#i think i will wake up with a room covered in vomit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peachesofteal · 10 months ago

Text

Simple Math / Part 5

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Stalking. Brief mention of domestic violence. Feelings of fear, self loathing, and anxiety. Vomiting. Panic attack/comfort. Medical inaccuracies, hospital setting. A little bit of praise. Johnny is a flirt and a menace.

“Ye’re off yer head.”

“I’m not.” Johnny expects Simon to relent, to give it up, but when he doesn��t budge, something hot sizzles alive in the pit of Johnny’s stomach, desire roaring to life in his veins.

“Jus’ like that? Ye’re goin’ let me see yer bonnie face finally?” He slurs, lifting the bottle to his lips, and Simon nods.

“Only if you win."

“And if ye win?” Simon moves closer, his chest brushing against Johnny’s, balaclava covered face dipping down, noses nudging against one another’s in a tentative, teasing way.

“If I win, you’ll remove something of my choosing instead.”

Your phone is ringing.

In your sleep, you hardly recognize it, but your subconscious is well trained, and your hand seeks the source of the noise effortlessly, dragging it from the nightstand and next to your face, to squint blearily at it, awareness coming quickly when you recognize the charge nurse’s work line.

“Hello?” You clear the cobwebs of sleep from your throat.

“Hey, sorry to wake you.”

“No, ‘s alright. What’s going on?”

“I know it’s your day off, but-“

“You’re short.” You fill in the blanks, and she huffs.

“We’ve got two out with flu like symptoms, and I’m floating another to-“

“It’s okay.” You swing your feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes. “I got you. Just give me like, an hour? I have to get ready and stuff.”

“Of course. Thanks so much, you’re a lifesaver.” You zone out for a moment, plotting out the rest of your day, and mumble something like ‘don’t worry about it’, ending the call with your thumb.

The hotel carpet is plush. It’s cushioned and soft, and it gives a little when you stand and stretch, pulling your arms over your head, twisting and turning with tired bones, shaking loose the stupor that holds your neck too straight, too tightly.

OT isn’t the worst thing in the world right now, considering you’re paying for a long term stay in a hotel, you tell yourself more than a few times as you shower and dress. You should be grateful for it. Understaffing has it’s benefits, financially.

The only wrench about coming in on your day off this week is you’re supposed to be collecting more things from your flat. Particularly, clothing. You’ve only got a short rotation of outfits, scrubs, both in short supply, and… no clean underwear. You had planned to move large chunks of your wardrobe over today, probably at least two trips worth, but will now have to settle for stopping by fairly quick to grab what you can.

It will be fine, you think, casually checking your surroundings as you step off the platform. In and out and on with your day.

You were wrong.

You see it immediately, stepping through the door. The locks are in place, handle, deadbolt, extra one at the top, but you can tell, you can feel, that someone has been in here. Your blood thickens in your veins, freezing to a stop, sluggishly propelled by your frenzied heart. You can hear it in your ears, the thunder of your panic, can feel the fear twisting itself into a sailor’s knot and holding you hostage.

Your feeling is confirmed, rationalized, when you push your bedroom door ajar and see the carnage of what’s been left behind on top of your bed.

Shredded panties.

The entire underwear drawer has been spilled out across your sheets, lace and cotton and silk all ripped to pieces, torn edges clearly made by hands, not knives, not scissors, but the personal touch of fingers, of fists.

Your breath catches in your chest, oxygen in the room falling away, leaving you panting, gasping for your next inhale as you cautiously pick up a pair close to you. They’re grey cotton boy shorts, and your stomach flips up into your throat when they stand as stiff as a board, some sort of dried substance splattered across them, rendering the fabric firm and inflexible.

Not… not just some dried substance… you realize in horror, scanning the pile of panties, noticing the stains on most of them, a milky white color shining against black silk.

You can’t breathe. You stumble away, back slamming into your dresser, sinking down onto the floor, hands covering your ears.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

This is sick, even for him. An escalation of disturbing behavior that sends a chill down your spine, frightening you even more than you already were. You knew he’d get in, hoped he would buy your carefully crafted lie: the appearance of you still living there… but to act so brazenly, to do something like… this.

Does he know, does he realize, you’re not actually living in the flat now?

He’s really going to kill you this time.

You race to the toilet, heaving yourself over the seat as your breakfast rushes past your lips, a cup of coffee and half eaten muffin accentuated by the sting of bile, and you gag, spitting and hacking until you’re finished, flushing it all away.

You don’t look at the girl in the mirror. You don’t want to see her. Don’t want to tell her all the ways you’re letting her down. She thinks you’re smarter than this, stronger. Braver. She believes you’ve done it once before, you’ve escaped, you’ve hid, and you can do it again.

She doesn’t know you’re not sure you have the heart for it now. She doesn’t realize you’re tired, you’re afraid. She doesn’t understand that you like the life you��ve made, that running is exhausting, that sometimes, in the very darkest corners of your mind, you think that letting him win might be easiest.

So, you don’t look at her. You mourn your pile of panties for a too long second and lock the apartment up tight.

Get it together. Get yourself together.

You coach yourself the entire way to work, trying to ignore the rubbing and bunching of your scrub pants, an unfortunate consequence of being forced to go commando.

Deep breath. You can do this.

You still have your sanctuary.

You had hoped, for a miniscule moment, that your day might improve once you step foot in the hospital, and you pushed away the inkling that suggested that optimism may be linked the fact that you’ll get to see Simon and Johnny, opting not to even acknowledge the strange sensations swirling about inside your heart whenever you think about the other day. The day when the world stood still and Johnny touched your hand so gently, stroking his fingers over your skin, or when the elevator doors parted to reveal Simon and their baby, a sweet baby girl safe in his arms, his eyes alight and adoring, your knees almost giving out at the sight.

Needless to say, you’re eager to badge in.

The day is quickly derailed, when within a half an hour of getting settled into your routine, an alarm goes off for two sixty-eight: thirty-nine degrees.

Your mind immediately somersaults to the pain in his upper right quadrant from your last shift, logical thought leaping all around as you jog down the hall.

You notated it. You passed it on in shift report. It’s only thirty-nine. You did everything right. No one here would just disregard something like that. Deep breath.

Still…

Bile leak. Abscess. Infection. Or worse… hepatic artery pseudoaneurysm, hemorrhaging. Big things that could lead to worse things, worse outcomes, worse-

The door comes up quicker than you realize, and without hesitating, you slip inside.

“Hi.” You’re a little breathless, and Simon’s eyes snap to yours, taking you in, studying from head to toe, brow knitted together. Johnny’s asleep, and you’re not sure if that makes you feel better, or worse.

“Everything alright?” Of course. He’s too perceptive. Get control of yourself, it could be nothing.

“Yeah, I ah… have to draw some blood.” You really do not want to wake your patient, or alarm Simon, but you refuse to lie. You fire off a text to the attending on call, advising him of Johnny’s temperature and reminding him of the upper right quadrant pain, letting him know he can expect labs as soon as you get them downstairs. You give Simon a nod, turning to slide the draw open quietly, pulling out everything you’ll need. His gaze burns a hole in your scrubs, the ever-present scrutiny impossible to escape, and sometimes you wonder if he’s reading your mind.

“What’s wrong? He just fell asleep, Pen was here all morning, tired him out.” His protest is husky, and you think he’s frowning behind the mask. You imagine a strong mouth pulled downwards in consternation; wide jaw gnashed tight with worry.

“He’s running just a bit of a fever.” He jolts, and you shake your head, hoping to soothe his fear. “It’s not too high. I’m not super worried, but we’ll need to check his white cell count, just in case, okay? And then we’ll go from there.” He nods.

“You said this could happen.” You smile. It feels unsteady, but you hope he can’t tell.

“I did. I promised, that if there was something to panic about, I would tell you. We’re not there yet.” It’s not a lie. Your wild spiral from a few minutes ago was an extreme, not reality, and you need to keep your head on.

“Okay.”

“Right. So, just going to do a quick blood draw and get it downstairs so we can find out what’s going on.” Simon shifts uncomfortably, and you carefully squeeze Johnny's arm, wrapping him with the tie and swabbing the inside of his elbow as fast as possible.

He blinks, eyes opening slowly, confused brow smoothing when he realizes you’re leaning over him, and his gaze darts to Simon before landing back on you. “There’s our bunny.” He mumbles softly, and your face heats, eyes widening in surprise before you regulate your reaction, and Simon coughs. Loudly. Bunny?

“Such a flirt, MacTavish.” You playfully chastise him, relieved he’s feeling like himself. “I just need to get some blood and then I’ll leave you in peace to sleep.” He shrugs, but Simon rubs a thumb against his thigh in tiny little circles, too fast to be considered comfort, and Johnny clucks. “Ah, come on Si.”

“You’re runnin’ a fever, Johnny.”

“Ach. ‘s nothing.” He brushes it off, but his eyes are slow to track Simon’s movements, and you casually sneak a peek at the monitor, noting his blood pressure.

“Could be.” You assure him, smoothing a hand over his shoulder and taping a small patch of gauze over the puncture. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

The labs are inconclusive. The attending hems and haws before finally asking you to schedule a stat ultrasound of his abdomen, and you manage to bump him to the front of the queue, pulling a few strings here and there by rattling off some bullshit about being higher priority.

In the time it takes for the tech to get to two sixty-eight with the machine, you get a new admission. Intubated, but awake, and getting them and their family squared away takes longer than you would have liked, the patient’s middle-aged husband a wreck of nerves and worry, the kind of anxiety that makes you sit with him in the room for a little while, patting his hand and promising that you’ll be there for them, every step of the way.

By the time you step out of that room, it’s been nearly an hour. You catch a glimpse of Simon in the chairs outside two sixty-eight, and you throw him one of your best work smiles, hoping to reassure him, soothe his nerves. You want to go to him, want to sit beside him and talk him through everything, the outcomes, the possibilities, but you still need to add the notes for your new admit, and-

Someone catches your eye from the end of the hall. It’s a man, white, with brown hair, in regular clothes, and he stands taller than the others around him, shoulders rolled back just- just like-

No. You force yourself to look, to truly see him, taking in his facial features, the slope of his nose, and it’s hardly a second before you’re realizing it��s not who you thought it was. It’s not him.

The second doesn’t matter to your heart. It’s already racing, tripling it’s steady pace inside your chest. You’re shaking, trembling in the middle of the hall, frantically looking for the nearest closet, or empty room, or…

Stairwell. There’s a stairwell just beyond where Simon is anxiously waiting, and you beeline to it, nearly tripping over your own feet past him. You think you hear your name being called, but the blood rushing in your ears is too loud, and you can’t be sure. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters right now is getting away. Hiding. Not letting yourself be noticed.

You take the first flight down, stopping on the landing to rest your face against the polished, cold wall, desperately trying to fill your lungs with air, encouraging yourself to breathe.

It wasn’t him. You’re safe.

Deep breath. You can do this.

Your fingers dig into your hips, squeezing through the numbness, through the overwhelming feeling of your impending doom, and your head swims, lightheadedness nearly knocking you off balance.

“It wasn’t him.” You whisper aloud. “It’s not him. You’re safe. Get it together.” You chant, eyes clenched tight. Your heart is still pounding, no sign of relenting, and your lungs burn, screaming inside you, desperate for air. The feeling of suffocating, of dying, grows stronger, gaining momentum, and your eyes slam shut, your mind and body locked in a tomb of panic and fear.

You hear your name again. It’s sharper, authoritative, but you can’t open your eyes, too overwhelmed to even make sense of it. Deep breath, just breathe.

Something touches your shoulder. It’s unexpected, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you register it as gentle, but you’re too far gone, too far buried beneath your fear and your panic and your shame. It triggers you into a defensive posture, and you flinch so hard you jostle yourself into the wall, turning into the corner, hands out in front of your face.

“Hey, hey.” It’s Simon. Simon is standing in the stairwell with you, palms open, concern heavy in his eyes, and you vaguely realize he’s talking, soft, deep words washing over you. “-to breathe?” He comes closer, only half a step, but it’s enough to startle you back into the corner, and he stops short. “It’s alright. I’m not going to touch you.” He soothes, and you recognize the pitch, the calm, affectionate tone from Johnny’s bedside. Sour nausea surges in your stomach, and your lungs fight the invisible hand that tightens around them. “Can you take a deep breath?” You shake your head, and he huffs a soft chuckle. “You can do it, just try. Through your nose, like this.” His chest expands, eye contact never breaking, and you try to follow suit, getting halfway before your head spins, vision tunneling. “You’re alright.”

You’re not alright. None of this is alright. You’re having a panic attack, in the stairwell at your job, in front of a patient’s partner.

You can’t speak, so you shake your head instead. No.

“Yes, you are.” He assures. “Everything’s okay. Focus on your breathing. Try another one for me.” His hand covers his heart, and you focus on the way it ebbs and flows with the movement of his diaphragm, the pace of his breaths.

You manage to get one full inhale and exhale. And then you get another. Then a third, a fourth, until it’s coming easier, and your head doesn’t feel as fuzzy.

“Good job, that’s it.” Your fingers twist together, the grating noise of your jagged breathing smoothing out even more, and Simon nods encouragingly. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Nice and slow.” Sweetheart. The word is bright, boundless and sweet as honey, the sentiment settling in your belly and growing warm. The two of you stand there, just breathing, staring at one another, for what feels like an eternity, until you find the strength to summon words.

“I-I’m sorry.” You finally choke once you’ve got a better handle on yourself, hands going lax at your thighs.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” You’re about to brush it off, thorny lies starting to form in your mind, excuses and carefully crafted explanations fusing together when your work phone beeps, the low frequency different from the ones related to patient care. Shit. Already? Simon’s glances at it in your pocket and cocks his head.

“End of my shift.” You explain, moving towards the stairs, your hand trembling on the button to silence the alarm. The muscles in his neck flex, molars grinding together.

“Still feeling a little shaky?” He observes, and you look down to your feet, mortification crawling up your spine, blooming across your cheeks through heated blood vessels.

“Um…”

“Would you mind, maybe sitting with Johnny for a bit?” You do still have notes to do. “If his test is done? I have to run home, help the Prices' put Penny down. She’s been a bit fickle, lately. Missin’ her Da.” He rubs the back of his neck, chest flexing inside the charcoal grey hoodie, and for a weird, too long second, you wonder what it might be like to fall asleep there, or just close your eyes for a minute, even though it's something sweet and far away, unobtainable in every facet. Simon says your name, jogging your attention, and then takes the first step, partially turning like he wants to reach for you, but thinks better of it.

“Uh. Yeah, I… I can.”

You badge out and grab your stuff, keeping your tablet so you can complete your notes while you sit with Johnny. You’ve already checked his results, and when you slip inside the room, the attending is updating them, explaining how he has a very small bile leak, and will need an endoscopic procedure tomorrow morning.

The attending excuses himself, giving you a quick nod, and then Simon leans down, knocking their foreheads together tenderly.

“Keep an eye on him, I hear he likes to make trouble.” Johnny smiles, pink-red color creeping up his neck into his cheeks, and Simon seems like he’s smiling, before he turns serious. “Behave. I won’t be too long.”

“I always behave.” He pats the side of the bed, beckoning you, and you shake your head, plopping down in the recliner to his right.

“I hear ye’re keepin’ me company, pretty girl?”

“I am. Got some notes to finish, heard this chair was pretty comfortable.” You quip back easily, and it feels natural, to be joking and laughing, to be hiding again.

“Well, I’ll try not to distract ye then.”

Your tablet clicks dark with a satisfying shutter, and when you place it face down, Johnny gives you one of his stupidly handsome smiles. “All finished?”

