagine what your reaction would be like.

Tony opened the door and walked in, Steve was right behind him when Bucky pulled him out of the room.

“I don’t know if I should go” Bucky said unsure, Steve frowned.

“Bucky, she’s still your wife, why don’t you want to see her after so many years apart?” Steve grabbed his friend by the shoulders.

“That’s the point Steve, I want to see her more than anything, but what if she doesn’t want to see me?” Bucky asked nervously. “What if she doesn’t even remember me? What should i say? ‘Hi, I’m your husband, we’ve been married for almost eighty years, bizarre right’?” Bucky acted out to Steve. “I'm no longer the Bucky she fell in love with, I'm no longer the person who made her laugh until her stomach hurts, I haven't made anyone laugh in over seventy years” He said scratching the back of his head nervously.

“What if she doesn’t like the new Bucky? What if she doesn’t like sleeping hugged by a metal arm?” He raised his left hand, showing the wedding ring above the metal finger. “What if she doesn’t love grumpy Bucky?”

“What if she does?” Steve interrupted before he could continue. “What if she likes the metal arm? What if she starts to love annoying a Bucky who gets stressed about everything?”

Steve raised his arms, dropping them to his sides. “As far as I remember, the last time I saw her she even loved Bucky who was supposedly not alive.”

“She probably doesn’t remember that” Bucky ran a hand over his face.

“So make her remember, if today you remember so can she, you heard what the scientist said, she always ended up remembering you” Steve put his hand on the door “You haven't changed enough to have stopped loving her"

Steve entered the room, and Bucky unconsciously held his breath as he did the same.

You didn't see him right away, you were paying attention to what Tony was doing with the equipment next to you.

Bucky kept close to the door, thinking he could slip away without being noticed if he was lucky, but that was when you turned your head towards him.

It was exactly the same as when he saw you for the first time, your eyes met his and everything seemed to be in slow motion, if he ignored everything and just kept looking at you, he could easily believe that it was still the summer of 1941.

You didn't know why, but you couldn't look away, something about that man made you want to keep looking at him, his blue eyes were familiar to the butterflies in your stomach.

“Y/n... Do you know them two?” Tony pointed at Steve and Bucky.

You looked away from the man with blue eyes that made your stomach do somersaults and glanced at the blonde who was looking at you expectantly.

Something about him made you have a déjà vu about a smaller man.

You looked away from him and looked at Tony before he speaks: “That’s Bucky, and that’s Steve” You looked back at the men, you assumed the brunette was Bucky.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know them” You apologized, seeing Bucky’s gaze drop as if you had just broken the news that someone had died. “I… I’m sorry, should I?”

“No, it’s okay” Steve said, with a sad smile.

Tony picked up a bag and placed it on the furniture next to him. “Here are some clean, comfortable clothes, I believe they are in your size, let’s wait outside while you change.”

Tony dragged the other two out of the room and started messing with something on his cell phone.

“Tony?” Bucky called cautiously, “Thank you for what you’re doing.”

“Don’t thank me” Tony looked up “We both know I still don’t like you”

Steve gave a weak smile at Tony's statement, Bucky nodded, raising his hands in surrender.

“But I know what I would feel if Pepper forgot about me” Tony looked away. “That’s why I’m helping.”

"I thank you for that"

The three looked to the door when they heard it open.

Bucky held his breath when you walked out of there wearing sweatpants and a “S.H.I.E.L.D” sweatshirt.

“Great, the clothes fit, now let’s go” Tony said, putting away his cell phone “That brunette over there is going to show you to your room”

“There are two bedrooms here” The real estate agent continued walking around the apartment. “This is where our Tour ends, I think it's the perfect apartment for you, it has a beautiful view of the city, it's close to the hospital where you work, and there's plenty of space for two people, or even three if you're thinking of start a family soon.”

You turned to Bucky with a smile on your face, the apartment was a bit trashed, but you could perfectly imagine everything you and Bucky would change in it to make it 'home'.

“What do you think, doll?” Bucky asked with a smile.

“I don’t think it could be more perfect”

This is the kitchen” Bucky said, showing the room that Tony made sure was empty.

After almost killing Tony and Steve for leaving him alone with you, he followed the path beside you, He tried a few times to make comments, but you just looked at him, smiled and responded with a nod.

He then stayed quiet, taking every opportunity he had to just keep his eyes on you, he would never pass up the chance to watch you bite your nails or bite your bottom lip, everything you did was like the best movie in the catalog for Bucky.

He watched with an adoring look as you walked around the kitchen, taking in every detail, you did the same in every other room, taking in everything and not saying a word.

“There are coffee grounds in the disposal” It was the first time you said anything since they left the hospital room.

Bucky gave the most genuine laugh he'd ever had since he could remember being Bucky Barnes, he felt so much joy over such a stupid comment because it sounded exactly like something you would say.

You couldn't help but smile at his laugh, something about that man made you feel like you couldn't avoid many things.

"Yes! Tony always complains about it, no one ever listens.”

You licked your lips, hiding your smile.

“The next thing I’m going to show you is your room” Bucky said, now smiling.

“Do I have a room?” you frowned when Bucky nodded like it was obvious. “Why are you being so nice?”

Bucky felt his heart beat faster, Is this when he says he loves you?

I mean...” you continued before he made a decision. That man in armor took me out of that horrible place, gave me medicine, did tests, and now you’re going to keep me sleeping here?” You shrugged your shoulders “You guys don’t even know me”

“This is what we do” he lied, it was all a lie, He never did for anyone what he would do for you “We help people who need help” lie, his brain screamed that he was lying, he knew you, he knows you, only he knows how you hate the dark and are afraid of needles even though you are a nurse, His heart screamed, asking him to tell you that only he knew you better than you knew yourself. “I would do this for anyone”

“Even by those you don't even know? What if I were dangerous?” You weren't, you asked him to kill every cockroach that ever appeared in your apartment, He knew you, it was killing him to be in front of you saying he didn't know who you were.

“I trust you” His vocal chords were trembling

“Why?”

“I feel like I should” Holy Ghost, you were the love of his life, even if he didn't want to he would trust you.

You stayed silent, looking at the man who looked like he was in physical pain with every word that left his mouth.

“I feel like I should trust you too” felt like the right thing to say.

Bucky felt all the fireworks in the world going off inside his stomach.

“I will prove to you that you can trust me” That was a promise, both for you and for him, at that moment he promised that he would win you over, just like he did the first time, You were the loss of his life for a long time, but now he would have you back

#imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #steve rogers #tony stark #natasha romanoff #captain america #black widow #iron man #winter soldier #writing #fanfic

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artists-ally · 10 months ago

Note

Hi! I love your writing and I just wanted to ask if you could make a fic about Azriel and a chronically ill reader? I have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and it can be really difficult sometimes. I’m currently in a flare-up and I would love to see what Azriel would be like if he had a partner with a chronic illness 🩵 please and thank you!

{The Fixer} Reader x Azriel

Hi my love!!! While I myself do not know what it's like to live with a chronic illness, my mom has chronic migraines and I was always the one taking care of her. I hope you enjoy and are taking as best care of yourself as you can through this flare-up my love <3 Title and story inspired by this song.

Word Count: 2,193

Warnings: struggles of chronic illness, headaches, vomiting, fluff

Tagging: @cyrygher @thelov3lybookworm @librafairy @blessthepizzaman @needylilgal022 @bubybubsters @harrystylesfan2686 @justdreamstars

Summary: Azriel notices. Even when you try to hide it from him. There is nothing he hates more than seeing you in pain, and it's his mission to make you feel as comfortable as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~

Whether it was the dots spreading across my vision or the ache set deep in every bone in my body, I knew I was off. Short of the normal dizziness and weakness I had, I felt like shit.

I rolled over in bed to find Az gone, and I sighed. Getting to the bathroom was going to be tough. Half an hour went by before I could fully open my eyes and not see the world spinning before.

The snow was blinding across Velaris, burning my eyes and making me jerk my neck too hard in the opposite direction. Much like my hips and ankles, the joints in my neck screamed for relief. Just a few steps away was the bathroom. If I could get there, to the cabinet above the sink I could get my-

My sweater pocket caught the post on the bed and I got yanked to the floor. Landing shoulders first, pins and needles raced up and down my left arm. Fingers numb. With more than a groan, I rolled off of it and found a new ache in… well, everywhere.

It took a long time to roll on my hands and knees, but I did it, and now I was on the cold tile. It did wonders for the radiating heat in my freshly injured palms, but it chilled it to the marrow of my bones.

As much as I wanted to, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand. The pounding of my head and the rolling of my stomach was enough to force me to sit against the wall opposite the toilet.

I pulled my head back and tried to breathe.

Those life changing blue pills that Madja gave me would be useless now. They could only prevent a flare-up if caught at the earliest signs. I’ve been able to catch the past few, but I wasn’t expecting this one.

Azriel was right when he told me to take it easy during training yesterday. All I wanted to do was prove to him that I could keep up. I knew I couldn't, and so did he, but that wasn’t the point. He shouldn’t just assume I can’t because I’m sick.

Yet here I am, paying for it on the bathroom floor.

I could feel the circulatory pattern of my pulse. A never ending cycle of pain. Starting in my head, down my neck and in my teeth. To my shoulder, numbness down my arm and tingling in my finger. The surge of agony in my hip, through my leg and in my knee. Gods my ankle, what did I do to my ankle?

A quick check under my sock and I could see the culprit. A huge bruise accompanied by an abundance of swelling. I must’ve kicked the post in the night again. Or it could’ve been from sparring, or our sprint up the stairs.

I gave up trying to keep tabs on all my possible reasons and focused on the fact that I was all alone in the House of Wind. Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta were all away in Illyria for the day to train a group of new recruits. Nuala and Cerridwen were here, but I always feel weird asking them for help.