“Yeah, not too bad.” His phone vibrates against the tabletop, and with his good hand, he opens the message, turning it to show you the screen. It’s a picture of Penny, half asleep against Simon, clad in a pink onesie covered in little ducks. Her cheek is squished against him, long baby lashes fluttering on her skin. “She’s so cute.�� You say, and he nods, flushed with pride. You glance at the contact name, Lou, and before you can stop yourself, a question bursts out: “Who’s Lou?”

“Our captain’s wife. She’s been helpin’ a lot, with Pen. Which is great, they’re getting a lot of girl time.”

“Your captain?”

“Aye.”

“Is that…” you want to ask but trail off. You don’t want to admit that you’ve heard gossip about them.

“Military. Simon an’ I work together, in a task force.” A task force. A task force sounds eerily close to special ops, and your nausea comes back with a vengeance.

“What… what kind of task force?”

“Global ops. Anti-terrorism, domestic threats, the lot. How I ended up here, with ye.” The image of your ex looms, his body tense in his gear, or the memory of his boots, sitting shiny by the door, one of them pulling back, swinging towards your stomach. “Bun?” Bun?

“Huh?” you blink. “Oh, sorry. Spaced out there for a second.”

“That’s alright. Simon said ye had a bit of a scare earlier?”

“No I uh, just couldn’t catch my breath, but I was fine. It was fine.” You deflect, moving on as quick as you can manage. “Did you call me bun? And… didn’t you call me bunny, earlier?” He gives you a sheepish look.

“Aye. Is our nickname for ye.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Well… ye look a bit like a bunny, and ye had that sticker the other day that Penny noticed.” Your face heats. “I know ye’re probably real soft like a bun, too.” Real soft? Is he… does he mean- your eyes widen, and he smirks.

“Johnny.” You flounder, helplessly, confused by his attention, this flirtation that seems to have grown into real affection, and he shifts slightly, leaning forward, reaching for your hand.

“Ye dinnae need to be afraid.” He coos. The words are a moon above a tide, pulling and reaching, dragging the swell of the waves higher and higher, until they threaten to pull you under, overwhelm you and drown you.

“I…” I don’t understand? I thought you were gay? I don’t know what is happening here? Johnny grimaces, and you immediately forget about the conversation and leap into action, jumping to your feet. “What is it? Where’s your pain?” Your hands hover over his belly, and he points to where his liver currently sits, slowly leaking inside his body, spilling bile that could eventually kill him if it hadn’t been caught. You pull down the blanket, unsnapping his gown to push it aside, checking for anything physically observable, site swelling, a rash, anything. “Does this hurt?” You cautiously press down, tapping slightly, watching his face for a reaction.

“No.” he says, and when you reach over to his other side, turning to watch his facial expressions, he moves with you, barely leaning, chin pointed in your direction.

His face is suddenly incredibly close to your face. And he looks… so handsome. So pretty, with his bright blue eyes and perfect bones, soft lips that part with an inhale. He dazzles you. Distracts you.

This is your patient, get it together. You’re a professional, act like it.

“Does that hurt?” You croak, and his lips quirk into a half smile, a warm palm gliding over the small of your back.

“It doesnae hurt, bun.” He winks.

“Oh my god, were you faking?” You try to stand up, but the pressure on your spine is firm, and he chuckles.

“Can I tell ye a secret?” He’s fully serious now, question whispered just above your ear, and you nod.

“Of course.”

“Ye’v been drivin’ me mad today, pretty girl. Walkin’ around here wit’ no panties on.” Oh. Oh… my god. You shoot upwards, hand covering your mouth in shock, and he laughs, raising an eyebrow before his gaze drifts over the curve of your hip.

“Johnny!” you hiss, scandalized, and then guilt hits you like a train, like two tons of rocks have been dropped on top of you. Simon. “Johnny, you… you and Simon, you’re-“

“We’re lucky ye’ve come into our lives.” He finishes, and you frown, confused. “We think ye’re really special.” We. We?

“What did I miss?” Simon says from the doorway, and you jerk, stepping back like Johnny’s bed is on fire and you’ve just been burnt, eyes wide and wild. You feel like a child, caught with a hand in the cookie jar, but Simon doesn’t look angry. Just curious.

“Jus’ talking.” Johnny replies, and he starts to lower his bed, watching you with heavy eyes.

“Well. I should get going. I’ve got a few trains to make.” You glance at the clock, and then give them both a polite smile. Simon crosses his arms.

“Looks like you tired him out.” He comments, and they glance at one another, some sort of communication happening silently before he shrugs. “Let me drive you.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. It’s not… you just got back, and I’m fine, really. It’s not that far, I-“

“If it’s not that far, let him drive ye.” Johnny pipes up, and Simon piles on easily.

"He's not going to let this go, and neither am I. Let me get you home safely, please." You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. "It's the least we can do." Your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s just a ride. It’s not crossing a line.

“Okay, then.” Johnny smiles, and Simon moves to his side, brushing his mask covered mouth against his forehead.

“She go down okay?” Johnny murmurs, tenderly cupping his cheek.

“Like a champ. Promised I’d bring her tomorrow morning. Think she understood me.”

“Aye. She’s smarter than ye, so probably.” He teases, and they share a lighthearted laugh before Johnny’s bidding you a goodbye, and Simon directs you out the door.

“Uh, right here is fine.” You point to the curb, and Simon slows the car to a stop, turning to face you with that ever-present scrutiny, brows shoved down above his eyes.

“A hotel?” You swallow.

“My um, my flat is being renovated. It’s a whole thing so I just figured I wo-would stay somewhere else.” You want to flee, run out of this car and away from him, but he holds you in place so easily with just his eyes, so you sit there, frozen, one hand on the door handle, the other splayed against your thigh.

“Is everything alright? Earlier-“

“I’m fine.” You rush out, cutting him off. It’s well practiced, the denial, the avoidance, these things that you normally excel out.

But nothing is normal with them.

He cocks his head, and then nods, and you breathe a little easier, turning to push the door open.

“Wait.” A hand tugs at you, thick, warm fingers lightly touching your wrist, and you whip back around to face him, eyes wide. “If you ever need anything, Johnny and I… we’re here.” Why is your heart beating so fast?

“Oh, I uh… I’m fine, I don’t need-“

“That doesn’t work on me. Johnny either, pretty girl.” He tells you, and it’s so firm, so strong backed, that your mouth goes dry, and you gape at him. What? What doesn’t work? Is he… is he saying he doesn’t buy it? Doesn’t believe you? He’s reading your mind, subtly raising an eyebrow, and then nodding. “Put my number in your phone.” He instructs, and like a robot, like a vampire’s Thrall, you pull it from your bag, swiping open the contact list and pressing each number in the order he gives it. “We’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks once you’re finished, and you mumble a shaky yes, finally pushing the door open, and climbing out.

“Alright, well. Good night.” You bend at the waist, giving him a wave through the window, and his jaw moves beneath the mask, shifting to the side, eyes squinting at the corners. He's smiling.

“Good night, bunny.”

#peaches writes #simple math #ghost x reader x soap #ghost x soap x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #ghoap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soap x reader #soap x ghost

2K notes · View notes

rememberwren · 3 months ago

Text

A Dichotomy of Thought || 9

Previous/next chapters found here.

You and Johnny take a walk. CW: domestic abuse, panic attacks, dissociation, drug withdrawal, vomiting.

“Holy shit,” Jackie crows at the sight of you, her dark eyes huge and round like twin moons. One of her hands holds the rag she was using to wipe down the countertop of the bar and the other covers her mouth in a dainty expression of horror. “What happened to you?”

You shake your head, a silent plea not to ask any more questions. The bruises on your face still throb with your pulse, a painful reminder that you are alive when you’re not even sure if you want to be.

“Rooster’s gonna send you home,” says Jackie. “There’s no way you’ll get tips like this.”

“No he fucking won’t,” you say through your teeth. A day of not working means a day of no tips. A day of no tips means the stash of money in your locker remains stagnant. If there was one thing you had learned on Saturday, it’s that your time with your boyfriend is coming to an end, one way or another. Either he will kill you, or you will kill him, or will finally scrape together the means to leave.

You’ve got your eye on an apartment across town. One with copious natural lighting, one with a small but open floor plan. It would be more than enough for you. It would be everything.

Jackie sees the fire in your eyes—either that or you’ve gone and scared her—because she calls over Ruth to cover for you both and takes you into the break room, grabbing a bag of cosmetics out of her locker and doing her best to cover up your bruises. She gives you her jacket to cover the ones on your arms, the tiny circles caused by fingertips.

“Thanks,” you mutter, feeling like there’s something stuck in your throat.

“We gotta stick together,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. “I can’t work here alone. Not with just Ruth to talk to all day, and Rooster strutting around—“

“I know I didn’t just hear what I thought I heard,” a male voice says, the break room door flinging open and startling you both. Ruben stands there, his cowlick looking remarkably like a rooster’s comb. Your manager hates being called Rooster (which seems to make the problem all the worse), but the likeness is just too canny. “Why is Ruth out on the floor alone?”

“Girl stuff,” Jackie says with open malice. “You wanna hear about my monthly cycle, Ruben?”

He scowls, recoiling. “Just—wrap it up ladies. And wash your hands.”

“Jesus,” Jackie mutters once Rooster is gone and the door behind him is safely shut. “Men are so fucking weak.”

The bruises on your face throb at her words. Men feel pretty fucking strong to you.

“Yer outta yer mind if you think I’m eating that,” Johnny slurs, head in his hand where he sits slumped at the kitchen table. His entire body throbs, stomach wracked with nausea as he stares down at the eggs in front of him.

“You need to eat,” Simon says, firm and quiet. Just the sound of his voice makes tears fill Johnny’s eyes—but that’s all his eyes do these days. Water. It’s the withdrawal, he knows. It makes him feel like crawling out of his own skin would be a mercy, like he’s suffering from the worst flu he’s ever had: puking and shitting his guts out, body aches from hell, eyes and nose running constantly. Combine that with the tension with Simon and it’s like he’s living in a nightmare he can’t wake up from; except even in his worst dreams, Simon had never done something like this. Even in his worst dreams, Simon had been a hero to him.

“Can’t trust you,” Johnny mutters.

Simon reaches out, the motion a little too sudden and unexpected. Johnny flinches.

When Simon moves again, it is slower, with obvious purpose as he takes Johnny’s fork, spears a bite of his eggs, and brings it to his own mouth.

Somewhat mollified, Johnny picks up the fork and begins pushing the eggs around on his plate, just to make Simon shut up. Even if he knows the food isn’t poisoned, he still doesn’t have an appetite.

Then Simon sets a green pill beside his plate, and all it does is set Johnny off again.

“Get that away from me,” snarls Johnny.

“You can’t just quit cold turkey. They’re opioids, Johnny. It could kill you to stop.”

Fury swells up inside him, the edges of his vision bleeding black. Johnny shoves the half plate off of the table. It shatters against the linoleum, a sound which makes Simon flinch. For the moment, it satisfies Johnny’s need for control, his need for retribution. His need for violence. “I hope it does,” he grits out on a whim. “Don’t you pretend that you care.”

The table creaks under Simon’s weight as he places his palms against it and leans forward, his face stormy. “I fucking love you. Everything I ever do is because I love you so fucking much—“

“Oh, right,” Johnny scoffs.

“—yeah, right, I’ve been killing myself to keep you alive and safe and happy—“

“And you’ve been doin’ a shit job!” Johnny shouts, face reddening.

Simon goes quiet and stiff. Johnny doesn't believe for a moment that he’s gone too far. Simon is the one who went too far the moment he dumped the crushed oxycontin into Johnny’s juice. Everything else is fair game.

Before they discharged together, Johnny would have thought that Ghost’s face beneath the mask was just as stoic. Now he knows better, knows that Simon wore the mask to conceal a face which too often wore its emotions so plainly.

He looks sad. Angry. And for a moment Johnny thinks Simon might even hit him. It would be welcome, Johnny thinks. He would be glad to have a bruise to point to, to be able to say ‘Here is where you hurt me’ instead of all of his bruises being on the inside. But instead Simon just turns away and goes into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

After a moment, Johnny hears the balcony door open and shut too as Simon puts as much distance between them as physically possible.

Well, Johnny thinks, looking toward his slip on shoes. I can do you one better.

By the time you are clocking out, there is a message from Simon on your phone. Since poker night, there have been a few days of radio silence from the apartment next door—and you don’t even want to know the things they might have heard coming from your own apartment. You’ll be happy to see Johnny again, to know that Simon is getting to take a few brief minutes for himself, even if that’s all you can give him.

But when you open the message, your stomach drops: Johnny is missing. Have you seen him? sent nearly thirty minutes ago. You slam your locker shut, clenching the phone in your hand as you slip back out to the front of the restaurant, already bringing up the interface to call Simon, to hear what has happened and to find out how you can help.

It isn’t needed.

Johnny is sitting in the booth in the corner. Your heart swoops, takes your guts with it. You carefully make your way to his booth, noting the sweat on his forehead that he is mopping away with a napkin, noting the way his arm trembles. He looks thinner than ever. He looks sick.

He smiles at you.

“Are you off work? Did I catch you at the perfect time?” Johnny wonders.

“You did,” you say cautiously, slipping into the booth.

“Good. I want to take you somewhere.”

“Maybe we should go back to your apartment. Simon is pretty worried about you.”

Johnny’s face darkens, visible storm clouds rolling in. It makes your stomach turn over, anxious. “Simon doesn’t worry about anyone but himself.” He stands, shaking a little, and holds out his hand to you. Nothing else you can do, you take it, careful not to pull him over as you stand out of the booth.

The place Johnny takes you is a park nearby. It’s one that is handicap accessible, something which you’ve been taking notice of more and more often lately. The sidewalks are smooth and wide, the bathrooms are roomy, and there are plenty of benches (such as this one) for you and Johnny to sit down on when his leg aches from walking so far.

Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. The first thing you had done was text Simon that Johnny was with you and he was okay. You could feel the buzz of multiple messages, but you hadn’t brought the phone out yet to check them, not with Johnny’s focus on you. You could sense that Simon was a sore spot right now.

You didn’t want to make Johnny angry.

So the two of you sit on a bench in dappled sunlight, the sweat cooling on both of your bodies.

Johnny leans over and vomits.

“Jesus Christ,” you say, scooting close to him to rub at his back. “Are you alright?”

“Detoxin’,” he mutters, wiping the back of his mouth with a napkin he brought from the diner. “Don’t worry about it.”

You’re pretty fucking worried about it. Detoxing from what, you wonder, as Johnny sits up, leaning back heavily against the park bench, close enough that you can count his eyelashes. He takes several deep, steadying breaths, and you take the stolen moment to look at him. His jaw is sharper than ever, cheekbones sharp, circles beneath his eyes, but he is undoubtedly handsome. The thought startles you; you haven’t had such a thought about a man in years.

Johnny’s eyes open, blue as the sky, and rake over your face.

“Yer makeup job isn’t very good,” says Johnny at length.

Your heart skips a beat. You turn away and watch a woman pass with her dog, a shepherd. Wetting your lips, you can’t think of anything to say. Johnny’s hand appears out of the corner of your eye and you flinch away from the touch before taking note of the shape of his hand: open, with soft fingers meant to caress instead of hurt. Baffled by this gentle touch, you let him stroke his thumb along the shadow of a bruise visible beneath Jackie’s makeup. It makes you shiver, like a cold breeze has blown in.

“What was his excuse?” Johnny asks. “Or did he even have one?”

“What did Simon tell you?”

“Everything. Already suspected most of it. He beats on you, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you mutter.

How long has it been since someone knew? No—not since someone knew. Since someone cared? Since someone confronted it head on and called it what it was? Jackie knew—she had to know—but other than taking the heat for you about some texts on your phone and helping you cover up the bruises, she never made any motions to acknowledge it. Your family had known, before they cut off contact with you for good, but they were terrible creatures in themselves.