I can make it to the evening. I’ll get up and I’ll take that pill, even if it will only decrease the length not the strength of this flare-up. Anything. I’ll do anything to get it over quicker so I’ll be back to normal.

On the count of three, I’ll get up. I’ll push with the strength I’ve built up from training with Az. I’ll push myself up and grab the pill and go back to bed.

One.

Two.

Three.

My arms do nothing but scream in pain, and my legs lose feeling. I go nowhere but back on my ass. I try again, after another count of three. Nothing. Holding my breath while doing it only makes the dizziness worse. And the nausea.

I drag myself over to the toilet and empty whatever is left in my stomach. It’s not much, and it burns on the way up. Tears fill my eyes and mucus fills my nose and throat. I know when pain and headaches get so bad you vomit, the episode is going to be particularly brutal.

My skin is damp and I start to shake. Water. I need water.

I flush and manage to make it on the toilet. I turn on the sink with some blind movement and I’m greeted with the lovely sound of water. I can’t lift my left arm any more and I think it might be out of socket. I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. I scoop some water into my mouth, but most of it makes it down my shirt instead.

I let it run and run and run, letting the cool liquid calm my swimming head.

At some point I laid my head down and didn’t pick it back up. I stayed in this awful state of micro sleep, sometimes drifting off, sometimes thinking I’m dreaming but I’m just letting my mind wander. The bright morning sun turned into the dull brightness of the afternoon. I think.

My heart beat loudly in my ears. Then it would stop, and then it would start again. My pulse was taunting me. It must be. It sounded like Azriel’s wings which only made me miss him more. The memory of his scent blasted through me and the tears started.

I want him so bad. I need him.

“Shhh, it’s okay, just breathe, Yn.”

My eyes snapped open, and through a blurry mess of tears, Azriel kneeled in front of me. “W-What are you doing here?”

“The second you woke up I could feel your pain,” his thumb slid across my cheek. “I turned around when I realized why. You need help.”

I shook my head, or tried to. It just sorta rolled back and forth.

“Squeeze my fingers, Yn.” Azriel placed two of his digits in my palms and I squeezed as hard as I could. Not even the tips of his fingers turned red from the pressure. “Are you going to let me help you or are you going to be difficult?”

“I don't want to be difficult. I’m in so much pain.”

“I know, my shadow. I know.”

As gently as he could, he sat me up and carried me to the bed. He took off his armor somewhere along the way, the bony ridges of the scales not digging into me like they normally do. I was eternally grateful for the small detail he remembered.

Even our mattress hurt just as much as the floor.

“I need to take a look at you. Where are you hurting the most? Did you fall?”

I nodded deliriously, “My ankle’s a mess. And so is my shoulder. M’arms numb.”

As carefully as he could, he propped me against him and peaked around. I didn’t hear him make any gasps, but I could feel that pull on the bond that meant he didn’t like what he saw.

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for me to call Madja. She’s on her way. I told you to take it easy-”

“Don’t.”

Azriel completely disregarded whatever he was going to say next. “I’m sorry.”

“Just get me the pill, please,” I faulty gestured to the bathroom. He didn’t even move, but then a pill and a cup of water was pressed into my lips. Those shadows of his are so helpful.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I just don’t like seeing you in pain. It makes me… it makes me wild.”

“I appreciate it, I do Az, but you can’t protect me from everything. And I don’t want you to. There's a reason why I wanted to train with you in the first place.”

“I know, but there's no need to exert yourself to this just to prove a point. I know how tough you are, Yn. You are the strongest, most resilient soul I’ve ever met. But making yourself like this in spite of me is something I never want you doing.”

I smiled, cheeks heating up as I leaned against his chest. His body radiated heat like a roaring fire, and I soaked up every morsel of it.

With enough pillows and heat packs, I was propped up against the headboard. Soon after, Madja and Nuala came in. I could smell the fresh bread and juice from across the room and my stomach growled.

“It’s cheese bread with a nice tomato and herb soup. Azriel requested the sweet tea just for you.”

I smiled up at him, my eyes suddenly heavy with love and adoration for my Shadowsinger.

I ate as Madja poked and prodded. Az held my hand and kissed the tears away when she had to reset my shoulder. By this point, my body was in so much pain that I couldn’t think of anything else. The healer was kind enough to give a sedative and an injection that did something.

“She’ll be asleep soon,” Madja said across the room to Azriel. “When she wakes, send for me again and I will bring one that doesn’t make her drowsy. Do not let her out of that bed unless she is in your arms, Shadowsinger.”

“Thank you, Madja.” And the door shut. Once again, the bed dipped and he trailed a gentle hand up my legs. “Just go to sleep, my shadow.”

“I hope you know that shot will do nothing, Az.”

“I thought they were working?” He asked, puzzled.

I shook my head, “I thought so too, but they’re not. There isn't anything you can do to ease the pain, Az. No amount of pills or injections or stimulation therapy will do the trick. I just have to wait it out.”

“So you rest until it passes,” Az climbed in beside me. “I will be here when you wake up.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I hissed, frustrated tears spilling down my face. “I want to train and go to dinner and drink red wine and dance like the rest of you.”

I couldn't bear to look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the sadness in his eyes. After a long silent moment, he took a deep breath.

“It’s okay if you need rest. You’re not expected to work or thrive in the condition you’re in. I could tell last night you weren’t feeling good.”

That made me perk up. “How?”

“You get this hazy, far away look. That's how I know you’re in pain.” Azriel muttered, snuggling in close so I could latch on for warmth. “Let me take care of you. Don’t focus on anything other than healing and my warmth. I will be here when you wake up.”

I didn’t care to read into how much he read into me. My heart blazed with thoughts, all of him and those offhanded looks and questions he always asks. He is such an observer.

“I’m the spy for the Night Court, my shadow. Of course I’m observant. I notice everything about you. What makes you smile, what doesn’t. The foods and drinks that give you headaches and swelling. When your flare-ups are coming and when they’re finally withdrawing. I make it my mission to make sure you are as safe and comfortable as possible. I am sorry I wasn't there to help you this morning, love.”

“I felt fine last night, no need to say sorry.” I kissed his cheek, then he kissed my lips. “Thank you for turning around.”

“Cassian thought I had been shot with an arrow with how hard I dove down to the ground to turn around. I felt this rush of pain from you and I thought for a second it was my own. But don’t feel bad. I want to be here anyway. You’re much better than any of those awful camps.”

“I’m a lot better,” I smiled, nuzzling into his chest.

The glint in his voice was enough to make me swoon, “Yes, my shadow. Everything about you is better than those camps.”

-------

Through the rest of the day, Az laid with me, running hands through my hair, massaging my legs when they cramped up. He got me water, food and snacks. Kept the entertainment up when I was in too much pain to nap. All through the night, Azriel held me steady so I wouldn’t accidentally roll around.

Madja came in the morning with more useless injections, Nuala with a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and fresh bacon.

I made Az eat some because I didn’t see him steal a crumb earlier.

Later, he took me into the bath where he scrubbed my scalp, massaging my temples. I tried to do the same for his back and wings, but he refused to let me move. Just sat me in his lap, chest pressed against my back and let us soak for hours.

As we got out, he sat me on the bed while he gathered clothes for us. Per my request, he kept his shirt off and just through on a set of lounging sweats.

One foot at a time, he put me in the comfiest pair of pants I had. The fleece lined inside keeping out the cold. He put thick socks on my feet and found something to wrap around my top half so I didn't have to move my arm.

We laid back down, me tucked in his arms. I absently stroked the back of his scarred hand.

I was calm. The ache is still present, but ignorable with a few of his stories. I drifted to sleep, in the safest place in Prythian.

"Thank you, Az," I murmured, sleep evident now

He kissed me softly, "Anything for you, my shadow."

~~~~~~

#acotar #azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel imagine #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader

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storm-angel989 · 3 months ago

Note

I thought of another cute request! Val’s wife and the other vees reactions to Val having a migraine and still trying to go to work

Hi Friend,

Love this request! Think OTO Val’s wife and storyline. We’ll call this OTO fluff.

<3 Mandy

I wonder if my wife knows that the lights make noise?

A sharp hum, a buzz most can tune out- myself included, most days. Unfortunately, as I laid in bed the sharp pangs pulsing through my brain made it more than clear today wasn’t one of those days.

I shut my eyes tighter and tried to review the days schedule in between pangs of pain. Two new models, six contracts, four shoots and Angel Dust…Angel Dust was owed his dues. Even if my saint of a wife tried to take my place in the studio for the day, as she had done successfully in the past, she couldn’t. This was my contract, and I needed to fulfill the terms personally.

I heard the shower turn off and tried to hide the pain as I forced myself to sit up. Five minutes. I had five minutes at most to pull myself together before she walked out of that bathroom, took one look at my face and the back to beg argument would begin. I had to divert the best I could.

Painstakingly, I pulled myself out of bed and slid on my glasses. I quickly grabbed my clothes from where she had laid my outfit out the night before and dressed as quickly as I could. I made my way over to the bathroom door. Three sharp, painful knocks before I spoke.

“Baby? There is an emergency in the studio. I have to go right to work. I’m sorry, mi amore. Breakfast will have to wait.”

Without waiting for a response, I hustled out the door and made my way down to my studio. As with every other due date, Angel Dust was sprawled out on the stage, eager to receive payment.

“Aw, Daddy,” he purred as I stepped onto the platform. His arms wrapped around my neck. “What do you say we have a little fun this time, eah?”

I tensed up. Ignoring the aching in my head, I pushed him onto the bed in one fell swoop.

“Oh yes, Daddy,” he moaned greedily. “I’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, I…”

“Shut. Up.” I growled as I pressed my lips to the base of his throat. “Your contract doesn’t say a fucking thing about you enjoying the process.”

Three minutes later I stood up and strode across the stage, leaving Angel behind in a haze of high and pain. I didn’t like what our contract demanded, but we were bound by it either way. At least I could abate my anger by making sure the drugs came with a miz of pain and pleasure. My hope was that someday, somehow the pain would overtake the pleasure and he would beg for an out.

As if I would be so lucky.

I slammed the door of my office shut, hit the light switch and in the dark, barely made it to the garbage can beside my desk before emptying my stomach of its contents. The act of payment started making me nauseous the day I met my reader, but combined with the pulsing pain in my head, it was unbearable. Gone was the thought of making it through the day- hell, I wasn’t sure I’d make it back upstairs. I picked up my phone and squinting, I hit the speed dial for my Vox.

“Vox, I’m..fuck, can you grab my migraine medication from the nurse and bring it to my office?”

The buzz of a dial tone was his only response. I put my head down on my desk and in minutes, the door creaked open, letting in a silver of light. I let out a groan and covered my closed eyes with my free hand.

“I find it incredibly ironic that a moth demons gets migraines, arn’t you supposed to be attracted to light?” Vox’s voice floated through the darkness.

“Quit teasing him,” another voice snapped. “Val, love, cover your eyes.”

I held back a groan. “Vox, I called you. Honey, you need to be…”

“Checking up on my husband, who clearly can’t take care of himself,” Reader said softly,

I felt her hand against his forehead, and her cool hand slipped under mine and over eyes. Inadvertently, I leaned into the comfort her palm offered and let out a soft moan of relief.

“Vox is gonna turn the light on. You’re going to slowly open your eyes, stand up and we’ll get you upstairs,” Reader continued.

“I need my…” I began.

“The studio is empty and Vox has your medication. Now shut up and do what I say,” she interrupted sharply.

I heard Vox chuckle and I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. Even under the protection of my wife’s hand, the light that slipped through stung my head like a thousand yellowjackets.

“She’s pretty feisty when she wants to be, eah, Val? Lights on.” Vox said lightly. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

I barely remembered making it back to my bedroom. The sharp pinch of an IV needle, an ice pack and several hours later, the pounding slowly began to fade. Softly, I mentioned to my wife the relief I finally felt.

“You’re a fool for going into work today, you hear me? A fool. Even my father, the toughest of the commanding angels….”

I leaned up and cut her off with a kiss. She stopped scolding instantly and leaned into me.

“Bebita. I love you,” I said softly.

She rolled her eyes but kissed my forehead. “I love your stubborn ass too. Next time, make a better decision.”

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thepersonnamedsam · 1 year ago

Text

is that bluey? - dr3

pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem!reader

summary: being home alone with a migraine, you turn on a show that reminds you of your boyfriend

word count: 803

warnings: if you have emetophobia, you probably shouldn’t read it…

note: i myself am currently suffering from a migraine and i am just listening to bluey to not feel so alone, yay me

masterlist / taglist

The toilet was your favourite place right now. With a blanket laid down on the floor and a cushion under the toilet, you were curled up in the bathroom. You installed a power strip, so every electronic device could be charged, such as the humidifier, your iPad, the kettle and your phone. Plus it was the only room without a window, which usually was something bad, but that day it was a blessing.

You were home alone, Daniel was away with Scotty, either training or doing some shit. You wanted him here, but you also didn’t want to disturb him. You had a migraine, it was one of the milder ones, you had worse of 'em, but still bad enough to stick to the toilet. The cold floor helped you stick to reality. You were sweating like crazy and your left side of your head was pounding. It was like your heart was in your head.

Nausea overtook your body once in a while, but there was something that helped you through it all; Bluey! Even though you usually didn’t like the blue-light of the electronics, today it was some relief because you felt less alone. You couldn’t wait until Daniel got back.

You knew the show because of Danny‘s nieces and nephews, they were always watching the show. Daniel was always invested in the show, trying to watch it at home with you, but you always refused. But now it reminded you of him, especially the way Bandit is treating Bluey and Bingo. It reminded you of him and his sisters kids. You missed Daniel, having a migraine without someone caring for you was the worst.

That’s why, when you heard the key in the door, you were so excited you almost felt your eye pop out of its socket.

„Baby? I‘m home, where are you?“, he shouted through the flat. His loud voice pounded through your head. You loved him, really, but you could’ve killed him that moment. He opened the door to the bathroom and saw you lying on the floor. His mind instantly connected the dots; you had a migraine!

„Aww my poor baby, how can I help?“, his voice now in a hush, not wanting to worsen the ache in your head. You whined and opened your arms. He snickered and tried to fit his lanky body on the floor. You cuddled into his body and closed your eyes.

„Are you watching Bluey?“, he tried to contain his excitement in his voice, but failed miserably. You hummed and he just smiled at you. „Finally“, he whispered.

„But why?“ - „I missed you, s‘all.“

After a while, you felt the nausea kicking in and you wrestled yourself out of Danny’s arms. Thank god you were already in the bathroom, because you didn’t know how long you could’ve contained yourself.

You felt Danny trying to make a ponytail with your hair and a soothing hand rubbing over your back.

„Let it all out, my sweet girl. That’s good, let it all out“, he whispered to you. You hated vomiting, it’s the worst. You were just dry heaving after some time, your body still trying to eject everything from your stomach. Tears were hitting the toilet ring and Daniel wiped your eyes with his thump.

„I know, I know, everything’s gonna be good. Just a few more moments.“

„Can you please get me a glass of water and a new ice packet?“, your voice barely over a whisper. Daniel stood up and came back with all the stuff needed. He even brought you a coke, the wives tale or getting rid of nausea. He also brought a painkiller, having seen you take one only 15 minutes earlier, but when you vomited, you probably flushed the painkiller out of your body already. He was such a thoughtful person.

Later in bed, you had a bit of a moment where you felt better. „I am so happy you finally wanna watch Bluey“, Daniel exclaimed with excitement. You giggled, you knew he’d be happy to see you watching Bluey. „It reminded me of you“, you shyly smiled at him. „Aww baby.“

„You know, I think Bingo is the glue of the family, you know what I mean? Like, she’s the piece that’s holding all of the together“, you explained to your boyfriend. He chuckled lightly, he knew you’d be invested in the kids show. „Yeah, I think so too, honey“, he whispered against your temple. He kissed it and closed your eyes with his hands. „We can watch some tomorrow, hopefully your migraine‘s gone by then.“ You nodded your head, instantly regretting it.

You put the cold packet on your neck and cuddled into Daniels side. His arm snaked around your waist and pulled you even closer. „Night night, love you“, you whispered. „Love you too, darling.“

°°°

taglist: @ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @missskid , @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21

#f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo imagine #migraine #i feel sick #daniel ricciardo x reader

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writinghotchner · 10 months ago

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pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (no pronouns used for reader) rating: E tags/warnings: mention of headache/migraine, no mention of "y/n"

i've decided to start a little "migraine series". you can read the first one here. (or on ao3)

it'd been a long grueling day at work. everything started out fine until you started to get the flicker of a headache in the front of your skull. you downed a bottle of water and even had a shot of espresso just in case it could've been dehydration or caffeine withdrawal. of course you knew it wasn't either of those things - if anything it was wishful thinking. a migraine was lurking around the corner, and you were praying to every god you could think of to not let it hit you at work.

thankfully your boss let you off early, because right as you were pulling into the parking lot of the apartment complex, the headache started to worsen. you could feel it in your top back teeth, the aching throb that you knew was going to eventually take over your entire body.

you shuffled your way into the apartment and was immediately greeted by the loud tv in the living room where aaron was perched on the couch. hearing the door click closed, aaron turned to look back to see your very unhappy face. he huffed out a sympathetic laugh, his lips immediately falling into a pout at the sight of you.

you make your way over to him, and drop into his body. you sit in his lap and bury you face in his neck, and in return he circles his arms around you and hugs you to him.