You thought that maybe Simon had known, too.

People seemed to have a limited capacity for caring about others. Or maybe they just had a limited capacity for caring about you.

“I want to help you,” says Johnny, earnest.

You can’t help but look at him with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because it’s wrong, what he’s doin’,” says Johnny simply. “Because we’re supposed to cherish the people we love. Because no one deserves this, least of all you.”

Your hands work anxiously in your lap. He says the right things—but you’ve always been a sucker for pretty words.

“The last time a man wanted to help me escape a bad situation, it was so he could put me into a worse one,” you admit. Johnny’s face falls, hurt splashing across his features, and you feel it keenly, like it is your own. You’re quick to assure him: “I want to trust you.”

The rest remains unspoken: you don’t know if you can.

“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” says Johnny with a wane smile.

“Hemingway said that.”

“Aye. You like to read?”

“Yes, but not Hemingway.”

Johnny laughs, a bright sound that has your mouth curling upward. Smiling isn’t unfamiliar to you, not when you must plaster one on all day to have any chance at all of making tips, but it’s been a while since it’s been genuine. Maybe that’s why it feels so strange. Maybe when it’s real, it uses different muscles.

“If you were going to help,” you begin cautiously, giving an awkward smile to an older couple as they shuffle by, pausing and waiting for them to be gone before you continue, “how would you do it? I’m…I’m in deep. He’s got videos.”

“Videos.” Johnny’s jaw has clenched tight, his eyes hard and cold.

“Of me.”

“Aye, I assumed. So he’s blackmailing you.”

You shrug a shoulder, eyes on your scuffed work shoes.

“What if I could make him disappear?” Johnny asks quietly.

You glance up. “How?”

It’s his turn to shrug, an expression of feigned indifference. A little smile tugs at his lips. “An accident. Any accident, really.”

You finally understand him, and at first you laugh, grin tugging at the bruises on your face until his own solemn expression barely changes, and then your laughter dies on your tongue.

“Johnny what the fuck,” you whisper. “You’re joking, right? I—Jesus Christ. I have to pretend that was a joke. You’re talking about murder, and—

—and I’m the first person they’d suspect!”

“That’s why it would have to look like an accident,” Johnny emphasizes.

“You’d be risking my freedom, my life—“

“I’d never let you take the fall—“

“Then you’re putting your own life at risk—why would you—fuck you don’t even know me!”

Johnny’s face goes red and he says nothing. Your teeth click shut with how fast you shut your mouth. You’re embarrassing him, making him angry—that much is clear. Maybe he expects you to be grateful, (and there is a part of you, small, which is flattered, as nonsensical as it is), but mostly all you are is scared shitless.

Johnny talks about killing the way most people talk about getting lunch.

“I forget that you don’t know about our past,” Johnny says, seeming to shrink into himself as he leans back against the bench, running a hand through his mohawk. “Simon n’ me. We’re ex-military. I don’t even want to guess at our combined body count. I—lass. I’m scaring you.”

“No,” you lie soothingly. Your hands clench together to keep them from shaking and giving you away. “No, no—I’m fine, I just remembered, I was supposed to give Jackie some gas money. She gave me a ride the other day. I should probably go—“

“I’d never hurt you, I swear it,” says Johnny fervently, sitting up tall. He reaches for your hand and you want to scream but you go limp instead, like a rabbit caught in a dog’s jaws, playing dead. He takes your hand and pets it softly. You barely feel it, mind far away.

“It’s okay,” you soothe him emptily, hoping to placate him enough to get away. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Johnny seems to realize what you’re doing. He gently lays your hand back in your lap.

He says, quiet: “I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot.”

You can’t talk anymore, shell-shocked, terrified. There was a time when you were good at this: good at appeasing the beasts inside men. You could soothe your boyfriend’s bad mood in a heartbeat with just a touch or a few words. But over time it had become more and more difficult, and you had become more and more afraid. Now no matter how hard you try, your efforts feel stunted and lame.

Johnny is talking, low voice rushing over you like the current of a warm river.

“—in public, aye? Would be a fool to hurt you here, wouldn’t I?” he asks, voice soft. He has moved to the far end of the bench until a gaping chasm rests between you both, one you are grateful for. It gives you the space to breathe, your chest throbbing. “All these people around—someone would stop me. You’re safe, lass. Take a breath fer me. Aye, and another—good girl, that’s it. Doing so well. Strong one, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” you croak, feeling uncomfortably tethered to your own body, to the burning of your eyes. You reach up and wipe at them before the tears can fall. Beside you, Johnny sits quietly. Several minutes pass, and each person who walks by the bench seems to bring you more and more security, until you are safe enough to feel silly and embarrassed by your own overreaction. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Johnny. “It was my fault. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I won’t…I won’t bring that up again. I guess it’s pretty stupid. Simon’s been telling me so all along.”

“Are you two fighting?”

Johnny snorts. “You could say that. He did something…something terrible. I don’t know how to trust him anymore.”

“Do you still want to trust him?”

“Aye,” says Johnny, voice nearly carried away by the breeze. “In the service, I trusted him with anything. Everything. My whole miserable life. Never wanted that to change.”

“Someone once reminded me that the best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” you say.

“Sounds like a fucking cunt.”

“Hemingway or you?”

“Both.”

You have just relaxed back onto the bench, tilting your face toward the sun to offer it another one of your rare smiles when a shadow falls over the two of you both.

#ghoap x reader #dichotomy of thought

501 notes · View notes

megumiluvv · 4 months ago

Text

One day, Choso is confused when you cancel watching Yuji with no explanation. Usually, there’s a long apology and reasoning, usually a last-minute scheduling issue, but today? Radio silence. After getting his uncle over to watch Yuji, Choso walks next door to check on you, knowing he’ll be late to his nth part-time job.

When you don’t answer the door, he uses the spare key you gave him, and he calls for you. Still, no response.

He gets to your room to see you passed out on your bed, phone in hand with a half-typed explanation to him, and blankets twisting with your legs. Choso picks up your phone, reading the half-typed text with multiple spelling errors, able to make out “ghreq ip” and “um so sprty”, knowing it probably means “threw up” and “I’m so sorry”.

The dark-haired male frowns and shuts off your phone, putting it on the charger and onto your nightstand. He then shuts off your lamps and fixes your blanket. Choso then goes to your kitchen and calls into work, claiming he’s sick and can’t make it to work. He then starts to cook your favorite soup.

You wake up to the smell of food, the feeling of dread instantly occurs, thinking you accidentally cooked something while delirious after throwing up. You scramble out of bed and hurry into the kitchen and find none other than your neighbor cooking soup for you.

“Choso?” You mumble, sleepy and confused, throat hoarse from your earlier vomiting.

“Go back to bed,” he mumbles, not even turning to look at you as he continues to cook. “Actually, try the soup, does it need anything?”

He carefully blows on the spoon to cool the broth and then brings it to your lips. You taste the soup and nod.

“Good.” Is all you manage to say as you watch him cook. It never gets old. Watching how docile and domestic he can be while looking so imposing and menacing.

He lays you back in bed despite your protests, and leaves the room. He quickly returns with a bowl of soup and sits in front of you.

“Here, open up.”

“Nooo, go work, I’ll get you sick,” you mumble.

“Don’t care, open up, I already said I’m not working today.”

“Fiiine…”

He carefully cools each bite of soup for you and spoon feeds you. Choso smiles at your tired, sickly expression.

“Yuji’s with our uncle, if you were wondering,” he mumbles and feeds you, letting you sip your water.

“What was his name again?” You mumble.

“Sukuna. He instantly thought of something inappropriate when I said you cancelled today.”

“Oh god…”

“Yup. Instant smirk on his face.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said that you and I should be more careful.” Choso rolls his eyes at the innuendo left by his uncle’s words.

“He thinks I’m bedridden because… that’s so inappropriate…” It took you a while to get the innuendo, but when it did click, your cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, it is.” He agrees.

He goes back to feeding you instead of continuing the topic.

“Yuji misses you already. He said he wanted to play hide and seek today.”

“Maybe we’ll play next time.”

“I’m off work for the rest of the week.”

“Oh, guess I’ll have to wait til next week, then.”

“Who says my dear neighbor can’t visit any time when they feel better?”

“Right, we’re neighbors, friends, not just babysitter and employer, huh?” You smile, starting to feel better after eating.

“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” He smiles too, always smiling when he sees yours. “Feel better and the three of us can all play.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on feeling better. Give me like, a day or two,” you mumble and lay down.

Choso chuckles and contemplates lying beside you, but doesn’t want your protests about getting him sick. He decides to let you rest and he fixes your covers, then puts up the leftover soup and cleans the dishes, staying quiet so he doesn’t wake you. He could get used to doing small things for you.

Masterlist

#brothers babysitter au #choso kamo #choso #jujutsu kaisen #choso x reader #jjk #choso kamo x reader #jjk choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk choso kamo #felt sick and then felt inspired

591 notes · View notes

pasukiyo · 5 months ago

Text

LEFT UNSPOKEN

remus lupin x f!reader word count; 3,286 warnings; very word vomit-y, very much a self-insert lol, very small mentions of sex summary; she wakes in the middle of the night and knows only two things are for certain: remus is not sleeping, and something is wrong.

There is an indentation in the shape of Remus Lupin in the space on the bed beside her.

She is not sure what actually wakes her, but she lifts her head from her pillow and knows one thing is for certain: Remus is not sleeping, and something is wrong.

She blinks away the sleep from her eyes to the best of her ability and pushes herself into an upright position. She leans over to the bedside table to click on the lamp, narrowing her eyes for a better read of the clock. It was three in the morning and the moon spilled its ghostly hues into the bedroom through the thin curtains of the window, slowly sinking further down past the horizon.

She yawns and rolls her neck, tossing the comforter away from her legs. When her feet lower to find the carpet, they meet denim instead and she kicks Remus' jeans away as she stands, pulling his burgundy jumper over her head while she makes her way towards the door.

There is a slight chill to the air when she peels open the bedroom door and her arms cross over her chest for warmth as she pads down the hallway leading into the living room and kitchen. It’s here where she finds Remus, sitting at the window, knees to his chest. He wears nothing but his boxers and she thinks that he must be cold, so she ambles towards the couch to grab a quilt.

Remus turns his head as she enters the living room, wearing his jumper and bringing a quilt over to drape over his legs. He glances up at her sheepishly, pressing his lips together in a tight smile.

“Did I wake you?” He asks, his voice still rough and gravelly with sleep. She inhales as she settles herself onto the window seat across from him, hugging her legs to her chest and stretching his jumper out to cover her knees. She shakes her head, “since it seems like you’ve been out here for quite some time, no. I just woke up.”

Still, Remus apologizes softly, watching as she eyes him up and down, tilting her head to rest it against the cool glass. His skin erupts in goosebumps and he is unsure whether it is from the air or from the intensity of her gaze but either way, he readjusts the blanket on his legs, looking anywhere but at her.

“Are you hurting again?” She asks after a moment and Remus closes his eyes— he hates how well she knows him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat again and swallows, nodding. He looks down to the quilt draped over his legs, “I’m quite surprised my tossing and turning didn’t wake you. I’ve been restless all night.”

She shrugs, “I suppose I’ve gotten used to it.”

A humorless laugh leaves Remus’s nose and she blinks, her gaze softening. “Have you taken your potion?” She questions and he tries to breathe through the irritation that tinges him at the question— of course he’s taken his potion, he does it every month but still, he hurts. He knows deep down that it is only a simple question and that she means well and the last thing he wants is to yell at her but this condition, this curse within him makes him want to scream, to kick and yell and hurt.

“Yes,” he answers a little too quickly, his tone harsh and sharp. He curses at himself beneath his breath and shakes his head, forcing his gaze back towards the window. Nevertheless, she does not flinch, doesn’t so much as blink. She’s known him far too long and been through too much with him to let something as small as this affect her.

“Where do you ache?” She asks and he snaps his head back towards her, his brows knit. “What?” He says as if he didn’t hear her and she repeats her question, to which Remus only blinks at her in bewilderment. Again, he knows she means well but really, how much does she think she can help?

He inhales and closes his eyes, willing himself to relax. With great effort, he exhales, shrugging. “My shoulders, I suppose,” he replies. “It feels like they’re going to cave in on me.”

Without hesitation, she lifts herself from her seat and moves to stand behind him, tapping his back with her palm. “Scoot,” she says simply and Remus turns, with great effort, to peer at her from over his shoulder. Before he can even protest, her gaze hardens and he has no choice but to comply, scooting himself further up the window seat until she can fit herself comfortably behind him.

An owl hoots from somewhere outside the window and the moon slowly begins to sink below the tops of the surrounding buildings. She uses the pad of her thumb to feel around his right shoulder blade and Remus winces.

“Where does it hurt?” She asks.

He hisses between his teeth, “everywhere,” he practically growls.

His muscles scream and his mind begins to swirl like a cyclone in a supercell and it takes everything within him to not snarl through his teeth and yell every obscenity in his vocabulary at her. She begins to knead through the clump of knots in his shoulder, her fingers not too gentle, yet not too rough either. Remus’s eyes flutter closed and he tries to shut his brain off, tries to just feel.

He can feel her fingers against the bare skin of his back, can feel her knee as it presses against his lower end, her hair as it brushes against his shoulder. He can smell her, the scented shampoo that’s now faint, giving way to the smell of sex and his skin burns with the memory of just mere hours before.

He begins to ease into her touch, his head even lolling back as his mind orbits thoughts of solely her. He can still taste her on his lips, his mouth buzzing with the phantom of her kiss. He drops his head and turns and she leans in closer, her breath rolling like early morning dew onto his skin.

“Does it feel good?” She asks and he hums, nodding. She breathes a laugh, “if I’d known you were in pain, I wouldn’t have provoked you earlier.”

His breath comes out as more of a laugh and he blinks up at her and their eyes meet and Merlin, it’s like all else ceases to exist when he sees her. He searches through her irises, the dilated pupils in the middle of them and finds that he’s falling more in love with her with every second that ticks past, even in the state he’s in. His heart aches in his chest and for a moment, his body forgets that it is in pain and his lips part, drawing nearer to hers.

She simply waits, continuing to knead the knots in his shoulders. His breath shudders and he wishes he had the words to convey to her how he feels in this moment but he’s too tired so instead he presses his lips to hers. They melt into one another and there’s suddenly nothing more important than her and her lips, her skin against his.

There’s a certain fervor that Remus kisses her with how that she’s never felt before and somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that there’s more that’s been left unspoken. She kisses him back with the same zeal until she feels her lips begin to grow numb and she pulls away, chasing air back into her lungs.

Remus’s forehead falls against hers and it’s not until she presses her head harder against his that he meets her gaze. “Talk to me,” she whispers and he tilts his head. She narrows her eyes, “don’t play coy with me, Remus Lupin. I know when there’s something preoccupying that pretty head of yours.”

He turns and almost curses beneath his breath again— she knows him too well.

He turns back to face the window, the street below that is illuminated solely by the orange street lamps, the dark sky and the twinkling lights that litter it. He eases himself into the pads of her thumbs as they rub circles against his shoulder blades locking his fingers over his opposite wrist.

“I just…” he trails off, unsure where to begin. “…do you ever wish you could just… I don’t know… ask the universe questions?”

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?” She asks, and he sighs, shaking his head.

“I don’t know… it’s just…” he’s beginning to grow frustrated with himself again but almost as if she can sense it, she leans in to press her lips against the nape of his neck and a slither rolls down his spine and all is well again. “…sometimes I just feel like I don’t know what I’m doing or what I should be doing with my life. I wish I could just, you know, ask the universe what exactly it wants from me.”

She drops her chin to rest on his shoulder as she continues to rub through the aches there, and she grows silent. For a moment, Remus wonders if it was a mistake to open up at all.