"what's wrong?" he asks, his voice soft and soothing.

"headache."

"i'm sorry." he checks your forehead with his cheek to make sure it's not a fever. he knows its not, but it's something he has to do every time you get a migraine. just in case.

"is it getting worse?"

the throb that was sitting in the top of your mouth has now moved to your eyeballs, and the tops of your cheeks are starting to hurt now too. you shake your head 'yes' and will every single tear that's gathering behind your closed eyes to stay inside.

he uses one of his hands to comb through your hair and lightly massages your scalp with his fingertips. he runs his fingers down to the base of your skull and applies pressure there. you let out a pitiful moan and he halts his movements. the hot tears that you were trying to cage behind your eyelids slip out, leaking onto his bare neck.

"oh, honey," aaron says sympathetically. he hates seeing you like this, hates it even more that this is something you have to go through at all.

he sits up a little bit and taps your thigh. "c'mon, put your legs around me, i'll carry you to bed."

you don't even argue, which is how he also knows this one is getting bad.

you falter a little, but you manage to shift in his lap and circle your legs around his hips. he stands and with ease, carries you into the bedroom and softly sits you down on the end of the bed.

"do you want help changing clothes?" he asks, squatting in front of you, his forearms bracketing your thighs and his hands holding your hips as he sneaks his thumbs underneath your shirt to rub soothing circles on your skin.

you close your eyes and hum a response, too tired to open your mouth to form actual words. you hear him stand and move away from you as slowly lay yourself down on the mattress.

after a few moments, he returns with a pair of your favorite soft sweatpants and a loose fitting long sleeved shirt.

he unbuttons your pants and slowly peels them off your legs, replacing them with the sweatpants. "i need your hands, i have to sit you up so i can take your shirt off."

your face crumples at the thought of having to sit up. the feeling of gravity working against your brain is never fun, and you know it's going to make the thud echoing in your skull even louder.

"i know, honey, i'll be quick, i promise."

you lift both of you arms up enough to where he can grab your wrists and slowly sits you up. you immediately slump into his stomach with a groan. he works quickly, pulling your shirt off over your head and before you know it, he's manhandling you to your side of the bed and flipping the covers over top of you.

the pain has settled in the entire dome of your skull now. the aching and throbbing is now pulsing entirely through out your skin and bones to the point where the back of your neck is starting to hurt.

you suck in a deep breathe, once again willing away tears, but also just trying to breathe through the anger of having to deal with this so often these days.

you hear aaron rustling beside you. your nightstand drawer is open and he's digging around for something which makes you want to clench your teeth until they break.

"okay," he says quietly, squatting next to you. he runs a big hand over the crown of your head and down your hair a few times. "migraine pills and the eye mask are right beside you on the nightstand. i'll pull the black out curtains closed on my way out and bring you some water, and then i'll be back shortly to check on you."

you crack an eye open at him and he smiles at you. "if you need me before then-"

"you spoil me." you tell him, your voice muffled by the blanket that you've pulled up to your face.

"in other cases, maybe. in this case, i'm just taking care of you." he leans down to kiss your temple and then he's off, leaving you in a cocoon of pain, comfort and love.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x you #*mine #*hotch x reader #*reader #migraine series

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steviewashere · 6 months ago

Text

If It Has to Happen, Let It

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Emetophobia, Vomiting, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Negative Stimming as a Form of Self-Harm/Self-Regulation Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Emetophobia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

Okay, I wrote this while enduring a migraine. So we'll see how good this actually is. But I couldn't shake this idea, so here it is. Also, this is based on experience and I have pretty debilitating migraines and emetophobia. I'm asking y'all to be kind about this, that's all. <3

Read On AO3

🤢—————🤢 Steve used to have normal, everyday headaches when he was younger. They’d last a few hours. Be kind of an annoyance, prickling him with an undercurrent of ache. Sometimes make it hard to focus on tasks at hand. But they weren’t life changing. They didn’t affect every aspect of his day to day life. They didn’t linger or take over or knock him down for the count. His headaches used to be normal.

Now they aren’t. They’re debilitating. Humiliating. All consuming.

It wasn’t the concussions that resulted in the migraines, surprisingly enough. Everybody seems to think that and they’re not wrong, not really. But his mom had them. And his dad had them. And his nana had them.

The migraines started out as being mainly genetic. It sucked, sure. They’d come and go. Once every few months, maybe. At most. Just for a day. Isolate him to his bedroom. Leave him to spread on his bed with an ice pack on his forehead. That sort of thing.

Then the concussions came. One after the other after the other. They got worse. Astronomically worse. It wasn’t just a day that the migraines would hang around. It was multiple days. It was an entire week. Even once, it was three weeks in a row. He was sensitive to everything, sometimes nothing. The smell of Robin’s perfume. The sound of Dustin’s voice. The lights inside Family Video, inside Scoops Ahoy, inside his own house. He’d hole away. Lay in the expanding darkness of his bedroom. Curtains closed. Bed stripped of his sheets. Ice on his head, under his head, wrapped around his neck. He’d sleep shirtless, sleep nude, sleep fully clothed—his body couldn’t regulate. Would barely get up because the world would swirl around him like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Worst of the worst, though, was the nausea.

When he was little, he remembers his nana taking him out for his seventh birthday. Pancakes—Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, topped with fruit and whipped cream and as much maple syrup as he wanted. He drank orange juice, bubbled the liquid with his straw, took bites of his nana’s egg salad, giggled and snickered and cried with joy. It was fun. A good day. And then no less than eight hours later, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Could only kneel, stripped to his dinosaur themed underwear, hair stringy to his head, his mom cooing softly in his ear—hurling and spewing and coughing on and off for hours. Until, eventually, he landed himself a pretty uncomfortable spot in the emergency room, IV in his vein, and tears on his cheeks.

He remembers the all consuming fear when his stomach would flip. When his mouth would begin to salivate and his throat would burn with the bile that came up through burps, and how his hands would shake. Remembered all the times between being seven and now where he’d kneel on the tile of his bathroom, head stuck inside his toilet bowl, clamping to the porcelain with his slick palms, heaving until there was nothing left to give. And then he’d hack some more, just to see if he was done. If it was over. If he could be relieved instead of walking on glass.

He’d ruined plenty of Pyrex bowls. Dirtied plenty of blankets. Stained several mattresses. He’s apologized through tears as his mom helped clean up the carpet in his bedroom. Let her pet his sweaty hair and say it was alright, even though he knew it wasn’t. Even though it would scare her when he’d dissolve into hysterics.

Steve doesn’t do nausea. He doesn’t do throwing up. He doesn’t even do burps. That’s how afraid he is.

The migraines don’t help. If anything, they make him anxious. Make him trapped inside his own body, shaking and breathing shallowly. Knobby knees and burning tears. Flapping his hands out at his sides as if the stupid movement could will the feeling away. Sometimes, when he’d get really upset and he couldn’t calm down, he’d take to slamming his closed fists over his thighs. Trying to distract himself with another sensation. Something else that should bother him. Steve would slam his palms into his chest. He’d claw at his stomach until he’d either bleed or tire himself out. Would tangle his fingers into his hair and pull, hard enough to leave long strands in his palms. He’d hurt and hurt and hurt until he could forget what it was like to have bile coat his throat.

And he knows, by all means does he know, that to any ordinary person he looks like a basket case. He knows that sometimes it seems like he’s overreacting. That he’s making something out of nothing. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the little freakouts or the rapid breathing or the sound of skin smacking against skin.

Sometimes he knows how to regulate. When he’s feeling even the slightest bit sick. Open a window, stick his head out and take several long gulps of cold night air. Stick himself under a near third degree burning hot shower. (Because his mom had said that hot water helps. Not this hot, but she doesn’t need to know.) He keeps a case of ginger ale. Has a new addiction to peppermint gum. Shoves his big head between his knees and just prays. He’ll say over and over in his head: “You will not throw up. You don’t need to throw up. You aren’t sick. You won’t throw up.”

It’s all worked. Kept himself puke-free since sixth grade.

But now he gets migraines.

And today’s the worst one he’s ever had.

——— If he doesn’t open his eyes, he won’t throw up. Because if the light gets in his eyes, the pain will worsen. And if the pain worsens, he’ll throw up. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t do that.

It’s 9am on a Monday. He woke up nearly four hours ago, head throbbing, lights infuriating, and body aching. His sheets have been pulled away. And his blanket is tossed somewhere on the floor. Down to his underwear and nothing else. Very briefly, he considers stripping those off, too. He’s sweating, even though the A/C is on, even though his window is open, even though it’s something like forty-three degrees out.

He can’t take the smell of himself. Or the pillow under his head. Laundry detergent, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cologne. His stomach is churning like crazy. Every little movement makes his insides flare. And he thinks, at any moment, he’ll upchuck onto his mattress. Maybe he should go lay on the cold bathroom tiles, wrap himself around the base of the toilet.

I won’t throw up, he thinks behind the deep furrow of his eyebrows, I can’t throw up. I don’t need to. Don’t throw up, Steve.

He should get up. Get an icepack. Something to snack on. His medicine.

But if he stands up, he’ll be slammed by vertigo. If he’s dizzy, he’ll throw up. And if he throws up, he probably won’t stop. And then his heart will try to burst out of his chest and he’ll still be throwing up and then he’ll have a heart attack all by himself, but he’ll be covered in his own puke. He gently turns his head into his pillow, where the cold is running from him, and groans.

Something clatters to the ground downstairs. Followed by the thud of several footsteps. But he can’t get up. Vertigo means throwing up. I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up, he repeats, a mantra.

Then, all at once, his bedroom door is swung wide open and the bright amber light in the hallway is bleeding into his room. It’s lighting up the hand by his head, the hairs dangling over his eyes. He doesn’t bite back the whine that erupts from him. Somebody’s walking closer, their shadow overbearing and large over him. Their body heat like the lick of a freshly lit campfire. He’s burning in their orbit—crisping, boiling, ready to be eaten alive.