Then, “all the time.”

Remus sighs and although this feeling— one of being lost, like he’s living in slow motion while the world keeps spinning around him— is horrible, he is, in a way, relieved that he is not alone. He leans back into her and she pulls her hands away from his shoulders to instead wrap them around his neck, allowing him to be drawn further into her.

Her lips press against the crown of his head and he closes his eyes, simply ravishing the feeling of being wrapped in the warm arms of his lover. There’s nothing better than being completely surrounded by her and it almost makes him forget about his feelings, his lycanthropy, even.

“Sometimes I feel like everyone around me is moving so fast-paced, like they’ve gotten everything figured out and I’m just… stuck,” she admits in a murmur against his head. His eyes flutter open and he breathes, focusing on the steady beat of her heart against his back.

He pauses to ponder her words for a moment, letting them swirl around his head before they finally begin to sink in. He turns ever so slightly, just enough to see her where she rests her chin on his shoulder. She blinks at him and he wonders how this girl, this beautiful, perfect, impossible girl could possibly be his, nor can he comprehend now she could possibly feel stuck. He thinks to himself whether he was failing her, if somehow, in his own state of self-destruction, he was tearing her down too.

It sends his mind down a spiral and his face darkens, which she notices his doubt as soon as it crosses his face like shadows over the moon. She nudges the underside of his jaw with the bridge of her nose, pressing her lips to his collarbone.

“Talk to me,” she urges him again in a soft murmur against his skin and Remus shivers, reaching to clasp a hand around one of her wrists as if to anchor her to him, like he’s scared that she’s letting go. She lets him, and she watches his other hand as it searches for something to do while he musters the courage to speak. She outstretches her hand and gestures for him to take it, which he does, albeit dubiously.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m even any good for you,” he admits quietly after a prolonged moment of silence. She blinks and he feels her eyelashes graze against his flesh and he almost regrets saying the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. He sighs and moves to drop her hand but she doesn’t let him, tightening her grip and lifting her chin from his shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?” She asks and he almost flinches at her sudden clipped tone.

“I…” A breath leaves his lips frustratingly and he shakes his head. “…I don’t want you to feel stuck with me. I don’t want you to let me and my problems drag you down. I couldn’t live with myself if I were to burden you.”

There is another silence that falls like snow over them and Remus’s spine begins to stiffen with frost as chills slither down it. The air has an icy bite to it now and he knows that he must’ve said the wrong thing because now she’s pulling away from him altogether and now he’s in his head thinking, ‘now you’ve done it, Lupin. You’ve reminded her of how you’re weighing her down and now you’ve lost the only good thing you had left in your life.’

His gaze drops to his lap and he almost doesn’t realize she’s circling around to his front until he feels her middle and index finger against his chin, tilting his head up until their eyes could meet once again. Her brows are knit and the corners of her lips are cast downwards as if she’s angry but there’s a softness, a tenderness in her eyes that seems to make him feel small. It’s one he’s never really seen in her before, but he knows that what he said struck her like a blow to the chest.

Remus’s bottom lip trembles as it parts away from his top and he vows to himself that he will never, ever do anything to make her look at him like that ever again. He never wants to hurt her badly enough to see the glossy barrier form in her eyes, her tight-pressed lips that quiver ever so slightly like he sees now. All he can do is simply hold his breath and wait for her to speak again.

She swallows, and then she does. “Remus Lupin, you are such a fool!”

It comes out as more of an exclamation and she drops his chin, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. He watches as she turns to stare out the window, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Do you not see how in love with you I am?” She asks with a scoff, her narrowing eyes finding his again. He blinks, taken aback by her outburst. “Merlin, I am so in love with you and I care so deeply for you that I cannot believe you would misinterpret it as you being a burden on me!”

He blinks again as she sinks onto the window seat before him, sinking her teeth into the plush of her bottom lip, eyeing him. His heart beats so fast with her abrupt proclamation and it takes everything within him not to shut her up with his lips on hers, he has to force himself to breathe to suppress the urge. Remus never once felt loved in the way he now knows she loves him, and he’s quite unsure what to do with himself. All he can do is sit and stare speechlessly at the woman in front of him.

“You’re the only thing I have that I’m scared to lose,” she admits, quietly this time. Remus’s gaze softens and although he wishes to move closer, he’s frozen to his spot so he simply waits for her to continue. “I said I feel stuck because it feels like nearly everyone else around me has found their purpose in their life and I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in this world,” she says and she looks off to the kitchen table across the room, an old typewriter with a blank sheet of paper standing erect on the top.

“I sit and stare at blank pages on my typewriter everyday, waiting for my will to write to come back to me,” she continues. “And somewhere deep down, I want to believe that writing is what I’m meant to do, that writing is my purpose in life, but then words don’t come and then I get into my own head and I begin to doubt.”

Remus’s heart begins to feel heavy as it soaks in her words, absorbing through his skin like a sponge. He’s never seen her so vulnerable before and it hurts knowing she’s kept all of this bottled for so long. The best he can do now is listen, to allow her to take this weight off of her chest and throw it onto him, even if only temporarily.

“All I do is doubt myself and it makes me feel so lost,” she says, her voice slowly beginning to lower and he knows that she is nearing her end. He scoots himself closer to her, reaching for her hand. She blinks down at their laced fingers, “I just feel like I’m falling behind. Sometimes I just wish things would slow down so I could have time to catch up and not doubt.”

She uses her free hand to press the pads of her fingers into one of her closed eyelids, sighing as she throws it back down to her lap. “But the only thing I never doubt is you. Never once do I doubt loving you, or caring for you. I could never see you as a burden, Remus.”

The pad of Remus’s thumb soothes over the back of her hand and she sighs again, her shoulders heaving. He lets the quilt over his legs drop to the floor and with the hand he has in hers, he draws her closer, guiding her in turning around so that this time, she could fall back against him. His arms wrap around her shoulders and he falls back against the wall so they could sit comfortably, melting into one another.

“Sorry,” she says after a moment and he shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs against her hair. “We should’ve been talking like this a long time ago.”

She hums and they both turn to look at the night outside the window. He wishes there were more words, better words he could offer her now but he’s unsure what he could say that he hasn’t already tried telling himself. So instead, he tells her what he knows is for certain.

“I should’ve said this to you more often before but,” he starts, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I care for you too,” he says and he breathes a laugh. “I’m so completely and desperately in love with you that not even my lycanthropy can make me think it’s untrue.”

She sniffs and it comes out as a laugh and she squeezes Remus’s arm as it tightens around her. There’s not much more either can say but holding each other, even in the silence, is enough. It’s just enough to be near each other, to feel each other, and soon, both of their eyelids begin growing heavy. There’s words they left unspoken for now, but still, a silent agreement seems to hang between them and Remus feels more at ease as he finally allows himself to drift away in the arms of his slumber.

The girl in his arms feels lighter than she had just moments before, like an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Even through her tired and blurring vision, she can make out the old typewriter from her periphery. As she, too, succumbs to her sleep, she begins to dream about a story, one that’s borne by the feeling of the boy holding her’s heartbeat against her back, by his soft breathing as he drifts to sleep, by his arms as they envelope her in his warmth.

a/n; so sorry for having been inactive for so long! if you couldn't already tell from this mess of a fic, i've really been struggling trying to write. i've started at least five drafts each of different fics over the past few months but none of them were able to get very far before i doubted myself and grew too frustrated to continue. i'm very surprised i was even able to finish this one lol it's really not my best work, but it was, in a way, an outlet for me to vent and get some of this weight off my chest. i hope you are still able to enjoy this one!

(ps, i tried a new writing style here, i hope i didn't butcher it too much lol)

TAGLIST

@pinktree

@jxxey3

@iamthejam

@strangerfromketterdam

@burns-in-the-sun

@cancelledkaley

@d3adp00ls

@all-in-the-fandoms

#remus lupin imagine #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin fluff #harry potter #wizarding world #harry potter fandom #harry potter imagine #remus x you #remus x y/n #marauders #marauders era

467 notes · View notes

judespoets · 5 months ago

Text

𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚 | 𝙟𝙪𝙙𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙖𝙢

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: you haven’t been feeling good. but what happens when jude connects the dots?

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: dad!jude x fem!reader

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: signs of vomit/ throwing up

You and Jude start your day early, around 6:30 AM. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a gentle glow through the curtains of your cozy home in Madrid. You nudge Jude gently, the both of you smiling as you hear the soft murmurs of your two-year-old son, Caleb, waking up in the next room.

You slip out of bed, heading to the kitchen to start breakfast and prepare Caleb's lunch for nursery. The kitchen is warm and inviting, filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. You expertly slice fruits, spread peanut butter on bread, and pack a healthy lunch for Caleb. Meanwhile, you hum a cheerful tune, occasionally glancing at the photos of your happy moments on the refrigerator.

Jude, still a bit groggy but smiling, makes his way to Caleb's room. He opens the door to find Caleb standing in his crib, wide-eyed and giggling with excitement. "Good morning, champ!" Jude says, scooping him up into his arms. He changes Caleb's diaper, tickling him slightly to keep the little boy's spirits high.

Once dressed, Jude helps Caleb into his favorite little football-themed outfit, a gift from one of his teammates.

They join you in the kitchen, where you had set out a nutritious breakfast for them.

Caleb babbles happily as you feed him pieces of fruit and yogurt.

Jude pours himself a cup of coffee, sharing a quick kiss with you and exchanging smiles filled with love.

"Good morning, my loves! Did you sleep well, Caleb?" You asked, smiling widely.

"Mornin', Mommy!“ was what Caleb babbled.

"He was so excited to wake up today. I think he knew it was nursery day." Jude told you, softly kissing the back of your hand

"He's been looking forward to seeing his friends. Here, let's get some breakfast in you both." You said as you started feeding Caleb again.

You sit at the kitchen table, Caleb in his high chair, eagerly reaching for his food.

You suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over you. Putting your hand over your mouth lightly, trying to steady your breathing.

“You okay, baby?” Jude asked next to you, putting his hand on your thigh.

“I don’t know if just don’t feel so good right now.” You answered, looking at him.

“Okay, go lay down i’ll get Caleb ready don’t worry. Should I cancel training?” Jude asked you.

“No, no. It’s not an emergency. You go to training. You’ll take Caleb to nursery on your way, please? I’ll go lay down some more. Thank you babe.” You said, kissing Jude and Caleb, standing up and walking up the stairs with your slightly shaking legs.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s get you washed up and going.” Was the last thing you heard from downstairs before falling into a deep slumber under your sheets.

———

Jude turned the key in the lock, gently pushing open the door with Caleb in his arms. The house was shrouded in darkness, and he carefully navigated the familiar path to the living room, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light.

"Shh, buddy," he whispered to Caleb, who clung to him sleepily. "Looks like Mommy's still resting."

He set Caleb down, and the little boy toddled off to find his toys. Jude made his way to the bedroom, opening the door slowly to check on you. You were still curled up under the covers, your breathing deep and slow. He could see the pallor in your face even in the low light and felt a pang of concern.

Quietly, he backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Back in the living room, Caleb had already begun to scatter his toys across the floor. Jude smiled tiredly at the sight, then headed to the kitchen.

He quickly prepared a simple dinner, heating up some soup he had made the night before. He wanted to keep it light for you, knowing you wouldn't have much of an appetite. Once everything was ready, he brought a tray to the bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot.

"(Y/N), love," he whispered, placing the tray on the nightstand. "I've got some soup for you."

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open. You gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, Jude. You didn't have to."

"Of course I did," he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing a strand of hair from your face. "How are you feeling?"

"Still not great," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jude's heart ached seeing you like this. "Do you want me to call the doctor?"

"No, I think I just need to rest," you said. "Thank you for taking care of everything."

Jude leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I'll handle it. You just focus on getting better."

You gave a small nod, your eyes already closing again. Jude quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. Back in the living room, he found Caleb busy with his toys, his giggles a comforting background noise.

Jude settled on the couch, keeping one eye on Caleb and another on his phone, ready to call the doctor if your condition didn't improve. He found it weird since you’ve been fine this whole time.

Later, you descended the stairs slowly, your empty soup plate in hand.

You moved carefully, trying not to disrupt the fragile equilibrium you had maintained throughout the day. Your stomach churned uncomfortably as you approached the living room, where Jude and Caleb were playing.

Jude glanced up, his face lighting up with a smile that quickly faded into a look of concern when he saw your pallor.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Jude asked, rising to meet you, his hand gently touching your arm.

You gave a weak smile. "Still not great. I thought the soup might help, but..."

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you, and you instinctively covered your mouth, your eyes wide.

The scent of something — perhaps a lingering whiff from Caleb’s snacks or Jude's cologne — made your stomach rebel.

Jude, noticing your distress, quickly ushered Caleb to his feet.

"Caleb, let's put away the toys for a bit, okay? Mommy needs some quiet time," he said, his voice calm but urgent.

Caleb, sensing the seriousness, nodded and began gathering his toys. Before Jude could turn back to you, you rushed to the nearest bathroom. Jude followed closely, his worry deepening as he heard you retching.

He found you kneeling by the toilet, pale and trembling. "I’m here, (Y/N)," he said softly, rubbing your back in slow, comforting circles. "It’s okay. Just let it out.

You groaned between bouts of vomiting, the smell that had triggered your nausea still lingering in your mind.

Finally, the retching subsided, and you slumped back against Jude, who handed you a glass of water he’d fetched from the sink.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice weak. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Probably just a bug,” Jude said, helping you to your feet. “Let’s get you back to bed. You need to rest.”

You nodded gratefully, leaning on Jude as he guided you back upstairs, his concern for you evident in every careful step.

As Jude helped you back upstairs, his mind raced with worry. He laid you gently on the bed, arranging the pillows to make you comfortable. As he did, he noticed you wincing slightly, your face still pale.

"Baby, do you remember what smell made you feel so sick?" Jude asked gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.

You thought for a moment, your brow furrowing. "It was… I think it was the smell of Caleb's peanut butter sandwich. It just hit me all of a sudden."

Jude's eyes widened slightly as a thought crossed his mind.

He recalled the last time you had been this sensitive to certain smells. It had been when you were pregnant with Caleb. Could it be happening again?

"My Love," he began cautiously, "do you think there’s a chance you might be pregnant?"

You blinked, the question catching you off guard. "I… I don't know. I suppose it's possible. I’ve been feeling off for a few days now."

Jude nodded, his concern mingling with a glimmer of excitement. "Maybe we should get a test, just to be sure."

You managed a small smile, your hand resting on your stomach. "Yeah, I think that’s a good idea."

Jude squeezed your hand reassuringly. "I'll run to the pharmacy and get one. You just rest, okay?"

As you closed her eyes, Jude leaned down and kissed your forehead. He felt a mixture of worry and hope as he headed out the door, ready to find out if your family was about to grow.

Back in the living room, Jude quickly tidied up, clearing away the remnants of Caleb’s snack and any other potential triggers for your nausea. He found Caleb sitting quietly on the couch, sensing the unusual tension.

"Dad, Mommy okay?" Caleb asked, his big eyes filled with concern.

Jude knelt down beside him. "Mommy's not feeling well right now, buddy. I need to go out for a bit to get something that might help her feel better. Can you be a good boy and stay here quietly until I get back?"

Caleb nodded solemnly. "I can do that."

Jude gave him a reassuring hug before grabbing his keys and heading out. The drive to the pharmacy felt longer than usual, his mind racing with possibilities. Once he arrived, he quickly located a pregnancy test and made his way back home, his heart pounding with anticipation.

When he returned, he found you dozing lightly, your breathing steady. He set the test on the nightstand and gently woke you up.

"Baby, I got the test," he whispered, helping you sit up slowly. "Do you feel up to taking it now?

You nodded, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of anxiety and hope.

Jude helped you to the bathroom, steadying you with each step.

After a few moments, you emerged, the test in your hand.

"Now we wait," you said softly, your voice trembling slightly.

Jude wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you sat on the edge of the bed.

"No matter what, we'll face it together," he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

You sat in silence, the seconds ticking by slowly. Finally, you glanced at the test, your eyes widening.

"Jude... it's positive," you breathed.

A flood of emotions washed over Jude as he hugged you tightly, tears of joy and relief mingling with the worry.

"We're going to be parents again," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

You smiled through your own tears, feeling a renewed sense of hope and strength. "Yes, we are."

You stayed like that for a while, holding each other.

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham fanfic #judespoets

573 notes · View notes

ma1dita · 9 months ago

Text

play pretend

a ‘partners in crime’ installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 5.1k (holy shit)

summary: (established relationship…at the end of it lol) suggestive in nature but sfw , underage drinking what do you expect from a dionysus!kid, mentions of vomit The one where Mr. D catches you two in the act, but you and him aren't exactly together yet. Everyone knows you two are together except the both of you, apparently. It’s hard to not run away from something good. (luke castellan x dionysus!reader)

a/n: happy first i love you to you and luke! yall are together now! crazy! thanks for being patient during my lil vacay :)) its been a little over a month since i started the trouble!verse!! ilysm

(posted 2/23 betad by my one and only @mrsaluado )

—

There’s something you’ve always loved about mornings.

Waking up with the first rays of light peeking through your window, the sun’s arms stretched around your sleepy frame pressing warm, featherlike kisses across the expanse of your back.

It almost feels real.

Apollo must be feeling generous today, the heat of a warm breath brushing against your neck, and your alarm sounding an awful lot like soft snores. You ought to get up and close the blinds; it’s too damn bright. But your weighted blanket feels immensely heavier this morning as it envelopes your senses—smelling of citrus, musk, and a tangible dream of last night that seems to have stayed in bed with you. As soon as you try to untangle your legs from below the covers, warmth presses you deeper into the mattress with a…familiar sigh.

Your eyes pop open.

Quick and calculated, your eyes survey the surroundings of your room—the mop of licorice tresses nestled against the crook of your neck, both of your clothes scattered on the floor, as well as the alarm clock and a few other things knocked off your nightstand from Luke’s enthusiasm. The quiet of the morning is quickly disrupted when you hear two pairs of little hands pounding on your door, and for a moment you wonder if this is one of those hyper-realistic dreams that you don’t want to wake up from.

“Sissy! You missed breakfast,” Pollux bellows as Castor continues to slap his palms on the wood like a bongo drum.

The sheets start rustling as you squirm out of Luke’s grasp, bumping against the muscular ridges of his torso which brings him back to consciousness.

“Be out in a minute!” you slur against his shoulder, and he opens his eyes blearily at the sight of you sprawled over him to try to reach the alarm clock on the ground. As his eyes focus he can’t help but admire the planes of your body, soft and pretty in the morning light like a painting come to life. Waking up in one’s company has never felt more right, even with the usual chatter of campers wafting through the open window. Here in the swaddle of pink and purple sheets, you two are something singular—not camp counselors with jobs to do, not demigods wanting to achieve glory, just your Angelface and his Trouble.

It’s intimate, even if it doesn’t have a label, him and you.

His large hand catches you at the plush of your tummy when you almost topple off the bed.

“Shit. Shit! They’re not kidding—Luke, it’s 9:30!”

You fling yourself upwards and off of him, clambering to find clothes from your dresser and tossing him his from the day prior. His belt buckle almost hits him in the eye and he groans, flinching as it smacks him in the cheek.

“Gods, woman. You think camp will crumble because you slept in for once?”

The glare you throw in his direction is his answer, so Luke slowly tugs his pants on–though he quickly gets distracted by a half-dressed vision of you rummaging around your room.

“Castellan.”

He grins like a little kid in a candy store, and to that, you throw his shoe at him.

Idiot.

Too bad you’re in deep shit for sleeping in.

“SISSY!!!”

“IN A FUCKING MINUTE, THING ONE AND TWO!”

Screaming at the closed door as you throw some shorts on, you spin around and bump into Luke who’s already got his hands around your waist as his nose nudges the space between your jaw and your neck.

“You were supposed to leave before daybreak,” you sigh, a smile creeping onto your lips, “if you did as you were told, I wouldn’t have slept in.” Fake annoyance leaks through your voice though he knows it not to be true, he wouldn’t be able to latch onto you like this if you were. His nose continues to graze up towards your ear as he presses a kiss behind it—like how you both deal with your feelings and the truth nowadays, a hidden secret kept for both of your eyes only.

“Dunno Trouble…I can get used to waking up next to you,” he mumbles. You can feel the imprint of his smile searing into your skin.

Is this what going into cardiac arrest feels like? Genuine question.

You’ve both been sneaking around for the past few weeks, but neither of you has made anything official. They say it’s easier to fall for a friend rather than a stranger—to know someone so intimately (and now in more ways than one) should make falling the easy part.

But that’s kind of the problem.

Luke is your best friend—both knowing how the other feels from a single glance, so pray tell to all the gods on Olympus, why has this boy not asked you out yet? Whether this is all for fun or anything resembling a four-letter word that makes your brain go fuzzy, you think you’d rather swim in the Styx instead of putting yourself at a disadvantage. Love is scary, even if it’s Luke.

Especially since it’s Luke.

His words make you stop in your tracks and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears, so you’re not dead… But the noise turns out to be one of the twins banging on the door again, and now you look like an asshole for taking too long to respond. Luke’s awkwardly looking at you now, tongue in cheek.

“Last warning,” one of your brothers teasingly croons, before the other continues, “Dad’s almost at the door! Your boyfriend’s gotta go or he’s dead…”

Your eyes widen in fear and Luke loosens his grip on your waist, unsure if you look like you’ve seen a ghost at the thought of him being called your boyfriend or the very real possibility of getting caught by your dad.

What a way to go, you two.

“Get out. You gotta go now, out the window!”

You start pushing him towards the windowpane, your palms pressing against his marked-up and very bare back.

Holy shit, he still doesn’t have a shirt and he looks like he got mauled by a hellhound.

You can practically see the grapevines start to flourish outside your window.

He’s too close for comfort, way too damn close, you think, but can’t reason if you mean Luke or your dad.

“Seriously?”

He straddles the open window, and Luke doesn’t know what to feel about you pushing him away—it’s a feeling that’s foreign to him since he’s always by your side.

“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you later angelface,” you mumble, pulling him in for a mind-numbing kiss that almost makes him slip off the rain gutter, and by the time you’ve already closed the window he realizes he’s shirtless in broad daylight, feet hopping off the siding of the cabin.

This couldn’t get any worse (oh but it does in a second), and you’re definitely the asshole this time around.

Your dad barges into your room by the time you throw a shirt on.

“Kid, what the hell? You sick?”

Mr. D furrows his brows at the sight of you, face flushed as you simper up a lie about your head hurting. It’s weak for an excuse and even if you usually don’t have a tell—he’s the master of this game, so he pretends to not notice you chuck a shirt out the window when you open it to make it less stuffy.

He raises an eyebrow in disapproval when you both notice your shirt is too big on you.

Oh, he’s onto you, applying heat like a brand to make his only daughter squirm; Mr. D peeks out the window to see a certain Luke Castellan stomping across the path wearing your cropped camp tee—and concludes that if there’s anyone in hot water right now, Luke must be drowning in it.

—

Acting natural is a bit harder for you today, and it feels like a cruel and unusual punishment worth the deepest pit of the Underworld as you scribble words onto a page that won’t even be comprehensible once you read them after this meeting is over. You’ve been catching up on work all day (also known as the impossible task of avoiding Luke) to show your dad you haven’t been slacking off. But a late start meant you fumbled through your day and it was obvious to everyone that you were off your game. Archery ran into javelin throwing, capture the flag teams weren’t ready and had to be made on the spot, there were no new shipments delivered to the camp store, and the infirmary ran out of ambrosia— which were all things that you were expected to coordinate.

Gods, you’re getting too old for this shit.

And if you, the head counselor everyone depends on, is off her game, well—everyone’s on edge. The Stolls even dared to ask you if the world was ending today and you were less than impressed.

Being in love sure feels like it is.

The only thing left to get through is this counselor’s meeting before the party tonight at Fireworks Beach, and you’ll damn yourself to Tartarus if you can’t even get that right. You’re a Dionysus kid, so partying is in your blood. Party planning is your favorite hobby, and to be real, you deserve a drink after today.

Speaking of your father, he’s jabbering on about something you find yourself not particularly interested in, but well…someone’s gotta listen. Charles is dozing off at the table, and Lee jabs him in the side. You see Silena braiding Clarisse’s hair out of the corner of your periphery. And of course, out of all of them, there’s Luke who’s been trying to steal your attention for the past 30 minutes. Black ink smears across the page as you find yourself having every thought that ends supplemented with the memory of how Luke looked at you as he climbed out of your window this morning.

Could he actually want more?

The all-star camper, Luke Castellan— camp’s best soldier who’s envied by many and admired by all…wants to wake up next to you. You, the camp director’s daughter who keeps everyone in line and is seen more as authority instead of a person with feelings. You’re not always feared, but in a camp for demigod kids who’d rather hone their powers instead of lose special privileges for skipping class, you’re not exactly their favorite either. Once, someone said they’d rather face Mr. D instead of you.

“That doesn’t make sense, we’re supposed to send in the next progress report to Olympus before the last day of the month. That’s Wednesday, D. So it should be by the Sunday before,” you butt in after a statement your dad makes about scheduling.

All eyes are on you now— it’s the first time you’ve spoken up during tonight’s meeting which was out of character in itself, but your father catches you off guard when the sound of his booming laughter spreads across the room like dynamite tearing through a battlefield.

“Says who? We’ve got enough time,” The god remarks, a strange sheen in his eyes that reflects into yours. He’s on your ass a bit more today, pointing out your flaws from the day and making it his mission to get on your nerves. Few mortals would undermine a god, and though you do it daily to spite him for your existence, your confidence is lower today than it usually is—the reason being a boy with amber eyes boring into your soul from across the table. Everything else pales in comparison now, almost fading into the background, and even here in the hot seat you can’t help but think about if Luke could ever fall for someone like you.

You’re venturing into dangerous territory, you tell yourself, you’ve been hurt before.

It hurts less somehow when you’re cautious. To prepare oneself to be hurt is a defense mechanism ingrained in you—your mom raised you to always be ready for anything. Your self-identity has always been skewed by others’ perceptions. Mirroring the memory of your late mother’s ideals, exemplifying your actions through your immortal father’s personality, you find that fighting your bloodline is one of the most difficult things to come to terms with. A thought passes in your brain that you’ve taken after the worst of them—your mother’s ambition and your father’s unpredictability.

And who would want to love someone so difficult?

Tough love is the only way you know how to love. Perhaps someone as good as Luke deserves better than this.

“It’ll be less to worry about that way,” you swallow, and the other counselors sit back in their seats as tension fills the air, signaling another disagreement about to start between your father and you.

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about it since it’s my job, right, kid? Just because you woke up on the wrong side of the bed today doesn’t mean you can change things to better fit your schedule instead of the rest of ours.”

Mr. D scowls, and then again maybe you’re too much like your father—too brash, too mouthy, and self-serving, and your eyes meet Luke’s again as your mouth pulls into a bitter smile.

“It’s the first and last time it’ll ever happen. Gods know I don’t get sick days around here picking up after you,” you spit out harshly, words coming out like acid.

“Just saying kid. Haven’t seen you this careless in years— Maybe check yourself before telling us what to do, yeah?”

Your father’s words have a double meaning as he stares into your soul, glancing between you and Luke, who is none the wiser, still focused on you. Annabeth is holding his hand under the table as you watch his jaw flex. He can see right through the shoddy performance you put on of having it all together.

Does everyone know?

Your lips pucker as you roll your neck from locking, and a humorless laugh slips from you. Everyone else’s eyes are on Luke, who looks like he’s about to jump across the table and wring a god’s neck.

Fuck.

“Whatever. I’m not doing this today,” you grumble, feeling overwhelmed. The chair screeches against the wood of the floor as you push yourself up, fists stained with ink and clenched in teenage angst as you walk to the door to make a quick escape.

Your father crosses his arms smugly at the success of getting under your skin, and the last words you hear as you leave are, “You never want to hear the truth, kid. Must you always be so…. you?”

Your steps falter for a moment, feeling heavier knowing he’s right so you let go of the door to let it slam it behind you. There’s a commotion inside after you leave but you couldn’t be bothered to give a damn.

It’s time to party and you’re sure as hell getting drunk, high, or both tonight.

—

It takes about two cups of wine for the inebriation to start kicking into Luke’s system. He’d never been much of a drinker, but with the way you’re throwing your head back at Lee’s jokes as he plays the guitar, he thinks he should drink a bit more to forget the fear in your eyes this morning and how Lee keeps touching your waist.

He’s been suspended from counselor duties for the rest of the month for mouthing off at Mr. D in your defense, and even if Annabeth tells him he’s lucky to have not met a worse fate, the way things played out today makes him feel like the most unlucky guy at camp. Fuck the gods, or at least…fuck your dads (that doesn’t sound right, but he’s too busy watching the moonlight glint against your skin that whatever his ex is whispering next to him goes in one ear and out the other).

“Lukey?” Skye mumbles against his neck, “I miss you…you’re always busy doing who knows what!”

Well… you have a name, Luke thinks, taking a big gulp of whatever’s left in his cup as his eyes follow you across the beach. You’re dancing around the bonfire spinning a tipsy Clarisse who laughs without a care in the world. He thinks you’re the best of your parents—determined to achieve your goals, selfless when it comes to others’ needs, and passionate about what you want. Mr. D will never get to see this side of you—the one you show your friends and this place you all call home. He’ll never be deserving of the work you put into Camp Half-Blood (and to some extent, Luke knows he doesn’t deserve you either).

A dejected sigh brushes warm air against his shoulder.

“You know, Castellan. I wish I met you first,” the blond daughter of Athena slurs with tears forming in her eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“The two of you have always… it’s always been you and her. Even if you both don’t want to admit it. It’s not fair,” she hiccups. Luke pulls the cup out of his ex-lover’s hand and she shakes her head.

“Skye, you’re drunk. I’ll take you back to 6.��

“You really don’t see it do you?” Her hands grapple onto Luke’s shirt like she’s pulling him down and pleading for him to understand.

“That girl is in love with you. The both of you are meant for each other—and you’re both spending too much time trying to fight fate. The rest of us aren’t as lucky, but we sure as hell aren’t stupid.”

There’s a moment of clarity that hits as he looks into Skye’s eyes, and he scratches the back of his neck.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I meant what I said when we broke up a few years ago. You’re both always looking for each other, even if you don’t know it. Just meet in the middle already, for gods’ sake…I’ll be okay,” she sighs, sitting up on the log they were resting on.

“Your girlfriend is sure as hell to give me a hangover worth her title of being Dionysus’ kid in the morning anyways,” she mutters, kissing Luke on his cheek as a farewell. But out of all of the things to catch your attention that night, Luke’s blush glows in the light of the fire, and he watches you frown and stomp off toward the forest.

For being the son of the god of luck, his dad really won’t give him a break.

It didn’t help that Skye suddenly started projectile vomiting seconds after you left (off of her only cup of wine; wonder how that happened).

—

Luke fights through his growing intoxication on the walk back towards the cabins, but boy are you difficult when you’re angry—you’ve always had a profound effect on his being, even more so with your powers. He makes a wrong turn somewhere through the woods, completely missing the cabins, which he doesn’t realize until he stumbles across the path leading to the Big House. When his eyes focus, he spots Mr. D sipping on a glass as he leans on the railing of the front porch. Be calm and don’t act drunk, Luke tells himself, but all of his concentration goes into not swaying in front of the god of wine that he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

“Good evening, um…sir.”