“Christ, Steve,” the person states. The person is Eddie, once he hears the voice back in his head. A familiar rasp in his voice. And that’s when Steve picks up on the scent of a recently lit cigarette. He kind of wants to reach up and strangle Eddie, choke him until he promises to never smoke again. Maybe this is how Robin feels about him, too. “It’s fucking freezing in here. Why is your window open?” He steps away towards the window, the light coming back full force. “You’ve got a shift today, y’know? Robin’s already there. Called me to come get you because you’re late and—“

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve finally gets himself to grumble. It doesn’t have the bite he wants it to have. Weak and small and breaking. He opens his mouth again to add more, but his mouth begins to salivate. He shuts up, swallows and swallows and…It doesn’t work. His stomach clenches harshly and he whimpers, hand traveling down towards his overheated middle, digging into his soft flesh, nails sharp and biting. I won’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Eddie heaves a disappointed sigh. “Dude, you have to go to work. I’m sorry if you didn’t get enough sleep, but you have to go.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls a little too quick. He can’t catch his breath. Can sense the tremor in his hand through the back of his neck. Too hot. Sweating. Drooling onto his pillow. Kind of wants to cry, but can’t do that. Can’t do that in front of Eddie—he won’t understand. Won’t be able to calm him down like his mom can or give him words of comfort like his dad sometimes does.

Instead of dignifying Eddie’s conversation with a response, Steve sits up hastily. Legs dangling over the edge of his mattress. Vision swimming. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. His stomach swoops deep, then sloshes up towards his lungs as if it’s trying to break free. The throbbing is back full force, pulsating and overwhelming. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get himself to wade away the nausea. I won’t. I can’t throw up. I can’t. I can’t.

He groans, reaching up to the sides of his head, gripping himself harshly. Fingers in his hair, pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging. Head tucked towards his knees. Swallowing and swallowing and…He tugs as hard as he can on his hair, eliciting a loud whine from his throat.

The window doesn’t close. The curtains don’t even move. But Eddie does. His body swarming Steve, his heat engulfing him as if he’s a house on fire. Hands flittering out. “Steve? You okay?”

“Mi—Mi—“ Steve stutters before gagging. He cries through a quick exhale from his nose. He can’t make it all stop. His heart’s beating too fast. His chest hurts from how fast his breathing has gone. He can’t. He can’t.

“Sweetheart? Are you gonna be sick? I can get you to the bath—“

“No, no, no,” Steve rushes out. “Not gonna—Won’t throw up. Can’t.” He tries to take a breath through his mouth, but with his lips agape and his tongue working to make words, saliva floods out of him. The heat of his own spit warm on his thigh, it glistens in the little bit of light from the hallway. “Head,” he whimpers, “hurts.”

“Shit,” Eddie softly curses. He crouches down in front of Steve, his hands floating above his trembling knees. “It’s a migraine. Okay,” he whispers, “what can I do, sweetheart?”

Steve sobs. “I dunno,” he wetly murmurs. Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he leans forward with his next gag. He’s not going to throw up, but the more the pain increases and the more his stomach flips and the warmer he gets, he may just do the opposite. That thought alone makes him cry harder. He detangles his fingers from his hair, flaps his hands out in front of him like mimicking a bird, and then thrashes them down onto his thighs. In front of him, Eddie visibly winces. But he does it again, harder.

He can’t see that well, but notices the way Eddie’s hands scramble out to stop him. But he flinches away. Fisting his hands tighter, enough that his nails bite into his palms, and punches down on the surely forming bruises. “Steve, stop it. You’re hurting yourself, stop it,” Eddie scolds firmly. But Steve doesn’t. Eddie visibly is shaken up, rocking forward on his heels, hands stuck between actions, and his voice warbles when he speaks. “I think,” he states slowly, “we should get you to the bathroom. And you should go ahead and try to flush out your system—“

“No!” Steve yelps with a whine. “No, I don’t need’a—“ He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Chest caving in with his panic. His thighs are sore and his hands sting. But he slams down again. “—don’t wanna—“

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs lowly, placating, “you’ll feel better if you let it out. I promise, sweetheart, you will feel better, okay? I’ll sit with you. Put a cold rag on your neck. I’ll—“

Steve’s saliva dribbles from his mouth again, more this time. His stomach gurgles. And it’s like somebody has an iron grip on his brain, squishing the organ between their fingers, toying with it like Play-Doh. I’m going to throw up, he realizes in panic. “Eds—Ed, ‘m gonna—Gonna—“

Gently, though purposefully, Eddie grabs Steve by the elbows. Half-walking, half-dragging them to Steve’s ensuite. He shoves them down in front of the open toilet bowl. And lays his left palm flat on the center of Steve’s back, wincing at the first jarring wet-heave that comes from the back of Steve’s throat.

He pets his palm up and down Steve’s spine. “Get it out, Stevie. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

With Eddie’s words and the soothing touch, Steve finally allows himself to expel. Bile burns through him. And he shakes through the first splatter into the toilet bowl’s water. He could never stand the smell, the sound, or the look of vomit. Yet here it is, sour and salty and yellow. Chunky and swirling and fresh. The next heave makes him start crying again, but he doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care about breaking down in front of Eddie because he now has to deal with this—the overwhelming anxiety that floods through him, out of him with each hurl. The rabid beating against his ribs and the gasps through sobs.

There’s so much coming out of him. Too much.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, “holy…You’re okay, Steve.” He leans across to the toilet paper dispenser for a few sheets. Folds it with one hand and wipes away at Steve’s face between short bursts of vomit. Barely draws his hand away before it starts up again.

Steve spits big globs of saliva-puke. Angles his head so Eddie can catch his eyes. Meekly says, “‘M sorry, Ed. ‘M sorry.”

“Shhh,” Eddie soothes. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You gotta do this, it’s alright.”

“Yucky,” Steve sighs. “’T’s…I hate this.” He closes his eyes as vertigo slams sideways at him, T-boned by the dizziness. Takes a burbling breath through his mouth.

“If you have more, let it out, Steve. It won’t do you any good to keep it in.”

He cries softly with his next exhale. “‘M sorry,” he keens. And then he’s convulsing forward with his next gag.

Time stretches, it feels like, for hours. His knees ache and his skin is cold and his hands are slipping with how wet the toilet bowl is from his sweat. Throat sore and stomach empty. But the malaise from gagging for so long lingers, making him dry-heave when there’s nothing left to give. He rests his forehead over his left forearm over the back of the toilet seat. Sniffs and keeps his eyes closed. Shaking through the last bit of it.

Distantly, the sound of the sink goes off next to him. He’s so out of it, he didn’t even realize that Eddie stood up and left him momentarily. Wishes he could leave this, too. Wishes he could step outside of his body and not experience this anymore, for the rest of his life, for the rest of time itself.

Eddie crouches down beside him again. Gently grasps him by the chin and pulls him up to be face to face. He runs the lukewarm rag over his chin, his lips, and under his nose. “Good job getting it out, Stevie,” he whispers, “how are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” Steve mumbles, “and gross and in pain.”

He gets a nod in return. “Okay,” Eddie mutters, “let me get your migraine things, alright? I’ll take you back to bed.”

Steve sighs. Closes his eyes in exhaustion. “‘M embarrassed, too.”

The rag and Eddie’s hand slowly comes off his face. The cloth is crumpled in Eddie’s palm when Steve glances. “Why’re you embarrassed, Stevie? It’s okay to throw up. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Just—“ And Steve looks down towards his lap. At the mottled bruises on his thighs, peeking out from his two day old underwear. The light scratch lines on the soft give of his belly. “—It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m afraid of vomiting. Of vomit. I—I have a meltdown like a toddler when I feel like ‘m gonna puke and…and I get all hysterical and whiny and I sob like crazy. And I—I dunno. I was overreacting and I made you have to take care of me and it’s just…I’m just being dumb.”

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, that scolding edge back. “It’s not dumb, Steve. Vomiting is traumatic, I get it. And—Before you try and interrupt me—you didn’t make me help you. I helped you because I noticed that you were struggling. And had I not, you probably would’ve made a big mess in your room. I wasn’t going to just leave you in a state like that.”

“But it is stupid, Eds,” Steve urges, voice wavering. “It’s stupid because I’m a grown fucking adult. And I should be able to handle this. I should—“ The tears come back. “—Just fucking look at me. Crying, again. I’m so—“ He groans in frustration, fingers clenching into his palms, cutting them up again.

Gently, Eddie unfurls Steve’s hands. “Look at me, Steve.” He does. Fiercely, softly, Eddie continues, “You are sick right now. You didn’t feel good. You were scared. You were anxious. In no way, shape, or form were you stupid for reacting like this. Alright? Steve, you were overwhelmed with it all. I’m not going to judge you because you’re afraid of vomit. The only thing I’m concerned about is the hitting, but we can talk about that a different time, okay?”Eddie’s thumbs work tenderly into the backs of Steve’s hands. There’s a glimmer of protectiveness in his eyes and Steve latches onto it. Lets himself begin to believe that it’s actually okay. Even if his circumstances are concerning. “You wanna know a truly dumb fear?” Eddie murmurs lightly.

Steve almost wants to cry more with how caring Eddie is, but he pushes it to the side. Favors the distraction. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m afraid of birds. And not them existing or being in my space or landing on my shoulders. I’m afraid of birds flying above me and pooping on my hair,” he states genuinely. Steve can’t help but snort, albeit weakly. “See? It’s kind of dumb, y’know? When have I ever cared about my fucking hair, Steve? Never, that’s when. Well, unless there are birds nearby.”

“I guess it is a little dumb,” Steve whispers.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, grinning. “Vomit isn’t dumb, though. I promise, Stevie. We can talk about it later, if you want. Or never, if you prefer. Let me get you settled in bed and I’ll grab your stuff.”

He lets Eddie guide him back to bed. Fluff his pillow. Lay him supine. When he returns, he’s holding three ice packs, a bottle of prescription migraine medication, a plate of toast, and some water.

Steve watches in silent infatuation as Eddie lays it out all careful on his bedside table. As he tucks the icepacks where they need to go. Helps Steve take his medicine, eat, and drink. And almost begins crying again when Eddie rubs gentle circles on his chest.

“Lay with me?” He quietly asks.

Instead of making up some long winded excuse, Eddie immediately strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He slides right next to Steve, not touching, but not too far away, either. Rolls over onto his side to face Steve and gently places his hand over the cold compress on his forehead. “This okay, baby?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he tries to relax back into his pillows. “Yeah,” Steve whispers, “‘m just nauseous still.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I’ve got some Altoids in my jacket if you want them. Your chewing gum might agitate the migraine more.” He reaches over the side of the bed and fishes out the tin can of mints. Pinches three with his index finger and thumb. And requests, “Open your mouth, Stevie.”

Steve lets him place the mints on his tongue. He spreads them out so that one is in the center and the other two are on either side. “Will this help?” He asks around the Altoids. As if to mock him, a feeling of malaise washes over him. Immediately, he lays his hands over his stomach and digs his fingernails in.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispers urgently, abandoning the ice pack and grabbing Steve’s hands instead. Soothingly rubs his thumb up the back of his hands and down to the underside of his wrists, where his pulse is hot, fast, and concerning. “No more of that. No more making yourself hurt.”

“Don’t wanna be sick,” Steve pants, breathing heavy through his nose.

“You won’t be sick,” Eddie says like a promise. Somewhere deep within Steve he knows Eddie’s saving face, saying something false. But he can’t bring himself to come to that realization. It sounds like the voice in his head. I won’t throw up, he thinks in tandem. “Just keep your eyes closed, alright? I’ll keep the door closed. I didn’t shut the window. Focus on the icepacks for me, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, relenting when it only makes the migraine pulse alive. He tries to center the cold spots. “Where are they, Stevie?”

“My…My forehead.”

“That’s one,” Eddie whispers, “two more.”

“And my neck. And—“ He takes another deep breath. “And under my head,” he breathes out.

“Good,” Eddie praises softly. “That was good, baby.” He gently squeezes Steve’s palms. “Tell me what usually helps. Let me help you through this so that you don’t…I don’t like seeing you hurt yourself.”

Steve quietly whines. Digging back into the icepack underneath him. Breathing out the last little bits of nausea from that particular wave. But he knows it’ll be back. It’s how his migraines always are. “I like the cold air on me,” he confesses near silently. “And I need to make sure I have mints or gum in my mouth. And I—It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid, just tell me.”

He huffs. “I have to tell myself I won’t throw up. Like I need to hear that I won’t, I guess.”

Gentle and nimble fingers massage his hands and wrists. Small circles, little vertical stripes, horizontal strokes. “I’m getting the box fan from your parents’ room. And then we’ll just lay here. You won’t throw up, Stevie.” As Eddie gets up, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek—even where it’s sallow and tacky.

There’s something in the way Eddie says it, nonchalant but not dismissive, that makes Steve believe he’s right. Something in the way he’s not disgusted or afraid of Steve’s everything after, something in that kiss like a vow. So he indulges. Lays with his eyes shut, the box fan eventually blowing the cold air from his window onto his too warm skin, and Eddie’s fingers massaging his hands. Every single time he tenses, Eddie soothes him with that same promise.

He keeps Steve away from harm. Squeezing his hands firmly when he tries to hit or scratch at himself. Pets his hair and coos softly in his ear. And holds the icepacks when Steve goes boneless with sleep, mouth agape and drooling, snuffling softly into the calm silence stretching between them.

At the end of the day, he’s still afraid of vomiting. It’s probably something he’ll never get over, something he’ll be challenged with for the rest of his life (or however long these migraines last). Though, Eddie doesn’t judge him. Doesn’t let the negative in. He’s braver with Eddie. Safer. Afraid, but comforted.

That’s all he could ask for while going through this.

🤢—————🤢

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw emetophobia #tw negative stimming as self-harm #angst and hurt/comfort

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sparrowrye · 7 months ago

Text

Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, A2 part 29

Synopsis: It’s been over a year since we were brought under Alastor’s watchful eye. We’ve unlocked our Demonic powers, discovered our own talents, and began building the Safe Haven with Charlie and co. Alastor seems increasingly interested in the power we hold as one and intends to use it properly.

Previous part

Part 29: the aftermath

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blackwater lunged at me, hands enclosing around my throat. I couldn't move. My limbs wouldn't listen. I was helpless as he pressed harder still. I needed to breathe. Needed to move. Get off!

Alastor's presence yanked me into the ground. Blackwater clambered after me. His voice was a horrible screeching sound, like a combination of all different voices pitched at different tones.

"Wake up!"

My eyes snapped open to Husker's face. I abruptly drew in a sharp, long breath like I hadn't breathed in hours. I whined as I sucked in and expelled the precious air.

Every muscle in my body hurt. Husker was holding me up with both hands but even the muscles I weren't using were painfully sore. My head was aching too. It wasn't a migraine; something heavier.

"Welcome back." Husker gave a nervous smile. I looked around to see I was in my old room.

"Holy hell toots, you almost died there," Angel said from the other side of the bed. My ear flicked up and turned. My mouth dropped slightly open in a look of shock. "What? What'd I say?" he asked nervously.

I tilted my head, careful with how sore my neck muscles were, and flicked my ear again. No. That wasn't possible. I looked to Husker for help.

"Is it your hearing?" he prompted. I tried to speak but it turned into a painful coughing fit. He lifted a hand from my arm to snap his fingers by that ear. I heard nothing and my ear barely reacted. "You or Althea can heal it, don't worry."

I had Angel magic. Of course I could heal it. Right?

"Alastor," I croaked. My lips were cracked and my throat was dry, all scratchy, and sore.

"He's fine," Husker said, bringing a cold glass of water to my lips. I found it nearly impossible to lift my arms. I could move them a hair but lifting was an entirely different struggle. "You're in far worse shape than him."

After I drank the whole glass, he helped me lay back down. I tried lifting my arms again and found I could but with a great deal of effort. They felt like they had anvils tied to them.

"What's wrong with me?" I asked, voice finally returning. It felt hard to focus on anything, like my mind was all over the place. I let out a wide yawn.

"You really pushed your limits." Husker pushed my hair to the side so it wasn't in my face.

"The factory...people might've survived."

"No one survived. Alastor told us where it was and Charlie teleported us. It was miles under the water by the time we got there."

I looked up at the ceiling. It felt like I was barely clinging to coherent thoughts. "Other factories."

"We'll hit them one by one. There's an Overlord meeting tomorrow night."

"How long have I been asleep?" I had to restart the sentence a few times just to make it coherent.

"A couple days. You've been through—"

The door creaked open and Alastor's red ears poked in. His worried expression turned into a smile as we made eye contact. He crossed the room to where Husker was sitting on the edge of the bed. I noticed his walk was slow, almost calculated, and his cane sounded heavier on the wood. He had a bandage around his head but he still wore his normal attire. Always proper. Always put together. Always Alastor.

Husker stood up to allow him to sit, leaving with Angel to grab food for me. Alastor ran the back of a single claw along my cheek. I turned my head into it, my hands heavy over my stomach and unable to move from the covers. He turned his hand to let his palm rub gently on my skin.

"I am glad to see you awake." His radio filter was off and his voice sounded deeper and more crackly. It must be from the screaming when they tried to operate on him.

"You're okay," was all I could say. The world was at a strange, slight slant and the colors of the room seemed vibrant. I was really starting to lose it.

"That is the second time you've saved me, darling." He planted a kiss on my forehead. "I suppose you aren't as useless as you once were."

I chuckled, pain pinching my lungs as I did so. I opened my mouth and took several seconds to form my sentence. "Poor way of saying thank you."

"Perhaps this will suffice?" He pressed a gentle kiss on my lips. My muscles relaxed and I wished he would press just a tad bit harder. He reached out with his presence to interlace with mine.

He said something else but I didn't hear at first. The second time I heard but couldn't understand. The third I simply just couldn't comprehend anything. He said something different and placed a kiss on my forehead, pushing his weight on his cane to help him stand.

My hands didn't work and my mind was all over the place. I let out a loud whine as he turned to leave. I licked my dry lips and gave him a desperate look. Please understand what I'm asking, even if I don't.

To my great relief, he walks around the bed and sits on the vacant side. I used what little energy I have to shuffle closer so my nose is up against his coat. He smelled like a bonfire, a sweet one. His gentle claws thread through my hair and around my horns, carefully scratching in all the right spots.

I was asleep within seconds.

****

"Darling, I don't think it's wise for you to attend this meeting," Alastor tried gently. We were pushing the time, risking the chance of being late to the Overlord meeting with Lucifer. I had managed to stand on my own to dress myself but I was far from recovered, one might even argue that I shouldn't even be awake.

"I need to get rid of Blackwater's soul," I told him, clipping the necklace of his crest around my neck. I wore the same black and red attire I had previously to this type of meeting: a gorgeous red dress with white lining on the hem.

"Then we request Lucifer to visit. You should be resting right now." He placed one hand on my hip and the other on my cheek. He was smiling but his eyes showed concern. My hearing was still broken on the one side. Althea couldn't heal it but there was still a chance that I could with my Angelic magic.

"They need to see me there," I argued, "They need to see me give his soul to Lucifer. I just..." I teetered slightly and he pulled me close to keep me upright. "I need your energy when I do. Please."

His eyes examined my face, pupils shifting slightly as he did. Our magic hadn't separated since I woke up so I was reading into his exact thoughts and feelings. He knew I was right but his concern and care was trying to overwhelm it. I ran one hand up his spine and felt him calm surprisingly fast.

I laid my cheek on his chest and said quietly, "I want your help."

That did it.

He agreed with a heavy sigh and helped me walk through the house. Using shadows made my head spin so he didn't dare try to travel like that. Teleporting was its own problem, the motion spiking a migraine and making my limbs buzz in a funny way. I clung to him, taking a slow, grounding breath before walking through the palace doors.

The last of the Overlords entered the large room. My claws tapped on the tile floor and I clung tighter to Alastor's arm. He was walking slowly for me on purpose. Everything I did had to have intent, my limbs feeling like heavy magnets. Heads turned as we walked in and followed as Alastor led me to Lucifer's chair, the King of Hell standing with a smile.

His smile turned to surprise as I carefully knelt on one knee, hand extended upward. Charlie had given him a heads up about taking Blackwater's soul from me. He had plagued my sleep and even my waking mind. Even now he was trying to claw his way up through my thinned magic.

"Let's take that soul off your hands," Lucifer said smoothly, hand touching mine. I drew on Alastor's energy as I pulled Blackwater through my shields. Lucifer stood beside me in my mind space and waited. Blackwater made a run for me but barely got halfway when Lucifer's gold magic enclosed around him. I drew on more energy from Alastor to help solidify Blackwater's soul in order for Lucifer to take him from me.