“Kid, it’s 3 in the morning. What the hell are you doing here? Gods know it’s not my window you’re trying to climb up. You’re a bit of a ways off.”

Now what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

Luke freezes in his spot (in reality he bumps into the first wooden step and sticks a hand out to steady himself against the railing).

“Are you drunk?”

Mr. D looks at him knowingly like it’s almost funny to him, eyebrows furrowed and head quirked like he can sniff it off of him. He probably can, now that Luke thinks really hard about it.

“I’m not gonna answer that because I think you know the answer already,” the son of Hermes words carefully, but nothing smart can come of this. It’s like playing chess with checkers, and Dionysus of all gods would know—no breathalyzer needed.

There’s a beat of silence, before Mr. D says, “I’m gonna give you another chance to–”

“Yes, I’m drunk, but it’s not Trouble’s fault—it’s mine!” he blabbers, walking closer to your father.

“She’s mad at me for defending her from you earlier besides the fact I act stupid around her and I only had a few cups, I swear, but she’s…your daughter is…extraordinary.”

“What?”

“Your daughter makes me feel drunk, sir. Even without the wine. I don’t know what to do with myself, just please don’t get mad at her. She has a lot more to lose…” He feels pathetic in all sense of the word, rubbing at his eyes until Mr. D snaps his fingers and the alcohol blanket lifts from his senses. Like a bucket of cold water splashed onto his spine, Luke is suddenly very awake, and all too embarrassed for the waterfall of words he’s told your father.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know she knew how to do that yet. She’s learning quickly.” Mr. D looks out into the distance, the dim light of the cabins acting like a beacon of light in the middle of the campgrounds.

Luke wrings his hands, picking at his thumbs and he’s sure he’s about to get kicked out of camp for his behavior, much less the fact that he’s been fraternizing with the director’s daughter.

“Sometimes I think she knows too much.” He licks his lips, awkwardly standing next to the god and wondering if the dark liquid in his cup is wine.

“Do you think I don’t know that, Luke? Do you really think I don’t know about the parties? I let her have her fun too you know— I'm the one that keeps Chiron asleep. She doesn’t ask for much. I know I give her a hard time. I’m just….”

There are a few things about Mr. D’s statement that surprise Luke: the fact that he actually knows his name, how he safeguards his daughter’s interests, and the possibility of a god actually knowing how to be a good parent.

It still doesn’t take away from the countless times he’s seen you put yourself down because of your father, the inadequacy you feel from the responsibilities you take on, and how you’d do anything for simple applause. Tough love is still love with a heavy hand. And it leaves bruises, whether he meant it or not.

“Is that why you’ve never sent her on an actual quest? We all know picking up the twins doesn’t count in the grand scheme of things.”

“For what? To achieve glory? Recognition? I never understood why we Olympians do that. Send children off to their deaths to deserve a moment of their godrent’s time, or a gift to shut them up. I don’t need her to be a hero, she doesn’t have anything she needs to prove to me. I need her to be my daughter, and preferably alive. That’s enough for me.”

Luke takes a step back in disbelief. There’s something in his being that yearns to be loved like that, without having to prove it or needing to deserve it. It hurts almost, the way he wants to be loved like your family loves you. Your father, an Olympian, standing in front of him telling him that your existence is enough to be worthy of his presence. In the silence that follows, Luke wonders if he’ll ever have that.

“You should tell her that more often, sir.”

“Listen. She’s a good kid, I just give her a hard time because it’s hard to get attached to you mortals. Your lives are so short compared to the infinite timeline I live. I can do everything in my power to try to keep her safe, but I can’t stop her from leaving. So don’t blame me if I act needy if it’ll keep her here for a bit longer. I’ll take all the time I can get.”

“Then how do I tell her I love her with without either of us running away?”

Mr. D laughs loudly now, his wrinkles crinkling as liquid sloshes out of his cup. It turns out to be grape juice you left out for him before the party.

“Mortals always busy themselves with trivial things, like pride and sorrow. Pandora’s box left you humans with nothing but hope. I say you swallow the negative and just say it how it is. You’ll have a lot more time being happier together that way. I already lost my bet against some of the counselors anyway.”

“What bet?”

Your dad swats at Luke like he’s a dog to kick, and tosses his glass over his shoulder where it disappears in the night air.

“Get off my porch Castellan, and just know if you hurt her…”

“I’d die before that happens, sir.”

“That would hurt her most of all. Think about what that means. For gods’ sake she’s left her light on for you, so go on before I set the harpies on you. And don’t call me sir, it freaks me out. You’re still not special to me.” Mr. D stalks back inside the Big House, and Luke takes that as his cue to leave. The cold night air pushes him back towards the cabins, the light in your window luring him in like a ship lost at sea.

—

“I know you’re still awake, Trouble.”

You hear him move closer to the bed as you keep your eyes shut, evening out your breaths, but you’re never able to hide anything from Luke anymore.

“I thought I closed that window,” you mumble, turning your face more towards your pillow.

“You didn’t.”

Of course, you didn’t. You were hoping he’d chase after you this time around, even if you made him drunk in more ways than one.

“Skye keep you busy?” you say nonchalantly, and you hear Luke laugh as he tugs your duvet off of you.

“Your dad did, actually,” he says grinning, watching your eyes pop open in confusion as you turn and face him, propping yourself up on your knees.

“What the fuck?”

“You could’ve gotten me kicked out y’know? Stumbled onto his porch telling him about how drunk you make me feel even without a drop of alcohol and how I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself when I’m around you.”

“You shouldn’t be so brave to fight gods like that for me. Even if it’s my dad, Castellan,” you whisper, and he kneels next to your bed so he can look at you in the eyes from an equal standpoint. Because that’s what the two of you are— equal, singular, one and the same. And he’s never made you feel less than, even if your brain tries to convince you of it.

“Stop that,” he scoffs, shaking his head as he grabs your hands, “stop calling me my last name like it detaches you from how you feel about me. I want you to stop pretending when it's just you and me,” he pleads, whispering your name so softly that the sound of it brushes against your lips.

There’s something more intimate in the way he looks at you now compared to when you were naked and nestled against him this past morning. The act of knowing that it’s you and him, no matter how hard you try to fight it.

His knuckle brushes against your jaw, pushing your eyes to look back into his, and you can’t deny him any longer.

“Hey. I love you, and I know you feel the same; I'm tired of you acting like you're not and I’m going crazy he—”

His words are halted by your lips surging forward to meet him in the middle. The culmination of years of friendship has brought you to this special moment frozen in time, and sure, demigods die young but this must be what he’ll see in Elysium. If there’s a single memory he can bring with him to his next life, he hopes it’s this one—the taste of you and how it feels to be loved like this, without question or reason. You pull away with a sweet smile and he feels drunk again.

“You’re my best friend, Angelface,” you mumble.

Okay, now that sobered him up faster than it should have.

Luke stiffens, his hands falling to your thighs as he starts to ramble, “If you’re actually friendzoning me right now I might just roll out of your window and feed myself to a harpy.”

The laugh that comes out of you booms across the room as you wrap your arms around him with a radiant smile. You always have so much to say, but right now only three words come to mind. Five vowels, three consonants, and the gravity of it pushes out of your mouth like there’s no better truth to tell.

“I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you even before I liked you and I’m sorry I’ve been too scared to say it. I’m not used to…”

Luke sighs in relief, as he presses his scarred cheek against your shoulder.

“You think I’m not scared of us either, Trouble? I worship the ground you walk on, and everyone can see that.”

“Well I’m not a god, Luke,” you say tugging him up by his mop of curls as your legs wrap around him.

“Sometimes when I’m with you, I think you’re the closest thing to it,” he whispers, pulling your chin down for another kiss until you both get your fill. He thinks he can kiss you forever until the end of your short lives, until it’s senseless and maddening, like falling into a drunken stupor. Loving you is an experience he’ll never be able to rid himself of, heart stained with the best of you until both your fingertips are red and raw with the feeling.

You pull him back into your bed as your giggles fill the early morning air. He’s quickly becoming what you love most about waking up in the morning.

—

Chris Rodriguez wakes up to the sound of the morning birds and chattering children in the busy cabin 11. As he rubs at his eyes, ready to take on the day as an interim cabin counselor for the rest of the month because of Luke’s suspension, sunlight falls onto the one empty bunk in the corner of the room (Fact: There is never an empty bed in the Hermes cabin. Also a fact: he and Chiron will be able to cash in against the other counselors as fast as his feet can take him to the Big House).

—

“To love someone is firstly to confess; I’m prepared to be devastated by you.” Billy Ray Belcourt

ask to be added to luke/general taglists!

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x dionysus!reader #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst #made by ma1dita ♥︎#🪽#percy series #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

912 notes · View notes

twistyfish · 2 months ago

Note

Oh I don’t know if that’s what you usually write for request but what about MC dying (once again) and just before dying she remembered everything from their past lives and the lads men’s reaction thinking they failed MC again

hi! i tried my best with this one because i’m not caught up on all the lore, so please bear with me. i took it in a slightly different direction

prompt~ mc dying.

content warning for death and violence

Zayne

Zayne groggily rolled over in bed, his outstretched arm bumping into the bedside table. He winced in pain, rubbing his wrist. He picked up his glasses and put them on, sitting up slowly so as not to wake you from what was very clearly a deep sleep, seeing as you weren’t awake yet

He cringed when the mattress squeaked, and his eyes immediately flashed to your still form. You didn’t budge. Good. He gently swept off the covers and stepped into his slippers, brushing his teeth and getting ready for the day.

After a cup of coffee and a banana, Zayne returned to the bedroom to kiss you on the forehead before driving to work.

***

Zayne came back from the hospital and set his things down. He washed his hands and headed to the bedroom, eager to change out of his scrubs. He opened the door and was surprised to see you still in bed.

You hadn’t been showing any signs of feeling down lately, so this was a surprise. Maybe you were taking a nap? He wondered if he should let you sleep.

It was very silent. All he could hear was the distant hum of the air conditioner. He didn’t even hear your usual light snoring.

He walked in front of you and bent down, hesitating before patting your shoulder. He patted it again before shaking you.

Oh, so you were being difficult. He picked up the blanket and threw it off you, revealing the lower half of your face. It was still and pale.

He leaned in closer and realized something very, very critical.

You weren’t breathing.

His heart rate spiked and he immediately pressed his ear against your chest, because maybe he was mistaken. Maybe you were breathing and he just couldn’t hear it very well. Or maybe you had some undiagnosed sleep disorder where you temporarily stopped breathing. Maybe you would wake up gasping for air in a few seconds.

But he didn’t hear or feel any movement at all, so he stabbed his fingers against his phone to dial the ambulance, and told the operator what was happening with a foggy brain. His voice was hardly audible by the end of it. He knew exactly what information they needed, but he couldn’t seem to remember it. Your address, your age, your full name.

Who cared about all of that? That was all useless information. All that he cared about right now was that you were dead. His partner was dead. And he hadn’t been there for her.

Sylus

Gunshots rang out, the noise of bones cracking permeating the air while bulletproof glass broke into a thousand shards. Sylus sprinted through the room and into your destroyed cell.

He hadn’t opted to send Luke and Kieran to bring you home. He had to do it himself. He knew the fuckers wanted him to show up, but he paid no mind. He had to see for himself that you were okay.

But what he saw made his stomach drop into his shoes. You were sitting in the corner of the room, chained to the wall. Your head was lolled onto your shoulder, your eyes gored out and your arms covered in burns. No. No. No no no no nonono-

He fell to his knees with a painful thump. The only thing he could bring himself to do was hold his stomach and vomit up bile. Seeing his lover like that ruined him. It destroyed him, made him want to cry and scream until the Earth was flooded and everyone’s eardrums had burst.

So when one of the men on the floor laughed weakly at Sylus’s grief, he shot without a second thought.

Nobody’s life mattered anymore. The person whose life he cared about wasn’t here anymore.

Rafayel

The air was hot and dry, and you looked beautiful with pearls of sweat dripping from your chin and collecting on your collarbone. You were wearing a flowy green dress and little teardrop earrings.

Rafayel’s eyes were fixed on you, even while you crossed the streets. The smooth curve of your back, your soft, bare arms. You were so undeniably beautiful.

He loved going on walks with you, and he was thrilled that you both had been able to take a week off for holiday. He rarely got to see you in such a light, beachy setting.

It had been around thirty minutes of walking, and you seemed to be getting a little out of breath. This surprised him, because your job consisted of a lot of movement and high energy combat.

“You’re not getting out of shape, are you Ms. Bodyguard?” He teased. “How are you gonna protect me if walking around gets you breathless?”

Your shallow breaths continued, which was a little concerning.

He stopped walking. “Hey. Is everything okay?” He asked, concerned now.

You shook your head. “I don’t feel good.” Your breaths were getting quicker and shallower, and you doubled over. Your hands were on your knees, and you gagged. Rafayel bent down next to you, and before he knew it you were swaying and then you had fallen. He barely caught your head as you went down, his knuckles scraping the pavement.

“__? Hey! Hey, hey, wake up!” He was rapidly tapping your cheek, praying to whatever deities were out there that you would get up and walk it off.

“We need help! Please, my girlfriend is sick! We need help!” He shouted. A few locals rushed over and called for help, but he was inconsolable.

After emergency surgery and two days in the hospital, he was informed that you were braindead. He didn’t say anything. He booked a flight home and sold all his paintings.

He never painted anything again.

Xavier

No. Not this. Anything but this. His shaking hand brushed bloody, matted hair out of your face.

“Stay calm. Backup is here. I’m going to take you to get medical attention,” he said in a voice that was calmer than he felt.

“Xavier.”

“Don’t talk, you’re expending unnecessary energy.”

“Xavier, I’m not going to make it.”

“Don’t fucking say that.” His facade was cracking.

“I love you. I should have said it before, but I love you so much.”

“__, please-,”

“I’m so grateful that you’re my partner. You’ve been there for me through everything and I don’t want this to be it for you.”

“No.” His voice was small, like he was pleading.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was already breathy and shrinking in volume. But the intensity was the same. The character was constant. You would die a fighter.

“No, please, I’m not ready. I can’t do this without you,” he choked, pressure building up in his nose. His eyes started leaking, and he felt nauseous.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And that was the last thing you heard. Xavier pressed his forehead into your chest, and it killed him when he felt no rising or falling. It was just him and the night.

He looked up at the stars, and he swore he saw your face.

#love and deepspace x reader #lads #love and deepspace #lads x you #lads x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #reqs open #xavier x mc #lads zayne #zayne x reader #sylus x reader #hurt no comfort #cw death #lads scenarios

256 notes · View notes

bahablastplz · 3 months ago

Text

All in | Chapter 10

pairing: Lee Felix x f!reader (mafia au)

summary: You didn't know what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Yang Jungwon, notorious mafia boss. Your life gets flipped upside down when you're found beaten and bloody by SKZ, the rival mafia group, and you're quickly integrated into their lives. What will happen when you try to leave your old life behind and start anew?

chapter summary: you're finally back at the house and you need to find yourself a new normal again. you take this time to get better acquainted with the others and make sense of what you know

warnings: please see series masterlist for all warnings

series masterlist ~~ series taglist ~~ main masterlist

When you arrive back at the house, you start to feel sick.

You’re not sure if it’s nerves or stress, but in reality it’s probably the events of the last few days finally starting to catch up to you. You immediately excuse yourself to your room and crash onto your bed, fighting back the urge to vomit.

Someone knocks on your door. You tell them to go away and they do; that’s how you know it isn’t Chan. The night comes and goes and you sleep your way through it. You sleep into the morning. Well into the morning, in fact, that you miss both breakfast and lunch.