A moment later, I blinked my eyes open to Lucifer's black boots. I lifted my head as he withdrew his hand, gold sparks fading away. The strain on my magic from holding Blackwater was gone and it felt like a heavy weight had just been lifted off my chest.

Thankfully Alastor was keeping me upright and practically lifted my entire weight to my feet. He then led me to his vacant chair and stood beside me, arms folded behind his back. Granted I was physically weak but such a motion was shocking from him, even the other Overlords didn't seem to know what to think of it.

"Well, uh, this certainly brings things full circle," Lucifer started, sitting down in his black and red seat, "but we need to ensure all of his assets are destroyed. Especially since we've lost four surface Overlords."

The conversation carried on for an hour. The Overlords fought over who would attack what factory and several attempts to gain more territory. The fighting was annoying and Lucifer repeatedly told them to settle territory claiming at the surface. Fortunately, everyone was engrossed in the conversation and failed to notice my nodding off. Alastor would consistently touch my shoulder to keep me upright and wake me up. Everything felt very heavy and my muscles ached from the strain. I just wanted to sleep. I wanted to curl up against Alastor's side and fall asleep for hours.

Eventually, to my great relief, the meeting came to an end. The Overlords filed out of the room but Vox lingered, scowling, and holding my eyes for a moment too long. Alastor stepped up to block my view from him and helped me up to my feet. I hooked my arm around his and thanked Lucifer for taking Blackwater's soul. The King of Hell himself gave his own kind of bow and thanked me for it.

Alastor led me to the front of the palace doors before teleporting back up to the surface. My knees buckled as soon as my feet hit the ground, Alastor's other arm moving at lightning speed to catch me. I gripped at his shirt, fearing I would tear it, as my fingers slipped against the fabric when he hoisted me back up.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, suddenly unable to keep my eyes open all the way.

Alastor banished his cane and reached down, lifting my legs up so he was carrying me bridal style. My hand grabbed the spot near his neck as I leaned my weight into him. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit his shoulder. The smell of his cedarwood, smokey scent was like a sleeping drug. I hadn't realized I had fallen asleep until I was being placed on soft sheets and warm covers pulled up to my shoulder.

I pried my tired eyes open as Alastor straightened up. Everything about his form, from his chest, to his ears, to his antlers, to his face, everything was gratifyingly appealing. Once upon a time I had hated him. Once upon a time I wanted nothing more than to be an ocean away from him. Now, I could barely handle him being in a different room.

"Don't leave," I mumbled as he walked away. My nerves abated slightly at the sight of his room.

He chuckled. "I am coming to join you, my love." He walked to the other side of the bed and, with a snap of his fingers, changed out of his usual suit and into a plain black long sleeve and pants. He climbed in bed as elegantly as ever and shifted close.

"Why always a long sleeve?" My words were starting to slur together. I sounded drunk.

"Does it bother you?" he questioned amusingly. He positioned himself so that his arm was under my head. I hooked my arm on his opposing side and tried to pull myself onto my side. He pulled me the rest of the way until I was leaning my face on his shoulder, tail wrapping comfortably around his ankle.

"I like your skin," I slurred once again, hand lazily reaching up to touch his cheek. I loved seeing his genuine smile. He snapped his fingers and the fabric on my cheek disappeared. I reached my hand further down to touch his other arm, skin as smooth as I thought. My smile grew.

"Time for sleep, my love," he kissed my forehead and brought my hand to rest on his chest, his own laying on top of mine. I was asleep within seconds.

****

It took a full week in order for the heaviness to go away. I was still incredibly tired all the time, stealing naps left and right where I could. Althea couldn't necessarily heal anything, and neither could I, aside from my one ear, since it was mostly all mental health. My soul was trying to regenerate its energy and no one except myself could do that. It was aggravating to deal with since it was very time consuming.

Althea was determined for me to sleep even more than what I was doing already. She was having me take long walks with Reagan, Vivian, or Vilcin. The more tired I was, the more I would sleep, the faster I would heal. That was Althea's train of thought, anyways.

I managed to evade her one cool evening and hide away in Alastor's room. I opened the window and curled up with pillows, the familiar red blanket, and my sketchbook. I was extremely content. The salty, cool summer breeze brushed softly on my face as I sketched Alastor from memory. It felt like things couldn't get bad, though I knew in the back of my mind there was always a chance.

For now, I was happy.

I did several rough sketches of him before attempting a more detailed one. I played with blending the led then did a loose sketch with a pen overtop. It turned out better than I thought and attempted it a second time before calling it quits. I was losing the sunlight.

Finally I finished and let out a huge yawn, stretching out my limbs and cracking my spine back in place. I leaned back into the pillows comfortably.

"Is that me?"

I jumped at the sound of his voice directly in my ear. I snapped the book to my side, out of view. "When did you come in?" I asked in bewilderment, mostly from embarrassment.

"That's quite stunning artwork," he ignored my question, standing up with his arms behind his back. I closed the sketchbook and the window. "Come now, darling, it was meant as a compliment." He placed his claw gently on my shoulder. Alcine and his shadow sprouted on the wall to look at each other.

"Thank you." I gripped the edges of the sketchbook tightly.

He leaned down and gave me a sweet, gentle kiss. "You may continue, I will do my own work." He unclipped his coat and casted it on the bed. My eyes refused to leave his slim form until his gaze fell on me. I pretended to look out the dark window.

I stayed like that for awhile, the sound of his pen scratching on paper and the fire popping were the only noises I could hear. It felt peaceful again.

I grew cold by the window, though, and after drawing the curtain closed, I went to stand in front of the fire. Alastor's mind wrapped tighter around mine as I did but he didn't move. Staring at his back, I realized this was the first time he was actually keeping his back to me for a long time. He was almost always facing me or if his was back was to me it was only for a moment.

I felt the trust as much as he felt my realization of it.

The warmth of the fire was better than magic warmth. I kept my palms open to the orange glow and let it soothe the aching muscles in my back. I would need to sit soon. Standing still took some effort.

I found myself staring at Alastor's back. A moment later, I had stepped forward and touched his broad shoulder.

He flinched.

I retracted my hand.

His smile was strained as he turned sharply to me. I held my hand tight against my stomach and covered by my other one. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

He let out a visible sigh, shoulders and eyebrows relaxing. His eyes jumped to my tightly clasped hands.

"I'll uh...I'll ask next time." I took a step away.

"That would be preferred." He held out his hand, as if asking me to take it. He waited, outstretching it further when I didn't move from my restrained position.

Finally, feeling his nerves dissipating in his mind, I gradually extended my arm and let him wrap his long, red claws around my small hand. He pulled me closer and placed a soft kiss on my fingers.

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"It was unexpected. I was focused." He brought my fingers up to his cheek and tilted his head so he was leaning on them. "Perhaps you will continue now that I am aware."

He placed my hand on his shoulder, right in the spot between it and his neck, and turned back to his papers. I ran my hand across the back of his neck, to the other shoulder, back again, then into his hair. I felt the suppressed groan.

I scratched in the spot between his antlers and watched the pen fall from his fingers. He was still for the most part as I continued, now using both hands to scratch along the base of his ears.

When my fingers started to get tired, I dared a light touch down the back of his neck. His whole body shivered and his ears fell sideways instead of backwards like they usually did.

"You will be the death of me, my dear." He took my hand and placed another kiss on it.

As he looked up to meet my eyes, I came down to kiss him on the lips. His ears shot back up in surprise. My hand shook as I brought it up to touch his cheek, the exact same gesture he always did for me.

He grabbed the bottom of my chin and pulled away. "Is there something you are looking for, dear?" he asked sweetly.

Unbeknownst to him, I saw what he wanted from me. His nerves were just as high as mine but I felt his mind pulling me closer and closer.

"What I'm looking for is right in front of me." I moved to stand more in front of the chair, squished between it and the table with my legs against his, and put both hands on the armrests.

"Is that so, love?" He hooked a sharp claw under my chin to pull me closer. I leaned my weight on my arms as he drew me in for another kiss. His teeth dampened save for a set of canines so he could slip his tongue into my mouth. The word dominating came to mind.

His hand moved to the back of my head as the other grabbed at my waist, pulling hard. I put one knee on the side of the cushion to shift my weight off my arms. His hand on my head moved down to the other side of my waist and did the same. I swallowed my nerves, and some of his saliva, as I brought my other knee up so I was straddling him in a way.

My hands were on either side of his neck, right in the soft spot before his shoulder started, but his hands moved to the armrests. His claws punctured the wood as his tongue did all the pulling to keep us close.

I could hear his concerns, feel the effort it was taking, and see his eyebrows furrowed together. I grabbed his wrists, the surprise a jolt of energy between us, and moved them to my thighs just as he had done with my hands on his neck.

He pulled away from the kiss, breath heavy. "You mustn't feel pressured," he offered.

I rubbed my thumb across his cheek, earning a fleeting glance from his beady eyes, and answered with, "Read my thoughts, Al. I want to try again."

"Then you will show me what you desire, love. I will do nothing else."

I'm sure he meant it in a touching way, but it made me nervous to show him where I wanted him to try touching. Perhaps it was more embarrassment then anything.

He leaned off the back of the chair with his usual smile, lips a hair from my own and waiting. I pressed into the kiss as my hands moved up his neck and into his hair. This time he moaned. It made a strange twisting feeling in my gut, the vibrations reaching through my lips and into my head.

My tail wrapped several times around one of his legs as I pressed harder, shoving his head into the back of the chair. I carefully brought my claws down his neck, over the soft fabric, down his arms, and gripped his hands. I breathed into the kiss as I plucked them off my thighs and placed them on my back, under my shirt.

He splayed his hands so his entire palms were touching my skin. His claws felt cold but his palms felt insanely warm. I felt a different kind of heat suffocating my chest and daring to go lower.

I trust you not to hurt me. I sent him directly.

I couldn't imagine such a thing, my darling. He answered. Though when fleeting images of my first year with him came to the forefront, he added, Not anymore.

His palms moved methodically up and down my back, occasionally letting his claws leave a red line or two. Meanwhile I was fighting him with my equally long tongue. I had my hands behind his head as I tilted my own to the side to reach further in. All I was seeing was red and green. All I was feeling was hot warmth. All I was tasting was him.

The kissing turned aggressive once he bit my tongue enough to draw blood. He sucked on the sweet liquid before moving to my neck. His magic came a hair too late to dull the pain of the bite and as retaliation I squeezed his ear too hard. He winced and dulled the pain in appeasement, teeth still buried in my neck.

He licked up my blood as his claws dared to cause even more to spill. I put my own claws on the back of his neck, ready to puncture the vulnerable spot if he drew too much.

His arms suddenly wrapped around me and he stood. I instinctively wrapped my legs around him despite him carrying nearly my entire weight with ease. He moved to the bed and laid me on my back, attacking my neck once again. The pressure from his weight on my chest was a new feeling.

"Not all the way," I breathed.

Of course, my love, he answered. But your blood is oh so addicting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@wendigonamecaller @saccharine-nectarine @thesimpybitch @papas-ghoulette

#demi demon #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #soulmate au #soulmates #reqs open #hazbin husk

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talkfastromance4 · 1 year ago

Note

Alright, since I’m a big ball of stressy-drepressy lately, I was wondering how Jake would help Sugar through a day that she’s just not feeling it. ♥️ luv u fren.

I hope you like this bb! it's a little bit more descriptive, I hope you don't mind.

An Arrangement Masterlist

Follow here for all updates as I do not have a taglist

word count: 1.9k

warnings: migraines, bad moods

Feedback, asks, comments/reblogs mean the world to me!

Enjoy!

You’re not sure how it started, but whenever you were feeling down in the blues you always scampered off to Jake’s room. It was so big and open and he always had the fireplace on so it felt cozy all the time. His pillows were the fluffiest you’ve ever felt and the whole place smelled of him, rich and musky. Even with the fireplace on, his comforter was cool on your skin.

The day started off bad as soon as you woke up because you slept through your alarm. It was also Rhea’s day off and Jake’s early day to fly so you were in the house alone. It’s been a bit stormy lately and the wind kept you up from outside your window. It must have hit a power line or something because the coffeemaker was off when you got into the kitchen thus the coffee was cold and tepid.

You planned on taking a shower before work but now you were running late and your hair looked so gross. Even the luxurious dry shampoo couldn’t save the mess of your head so you opted for a messy bun. Then you got frustrated because your messy bun wasn’t the right type of messy.

“Miss y/n?” Reynolds called to you from downstairs and you were rushing again to get dressed.

When you were finally ready you asked Reynolds if you could stop at the coffee shop near Jake’s house before going to the shop and he said yes. That didn’t end up happening because the drive-thru line was obnoxiously long and Serena texted you that there were a ton of people in the store already wanting to do orders.

Your stomach grumbled and you wanted one of Rhea’s muffins.

The wind was still horrendous and you could smell rain, the clouds were dark and gray which matched your mood perfectly as you walked into the shop. Recognizing you, customers started bombarding you with questions and shoving phones in your face of what type of arrangement they needed.

The back of your neck began to throb signifying the onslaught of a migraine.

It’s going to be a long day.

***

By the time you got home your feet ached, your arms ached, you had bandaids on six of your fingers from thorns and yanking off leaves and your head was killing you. You worked through lunch and you know you didn’t drink as much water as you should have. The storm kept rumbling in the distance which only made you more antsy because the lights flickered every now and then in the shop.

Dom assured you he’d check that the back-up generators were up and running before he closed up. He sent you home early because he could tell how miserable you are.

The whole drive home you were battling with yourself whether or not to text Jake asking if he could pick up food from your favorite restaurant. You don’t want to seem needy but he told you to ask him for whatever you’d like. Would he be bothered? What if he had a bad day and wanted to come home and relax and your request pissed him off?

Not wanting to make him mad you stare at the contents of the fridge for a good twenty minutes before you nibble on some pasta salad. Your head was still killing you and you just felt so sad and tired and exhausted and your body ached–

It was like your feet were on auto pilot as you trudged up the stairs, down the hall past your room and walked right into Jake’s. The remote for the fireplace was on his nightstand so you pushed the button to turn it on, the flames engulfed the space quickly as wind roared on outside. You bit your lip as you contemplated going to his bed or the big couch on the other side of the fireplace.

You decided on the couch, it had a huge knit blanket that felt like a hug and you could watch a movie on the tv up above the fireplace. You settle in and pick some romcom from the early 2000s you haven’t seen in a while and wait for Jake to come home.

Twenty minutes into the movie you hear the front door open and close and then torrential rain is hitting the windows. You keep your eyes on the characters in the movie but peek at the doorway waiting for Jake. Your head is pounding as loud as your heart as you wait for him, neck aching, body aching…aching for him.

Jake finally appears in the doorway, his hair wet from rain and his flight suit is tied around his waist so the white shirt he has on is spotted with rain drops. In his hands is a carrying tray with two strawberry shakes and the other holding a big bag that you recognize from your favorite restaurant.

“Reynolds told me you weren’t having a good day. I’m sorry I’m late, the roads are terrible and the line at the drive-thru was long. I got all of your favorites, and the dessert they had is the chocolate pudding you love so I got extras,” he explains making his way over to you.

He sets the goodies on the coffee table in front of you then kneels on the floor, resting his elbows on your blanket covered body.

“I thought I’d find you here. Migraine?” he asks and you nod. “Did you take anything?” A shake of the head. “I’ll get your medicine and peppermint oil. Start eating and I’ll change, okay?”

He stretches forward to kiss your cheek, he smells like rain and then he’s gone. As he leaves, he yanks his shirt up and over his head; your tummy flutters at seeing his muscular back. You force yourself to sit up and grab your shake, the hearty sip and sweet strawberry flavor makes your taste buds sing. The coolness of the shake also feels good in your throat.

Jake returns in gray sweats and a different t-shirt, his NAVY one that you secretly have a favor towards. The color looks wonderful against his skin. A small tub of lotion and bottle of peppermint oil is in hand, he keeps it in his bathroom because you normally retreat in his room during bad headaches. He likes to be prepared.

He touches your shoulder and you shift forward so he can sit behind you on the couch, it’s big enough that you can fit comfortably. He places your medicine on the table.

“Your head might feel better if you take out the knot of your bun, Sugar,” he says softly knowing loud noises hurt your head.

“It’s all gross,” you shake your head which makes the throbbing pain worse.

“Want me to wash it?” his fingers probe at the base of your neck and up your head, his thumbs rubbing with just the right pressure to alleviate the pain.

“How would you do that?”

“Well, I have a pretty nice tub in my bathroom…or yours,” he muses, continuing to rub your head. You continue to suck up your shake.

“Maybe later,” you sigh.

“Okay,” he kisses the back of your neck delicately. His lips are cold and you sigh.

“Stay there for a minute .... lips are nice and cold.”

You feel his smile on your neck as he kisses you again and keeps his lips there, skimming them over your neck gently. The tip of his nose is also cold and you relax a bit from the temperature change. He pulls your shirt down a little so he can kiss even lower past your neck and onto your back.

“Ready for the peppermint?”

“Mhm,” you hum and his lips are gone.

He unscrews the lid of the lotion, you faintly pay attention because now that you’ve got some shake in you, you’re paying more attention to the movie onscreen. You can tell he adds the peppermint because you smell it, that even helps your head a little.

Jake’s hands are cold as he presses the peppermint coated lotion onto your neck and he begins to massage you again. His fingers knead gently at your cranium, up into your hair and down to your shoulders, his thumbs paying extra special attention at the center of your head. A soft moan escapes and you tilt your head forward so he can really rub at the taut muscle.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he murmurs.

“Everything just went wrong. This is helping…”

“Good. What movie are we watching?”

“50 First Dates.”

“That’s a good one.”

“It’s almost over…what do you want to watch next?”

“How about The Princess Bride?”

“As you wish,” you tease, quoting the movie. The throbbing in your head lessens but you grab your medicine and take it with your shake. “How was your day?”

“Busy, we kept waiting to fly but the storm prevented it. Had to stay grounded and I kept thinking of you.”

He massaged your head until the movie ended and joined you in eating the dinner he brought home. You selected his movie of choice, which was also one of your favorites, and cuddled up on the couch, he slipped under the big blanket with you and you rested your head on his chest. Jake’s fingers played with your hair and unworked the hair tie.

“No, my hair is gross–”

“Shush, I don’t care. I bet that feels better, huh?” he asks. The tightness is released and you burrow further into his chest. You start to skim your fingers over his forearm, creating designs. He sighs.

“What?” you ask stopping your tickling.

“That feels nice,” he sighs, his cheek pressing to the top of your head. “Don’t stop.”

You smile into his shirt and start tickling his arm again, jumping slightly when thunder cracks.

“I know you hate it,” he says, running his fingers down your back and waist. “But I think I like when it rains.”

“Why?”

“Because that means you’ll be here with me.”

He squeezes your waist and you tilt your head so you’re looking up at him. He’s already looking at you. Feeling brave and bold, you place your hand at the back of his neck pulling him forward so you can touch your lips with his. It’s slow building, this kiss, his lips soft and supple giving you full control. You part your lips slightly but when you don’t feel his tongue against yours, you slip yours against his.

Jake groans when your tongues connect and he shifts you up higher so you’re more level with him. Your leg is fully over his waist, both your arms around his neck. His kiss is giving you shivers all over, his hands hot on your waist and back as your shirt rides up a little from your movements.

“You taste like strawberries,” you huff, breaking away to take a breath.

“So do you,” he smiles rubbing your nose with his. He moves his hand to cup your cheek, tracing his thumb over your lip. “How’s your head?”

“Better. Thank you,” you kiss his nose.

“You’re welcome, Sugar. Let’s finish the movie, hm?”

You nod and fall back into your original position, lips buzzing from his kiss, heart hammering from how it made you feel. While you watch Wesley and Buttercup fall in love, you secretly hope it rains every day so you can be in Jake’s room all week.

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