You wake up finally, drenched in sweat and completely sore all over your body. It’s the sound of yelling outside of your door that rouses you from your sleep, your door slamming open causing you to cower under your covers.

“Get up,” Chan says. His voice does not allow room for argument.

“Chan, you should leave her–”

“Changbin, I don’t fucking need you to tell me what to do right now. Y/N, get up. You’re eating dinner with us. You’re not skipping another meal,” he says. Tears prick at your eyes but you’re successful at holding them back. You are not going to cry. Not in front of Chan.

“I don’t feel good,” you say.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, nearly cutting you off as if he anticipated your answer. “I know I have put you through a lot these past few days, but like Hell am I going to let you wither away in my house.” You let out a squeal as you feel the covers get yanked off of your body, leaving you feeling bare. The cold air pricks at your sweat covered skin and immediately you get goosebumps from the sensation. When you look up you see him standing over the mattress with his arms crossed, his gaze boring into your features, and you roll out of bed with a sigh. You feel nauseous as you follow him to the dining room but you don’t argue. However, the blood in your skin does start to boil.

Who the fuck is he to tell you what you can and can’t do? He’s already locked you up in this house, killed someone in front of you, and controlled just about every movement since you’ve ended up here. Is he going to dictate your whole meal plan too? God, you’re seething.

But you also know he’s right. That’s what infuriates you. Your physical ailments are just a manifestation of your trauma and your psyche, and maybe you have been letting them consume you for the past 24-hours, but that is your absolute right to do so. It chills you that he pays close attention to your each and every movement.

You think back to your conversation with Woojin in the warehouse. “Chan doesn’t like in the way that normal people like. He gets infatuated. He becomes obsessed and controlling and people end up dead.” You suppress the urge to shudder. You’re not sure you want to be loved or even liked by Chan. He was a passionate, attentive lover. You can only imagine being with Chan being like that, but tenfold.

On the other hand, you didn’t quite want to be disliked by Chan.

Besides the lack of food in your stomach from the past day, something else makes you nauseous when you sit at the table. Felix. You shoot him a smile and despise the way that your heart squeezes when he grins back at you. At this point, you can’t deny that you feel something towards the man. You shouldn’t. You absolutely fucking shouldn’t. Despite his kind treatment, he is still in the mafia, just like everyone else here. You’ve just allowed yourself to lean into your delusion that you could be something more, that maybe there’s more behind his kind actions that meets the eye.

You pick at your food at first. You realize it’s the first time that everyone has been here at dinner since before Woojin left. That feels like such a long time ago. Now, Lee Know is finally back, and you notice that the dynamic feels just a little bit more complete. Despite the last few days being absolutely wild, dinner conversation is just about as normal as it would be. You find yourself smiling subconsciously when jokes are cracked. And before you know it, you've eaten your whole plate. You really were hungrier than you realized.

As you clean your plate and slide it into the trash, you run right into Felix. Literally. His warm hands find their way to your waist to steady you and you don't meet his eye. Your face warms up at the action and you turn away from him, suddenly nervous.

“Hey,” he says, voice laced with surprise. “I haven’t seen you in a bit. You doing okay?”

“I’m… better now, I guess. Thanks. The past few days were just…”

“A lot?”

“Yeah,” you reply, daring a gaze to his softening eyes, a warm brown hue. “A lot.”

“If you’re feeling up to it, we could train some more?” he asks. His eyes are searching your face as if to confirm that you’re in a well-enough state to do so. You hope he doesn’t notice the blush that spreads over your features just from talking to him. You think back to the motel, and how his lips had gotten dangerously close to brushing against yours. You could feel his warm breath on yours, and if you had moved even just a centimeter closer you would have kissed, and there

would have been no coming back from that. Can you trust yourself to train with him? To not allow yourself to develop further feelings, or to act and cross that unreturnable line?

“No thanks,” you tell him as politely as you can muster. “I’m… still not feeling too well, physically. Still kind of nauseous, you know? Raincheck?”

“Yeah, of course!” he says. It’s at this moment when you realize his hands are still on your waist from when he steadied you from your near-fall. If your face wasn’t red before, it certainly is now. Great. As if he’s realized this too, his hands fall from their place on your body and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I hope you feel better! Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Felix is too polite and heartfelt for his own good, you think. It’s the quality of his that catches you the most off guard, the one that makes you forget so easily that he’s supposed to be dangerous.

As you walk back to your room, his touch a hot remnant on your waist, you try to remind yourself of all the times that Felix has proven himself to be more dangerous than he lets on. The night you escaped, for example, he threatened the men that had cornered you with a gun. Felix punching Woojin in the nose after he touched you, another example. Then there’s the night he brought you to the hotel. He had shown up with blood covering his white stained suit, though you had never asked about it. So yes, he has proven himself to be a dangerous, strong man. Why hasn’t that deterred your heart from yearning after him, though?

You sigh once you’ve returned to your room. You realize that you will need to get a new book from Hyunjin. You decide to put that off for now, however, and opt to leave the room. You know you will need to shower the sweat off of your clammy skin from your excessive sleep anyway, so you might as well go to the gym while you’re at it. Without Felix, this time. You almost feel bad that you lied and decided to go to the gym without him, but it’s not for lack of a good reason. You pick out a pair of clothes from your wardrobe that are loosely-fitting, easy for movement, and throw your hair up into a ponytail.

On your way to the gym, however, you realize there’s something that doesn’t feel right. A nagging feeling in your stomach. It’s at this time that you find yourself seeking out Chan, walking to his room for the first time since you moved in. There’s much you need to talk about, and it’s probably best to do so alone.

The door at the very end of the hall. It’s the only one besides Chan’s office that is characterized with a big metal deadbolt, almost comical in nature. Before you can plant a seed of doubt in yourself, you’re rapping on the door three times, hard. You don’t realize that it’s already late to begin with, so you hadn’t considered the option that he might be asleep until you’re met with silence. Hesitantly you turn around putting pressure on the balls of your feet to walk away before you hear a click, the door creaking open. Your heart beats fast for a second, and you’re met with the sight of Chan before you can consider running away.

He looks at you, confused. He obviously was not expecting you to be on the other side of the door. You wonder if he was expecting Hyunjin instead. You notice that he’s freshly showered, his dark hair falling in messy curls around his head and this kind of throws you off guard. In front of you, Chan has only ever looked neat and put-together, hair straightened and meticulous in his appearance. Even when he found you in the abandoned warehouse, he looked the embodiment of perfection, still in his suit from the gala. To see him in something so casual, sweats and a loose t-shirt after dinner… You almost forget for a second that the man in front of you is Bang Chan, one of the most dangerous men in the country, leader of the mafia. Almost.

You clear your throat. “We need to talk,” you say. You feel triumphant for once, that you’re the one taking him by surprise, that you’re the one with the upperhand, but that’s all forgotten when he opens his door wider and invites you into his room.

Well. You weren’t exactly expecting that. But you clear your throat and follow him inside.

The first thing you notice about Chan’s room is how large it is. It makes sense, really, that the leader of the mafia would have the largest room in his own house. You’re sure there’s a reason why it was deadbolted shut, that there’s things in here that aren’t meant for just anyone to see.

His bed is king-sized, placed in the middle of the room thoughtfully with a black duvet. The whole room matches, really, dark mahogany hardwood floors and black furniture. Even the walls, though sleek and elegant in feel, give a more gloomy yet modern feel. It’s very minimalist, you notice, no picture frames or paintings hung on the walls, though that feels very on brand for the man in front of you.

Chan motions for you to sit on his bed. You do, trying to hide your hesitation, crossing your legs as you watch the man cross the room. He stands in front of you, arms crossed and looking down at you where you sit. Mindlessly, you smooth your hands over the duvet, neatly made and cold to the touch and probably more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.

“Yes?” He asks. He has a blank expression on his face and you curse yourself momentarily for being unable to identify what he’s thinking, but then you remember why you’re here.

“Right,” you say. “I wanted to talk.” You take a deep breath and try to calm your nerves.

He makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand, as if to say ‘so talk, then. What are you waiting for?’

“The gala,” you gulp. “That was… um, a lot, obviously. It’s just…” you try to think about where to even start and how to phrase what you had to say without offending him. As much as you want to curse him out, then and there, offending the man that is currently guaranteeing your safety probably isn’t the most wise decision. “Before we went inside, I told you about how nervous I was to see Jungwon. And you said… you promised that nothing was going to happen to me. I just can’t help but wonder, Chan. Was it a lie? Did you hand me over to them as a tactic? I know I don’t mean much to you guys, and at the end of the day you really have no reason to protect me. I just… I don’t want to think that you lied, but–”

“That’s enough.” When you meet his gaze you see how utterly pissed off he is. Shit. The words had spilled out of your mouth faster than you intended, but to be fair you had the right to know. Had he intentionally put your life in danger for the sake of getting his revenge on Jungwon? It really hadn’t come to your mind until now, but once the thought infiltrated your brain you couldn’t get it to leave. “I don’t fucking lie, Y/N,” he practically spits at you. “I thought you would know by now that I value honesty and loyalty above all else. What happened at the gala, as much as I hate to admit it, was out of my control. We should have prepared for it, but when we saw Woojin was there things got out of hand fast. The safety of one of my team members was in danger, so my priority was ensuring Minho’s safety. I hate feeling powerless. I fucking hate it, that they had the upper hand on us, but I thought that I made it perfectly clear after you got taken that they were going to pay for what they did to you.”

You nod your head, solemnly. “I’m sorry, I just–”

He shushes you sharply. You can tell he’s not finished speaking and he’s still full of irritation so you let him continue. “I don’t want to hear you say that we have no reason to protect you. That’s bullshit and we both know it. Sure, at first, the only reason you were allowed to stay with us was so we had the upper hand on Yang Jungwon. But I think you and I both realize that you’re something more to us now. Something more to me,” he says. “Jungwon is dead now. I protected you. Give me a chance to protect you again, Y/N. Let me kill Lee Heeseung and show you that you’re safe, and that you belong here. Nobody will ever hurt you again,” he ensures.

His words send a shiver down your spine. His words are so blunt and to the point, and if you weren’t listening carefully you would have almost missed the confession laced between his words. It scares you, this overprotective and controlling aspect of the man in front of you, the one who watches your every move. Chan, who makes sure you’re eating and taking care of yourself, Chan who loves too deeply, Chan who will make sure that nobody will ever lay a hand on you again.

You don’t know what to say. It’s overwhelming, and unease settles in your gut. “He’s dead,” is what you settle on, surprising even yourself.

“He is,” Chan agrees. “I’m not going to apologize for it.”

“I didn’t ask for you to,” you reply. “It’s just… does it get any easier?”

“Seeing the dead bodies?” he clarifies. You shake your head.

“Losing the people that you love,” you say just above a whisper. You know he hears you. He grimaces.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I haven’t… I haven’t loved in a very long time. And I don’t intend to lose anybody anytime soon.”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment. His words sit heavy in the air, swirling around before falling heavily upon your shoulders. You look at him with a grimace to match.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” you admit.

“You’ll be okay.” He reaches his hand out to guide you up, off of the bed. You take it, standing, trying not to think about how he invalidated your statement. You’re not sure what you expected from him but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Your brain flashes to Felix, a day or two prior that comforted you in the motel bed as sobs racked through your body. Felix, who let you lay your head on his chest as he soothed you to sleep and actually made you feel like everything would be okay. You shake the thought from your head. Chan is not Felix.

With a small smile you acknowledge the man and thank him. He surprises you when he brings you in for a hug, your head resting on his shoulder. He smells vaguely of rain, you think, though you think the man is more befitting of a storm, angry and all-consuming. You push yourself weakly out of his grasp, muttering a small ‘goodnight’ as you leave the room.

You can hear the deadbolt click behind you and you let out a shuddering breath. You can’t help the way your skin pricks up at Chan’s every touch, though the man also leaves you feeling uneasy.

It’s time for you to go to the gym.

With an exasperated sigh, that’s where you end up. It’s late at night now, so you don’t expect anybody to be here when you arrive but someone is. You hear them grunting and breathing heavy before you see them, and you almost turn around and head back to your room before you change your mind.

You need to relieve your stress right now.

You never thought you would be the person to say that, let alone use working out as an outlet for your stress, but here you are. The last few weeks of your life would bring most people to the brink of madness, after all, so if going to the gym and finally becoming strong was your new coping mechanism, fuck it.

You swing open the door and try not to make eye contact. Please don’t be Felix, you think. I don’t think I can emotionally deal with that situation right now.

It seems luck is in your favor, for once, as Changbin is the one that turns around when you enter. You give him a small smile, as you are feeling pretty relieved to see him.

You don’t spare him a second glance, however, as you turn on the treadmill and start running. You wish you had a phone in moments like these, a way that you could listen to music so that you could just turn your brain off. Felix would always play music off his phone when you went to the gym together. Fuck! If your brain could stop thinking about Felix for one moment, his flowery-yet-musky smell and his beautiful, fair hair and fae-like features, things would be so much easier for you.

“Dude,” you hear. “You good?”

You almost stumble on the treadmill, slamming the stop button to turn around and glare at the man behind you.

“What?” you say, more venomous than deserved.

“You okay?” he repeats himself. A thick layer of sweat coats his skin, and you notice the ridiculous amount of weight he has set on the barbell. Makes sense. As the bodyguard of the group, he is ridiculously in shape. You must be stupid or blind to not admire the muscles he has likely put a lot of time into. “You’re like, slamming your feet into the treadmill and you’ve been sprinting for a good 15 minutes.” He’s right. You hadn’t even noticed how effortlessly you had run almost two miles.

“I’m fine,” you sigh. Neither of you seem convinced.

“You seem pissed,” he points out.

“I am pissed,” you finally agree. So much for being elusive and shoving away your feelings. It doesn’t take much for you to cave. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“I can imagine,” he sympathizes. “What can I do to help?” His words take you by surprise, as he seems genuine in offering his help. You ponder his question as you try and catch your breath.

“Spar with me?” You ask, finally. You’re not too sure you want to go to Felix about this anymore.

“I can do that,” he replies with a smile.

After wrapping your hands up and getting ready, you take a defensive stance. Changbin looks like he’s been taken by surprise.

“What?” you question, confused by his reaction.

“Nothing,” he answers quickly. “It’s just… your form is good! I thought I would have to teach you some of the basics.”

You preen a little at the compliment. Your form is actually good? That means your hard work is paying off! “I’ve been practicing with Felix,” you admit.

A look of realization flashes over him. “Ohhhhh,” is all he says in response. “Are you ready?” You grunt in approval.

Changbin does not go easy on you, to your surprise. He immediately goes on the offense, attacking with hit after hit. He’s not using his full strength, thankfully as you probably can’t take it just yet, but the man is fast. It’s also interesting to see how different his fighting style is from Felix’s, though you notice some similarities.

Like how he plants his feet firmly after each right hook. Like how he leaves his left side open and unprotected after he bends his leg to connect his knee to your abdomen. He isn’t expecting your kick or the force behind it and it knocks him backwards. He regains his balance quickly and doesn’t completely fall, much to your chagrin, though the look of shock that crosses his features tells you all you need to know. You’re starting to get good.

“You’re observant,” he points out. “That’s really good. That will make up for your lack of strength. Fighting is equal parts brain and brawn, you know. You’re good at using your brain to your advantage.” You remember that Changbin is one of the best fighters in the house other than Felix so you don’t take his praise for granted.

“Thanks,” you say. “You’re strong, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” he laughs. “It’s a part of the job. I haven’t always been like this, though.” You try to think about a younger Changbin, weak and scrawny and you almost laugh at the thought. There’s no way.

“Any reason why you decided to bulk up? Besides the job, obviously. It’s just, your physique isn’t something that someone would get for the sake of a job,” you smile.

“What can I say,” he shrugs. “I had people to protect. I was weak and people took advantage of that, so I became strong. I wanted to become feared, let people know not to mess with me or the people I love, and what better way to do that than to look the muscular, intimidating part?” You ponder his words, not missing it when he said he had people to protect. You wonder where they are now. You wonder how he got here, even, but you don’t ask. You think there’s a lot more to Changbin that meets the eye. “Are you done already?” He asks after a beat.

“No, I don’t think so,” you say, changing the subject. “Felix was starting to work with me on self-defense tactics to get out of a restrictive hold. Can you help me?” He quirks his brow in surprise. “Shouldn’t Felix help you, then?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I’m not here with Felix right now, I’m here with you.”

“Fair enough,” he mutters. You give him a small grin. Somehow, your stress has melted off of you in waves and you’ve almost forgotten what has gotten you so worked up in the first place. Changbin does a good job of making sure your focus is entirely on him, no distractions evident when he pulls you into a chokehold from behind. It’s not tight or malicious, but effective in its purpose as a demonstration. “This is one of the most common restrictive holds,” he explains. “Tell me, when I pull you in from behind and my hands are wrapped around your neck, what is your first instinct?”

“To try to pry your hands away from my neck,” you respond.

“Good,” he praises. “That’s what you want to avoid. Think about my body, behind you right now. What do you have open? What do I have open that you can attack?”

You mull his words over for a second, becoming hyper-aware of his body behind you. If both of his arms are around your neck, that means his torso is free. You could easily swing an elbow back and try to make contact with his ribs. Thinking about a previous lesson with Felix, you consider the more vulnerable areas of the body. The face, the neck, and the groin.

“My legs are free,” you answer. “I could swing up a leg from behind and hit you in the groin.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Anything else?”

“Your face? If I swing my head back hard enough, I should be able to smack you right in the nose. That’s enough to throw anyone off guard.”

“Are you sure you even need me to show you how it’s done?” he teases. “Let’s practice now.”

You’re not sure how long you and Changbin spend in the gym, but you feel thoroughly spent by the time you’re through. Your muscles ache, you’re dripping with sweat, and you’re out of breath so you decide to call it a night. As you leave, you have a lingering question you decide to share with Changbin.

“What do you know about knives?” you ask.

“Knives?” he questions, his brows furrowing and causing a crease to form on his forehead.

“Yeah, knives,” you respond. “Daggers, blades, stabbing–”

“I know what you’re talking about, smartass,” he interrupts. “Just… why?”

“I’ve been thinking about learning how to use a weapon,” you explain.

“Yeah, I don’t think knives or blades are a good idea, then,” he tells you.

“What? Why not?” you all but shout. “I thought I was making some serious progress!”

“I’m not denying that,” he argues. “Your skill definitely exceeds what I would consider a beginner, and that’s amazing given how little time you’ve had. It’s just that knives make for a horrible beginner weapon. For one, you need to get close and personal with your target. That’s not ideal; if you hesitate, they can easily overpower you and stab you instead. Second, stabbings are messy. You can’t half-ass shoving a knife into someone–you have to do it with as much force as you can and into a vital spot. If you’re using a knife to protect yourself, you need to do it with the intent to kill. Best case-scenario, you’ll need to stab them multiple times in order to really do some damage. Not to doubt your capabilities, but do you really think you can do that?”

You blanche. You suppose he does have a point there.

“You’re better off learning how to use a gun. Sure, if you’re really in a pinch a knife will do the trick, but you’re better off shooting and giving yourself the opportunity to run. That stamina you’ve been building up doesn’t have to be for show, you know.”

“So you’ll teach me how to use a gun?” you question, trying not to seem too hopeful.

“Me? God no,” he laughs a little too loudly. “I prefer to use these as my weapons,” he says, flexing his biceps and kissing them to further prove his point. You can’t help the laugh that escapes your chest at his actions. “If you want to talk to someone who knows guns and weapons, you’re probably better off talking to Jisung about them. He knows a little bit about everything. Plus, he definitely has the best aim. He’s your man,” he tells you, closing the door to the gym behind him. He wishes you a goodnight and leaves you in the hallway. You decide it’s too late to talk to Jisung about it now, and instead decide to grab a cup of water from the kitchen.

As you reach the cabinet to grab a glass, you see a shadowy figure that nearly has you dropping the glass and jumping out of your skin.

“Fuck!” you whisper-shout, clutching your chest. As your eyes adjust to the light switch that has just been flipped on, you’re met face-to-face with Seungmin.

“Hey,” he greets nonchalantly.

“You scared me,” you accuse. He shrugs his shoulders as if to say, ‘whatever, not my fault.’ You’re reminded of the fact that you haven’t exactly had ample opportunity to talk to the man. He’s just sort of been around.

You turn on the faucet and fill up your cup, trying to even out your breathing.

“He’s going to be upset, you know,” he says. He sips on his own cup of water, staring at the floor and for a second you’re sure you misheard. Did he actually just speak to you?

“Who?” you question.

“Felix,” he answers without missing a beat, like it’s obvious.

“What? Why would Felix be mad?” The stress and anxiety has already come back, bubbling inside your chest.

“You went to the gym without him,” he says. “With someone else, actually.” Confusion spreads across your features. So… not only does he know that you were just at the gym with Changbin, but he’s also aware of the fact that you’ve been practicing with Felix? How does he know so much!? You scoff and turn around, water in hand as you pay him no mind.

“Felix can be quite jealous,” he adds as you leave the room. You roll your eyes.

The world seems to be plotting your demise, you think. Of course you run into Felix on your way back to your room, spilling your water on him in the process.

“Shit,” you cry, face flushing up in the process. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” he says. “No worries.” You don’t look at him and push past politely, trying to open your bedroom door when he calls after you.

“You went to the gym,” he says. It’s not a question, merely a statement that he has observed.

“I did,” you confirm. You think about Seungmin’s words and consider leaving it at that, but you decide to try to confirm his statement. “Changbin was just helping me spar.”

You hide a smirk when you notice Felix freeze. “You went… with Changbin?” he asks, distaste laced in his voice.

“Yes,” you say, deciding to push him further. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” he says, feigning a smile. “I’ll take it you’re feeling better, then?”

Right. You had told him that you were still feeling ill, so it probably comes across as rude to turn around and immediately go with someone else.

“I tried to rest,” you tell him. “Sorry. I was feeling antsy and didn’t want to bother you. Changbin just happened to be there.” You don’t want to tell him that you really didn’t want to spar because the thought of close proximity to Felix made your heart flutter against your better judgment.

“I see,” he nods his head in affirmation. “Next time, feel free to come and get me. You know where my room is, right?” You realize you don’t know where his room is, and he must recognize your hesitation. “Look–I’m three doors down. Do you see that white door on the right side of the hall? That’s me, so next time make sure you come and get me, okay?” You confirm that you will and you close your door, slumping up against it as it shuts.

He did get jealous. Maybe Seungmin is more observant than you had realized.

You fall asleep quite fast after your shower. That ugly feeling you worked so hard to work off earlier remains stagnant in your gut but you do a good job of ignoring it. You sleep through the night, body sore but full of food and content with the progress you’ve been making. You don’t have any nightmares, though your sleep is interrupted in the morning by a rapping on the door.

It’s daytime by now, evident by the light shining through your windows but you still groan nonetheless, swinging your legs over the bed and letting your body carry you to the door. Swinging it open, you’re surprised to see Jisung standing on the other end of the door. Wearing a blue and brown striped sweater with large, thick-rimmed glasses, he looks very domestic which catches you off guard.

“Morning,” he says with a smile.

“Morning…?” you answer back, stretching into a yawn and rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“I came to get you for breakfast,” he says. “Chan sent me.”

“Of course, Chan sent you,” you say with a sigh. “Give me one moment.” You close the door behind you, getting ready by changing into more presentable clothes and washing your face. You brush your hair back and suppress a yawn, thinking that coffee might do you some good. Opening the door again, you see that Jisung has waited for you.

Walking to the kitchen together, you decide to talk to the man. “I have been meaning to ask you something,” you tell him.

“Oh?” he asks, eyes shooting open and mouth widening into a small ‘o’ shape. He looks reminiscent of a chipmunk and it’s quite endearing–you find yourself wanting to run your fingers through the curly locks on his head that further drives the image.

“Yes, Changbin was telling me that you might be able to show me how to use a gun?” you ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Absolutely,” he says. You try not to look too surprised–that’s it? He’s not going to ask why or what for? “Want to stop by my room after breakfast?”

“It might be closer to lunch, but that would be great!” you tell him. You actually have a busy morning planned out: a meeting with Hyunjin to pick out a new book, and training with Felix. You feel hopeful now, though, that on top of all this strength and stamina you’ve been building up, you won’t be so defenseless after all.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Your plans get foiled pretty quickly, as Felix tells you he can’t help you train today. He’s getting sent out with Hyunjin and Seungmin for a mission, one that he can’t fully disclose to him. You don’t give him any signal that you’re slightly relieved, unsure how to deal with all the tension that’s been building up.

But that also means that you won’t get a chance to visit Hyunjin for your book. So, Jisung it is. After breakfast he’s kind enough to lead you to his room, seeing as you weren’t exactly sure where it was anyway.

You’re not super surprised to see that his room is messy, as you sort of get that vibe from him that it would be. Piles of clothes are strewn about, some water bottles and dishes piled on his bedside table. He opens up a large wooden armoire with no clothes in it, instead filled with a large metal safe. He takes a moment to make sure you aren’t looking before inputting a code, the metal door whirring and swinging open.

Guns. Lots of them, though you probably couldn’t identify which kinds there are, there are many of varying lengths and sizes. Some look more expensive while others are covered in grime and rust.

You sit and watch as Jisung explains the very basics of even using a gun, including how to load it, how to hold it, and what not to do with it. He tells you to always act like a gun is loaded, even if you know it isn’t; you should also never aim it at someone unless you’re doing so with the intent to shoot at them. He talks for a bit about basic shooting techniques, as well as how to handle the recoil of a gun after shooting it with a good-enough stance. You honestly feel like your head is about to explode from this overload of information but you’re grateful for it nonetheless; you definitely feel like you know more than enough about how to shoot after your conversation with him.

“You’re smart,” you tell him. “You know so much about guns. That’s awesome.”

He blinks at you owlishly. “I guess so! I wouldn’t call myself smart. I’m useful. Minho’s always been the smart one,” he laughs. “When you have nothing good going for ya, you kind of have to find a way to the top. Make yourself useful somehow. I’m not book-smart, so this? This is what I’m good at. It’s all I’m good at.” The statement settles uneasily in your stomach. This is all he thinks he’s good for? Nobody has ever told him otherwise? That can’t be right. That’s probably how he ended up here and your heart squeezes, but before you can pry further or refute his claims, he’s speaking again. “So, did I do a good job? You think you sort of understand what you’re working with now?”

“I’m more of a hands-on learner,” you explain to him. “Is there any way I can practice shooting?”

“Oh yeah, for sure!” Jisung exclaims. The two of you walk outside and you see the makeshift shooting range he has set up. He sets up a stack of cans on a table and guides you to stand about twenty feet back.

He presses the gun into your hands, cold and foreign to you even though you just sat through his entire demonstration. You have half the mind to think he’s far too trusting of you, but you know realistically he could disarm you faster than you have the mind to aim and pull the trigger at him.

He walks through the basics with you again, showing you exactly how to stand and posture yourself. He makes you unload and reload the gun a few times as well, that way you’re comfortable and familiar with the mechanics of it.

You miss the first few times. Maybe the first twenty times you shoot. But Jisung is surprisingly a really good teacher–constantly correcting you or giving you helpful feedback. The first time you hit a metal can, you practically shriek with joy.

You hang out with Jisung for a few hours. By the end of it, your ears are ringing despite the earplugs he encouraged you to wear, and your arms are worse for wear after holding the weapon.

You take a nap at about 4pm but wake up in time for dinner. You’re hungry due to the exertion of the day and you decide to indulge yourself at dinner, eating more than your share. If Chan notices he doesn’t say anything.

That night you hear when Seungmin and Hyunjin return from their mission. You listen for the low timbre of Felix’s voice but you don’t hear it. You want to see him, you decide, only for your peace of mind. You come up with the excuse of wanting to train despite it being a bit late and your body still sore from your earlier activities, but your body carries you down the hall to the white door only three doors down. Your knuckles wrap softly against the wood and you shift nervously from side to side waiting for his answer.

When Felix opens the door you find yourself blinking and ogling. His hair is sweaty against his skin, pulled up into a messy half-up half-down ponytail. He dons a white tank top, showing off his beautifully well-built arms.

“Y/N?” he questions. He leans against the doorframe, tilting his head to the side to look at you. “What’s up?”

“I… uh, I was wondering if you wanted to train? Me? Train with me?” you say, stumbling over your words. He cracks a small grin.

“I’m not feeling the best at the moment and I was hoping I could rest for a bit, if that’s okay. Rain check our rain check?” You nod, looking him up and down before you realize something–he’s clutching his side.

Felix moves his body slightly out of sight so that you can’t see but you push into his room. He doesn’t stop you.

“Felix, what’s wrong? Show me,” you demand. Sighing in defeat, he lifts his hand away from the spot on his side. You notice the blood seeping through the fabric, staining his hand when he pulls it away. “Felix, what the fuck? Is that your blood?”

“Don’t freak out… but I may or may not have gotten stabbed.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

a/n: next mini-member chapter this wednesday, and it's one of my favorite ones so far hehe (sorry about the cliffhanger)

taglist: @shuporanporang ; @purp13st4r ; @eurydiceofterabithia ; @heartsbyandra ; @thicccurls ;

@rylea08 ; @the-sweetest-rose ; @oddracha ; @kapelover ; @goldenmellow ;

@zerefdragn33l ; @uhh-awkward-rightt ; @astudyoftimeywimeystuff ; @kaleigh-2002 ; @thatonexcgirl ;

@mindfreecreator ; @linoalwaysknows ; @velvetmoonlght ; @minahaeyo ; @crystalchuuu ;

@hash2013 ; @skzswife ; @b0bbl3s ; @thecutiepieme ; @bear8585 ;

@moss-the-man ; @softkisshyunjin ; @sylveonitesworld ; @m00njinnie ; @nicoleparadas ;

@starsofasteria ; @klopez01 ; @luvlinos ; @hyunjinnnnnnnnnnnnnn ; @skz-akira ;

@boi-bi-ahaha ; @l33bang24 ; @hermione640 ; @gal82 ; @b-chansbbygirl ;

@kayleefriedchicken ; @notsojourni ; @hogwartslife64 ; @stilltrynafuckingtumble ; @ellelabelle ;

@melleus ; @hyun-bun ; @luminouskalopsia ; @leftovercigarettes ; @sabrina-gal-kpop

@ghostedgameplays ; @wealwayskeepfighting ; @meloncremesoda ; @Lovelino23 ; @honeyybbuubblleess ;

@blossominghunnie ; @sunlitangel777 ; @kkamismom12 ; @slaykanejvetsi ; @eastleighsblog ;

@skzskzskzskzskzskzskzzzz ; @k-keya ; @moonlight-sunrise-channie ; @estella-novella

@mbioooo0000 ; @lovemepie67 ; @lemonn015 ; @jaeminie-cricket ; @cookiesandcreammy

233 notes · View notes

doctorstethoscope · 7 months ago

Text

Lucky

Summary: Marriage means sticking together in sickness and in health. Apparently, Aaron takes the ‘in sickness’ part pretty seriously. It’s a Hotchner family sick day, and he’s determined to take care of you and Jack.

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mild description of illness (mentions of fever, headaches, nausea, one reference to vomit). Otherwise it’s all tooth-rotting fluff

You wake yourself up mid-sneeze, which is arguably one of the worst ways to wake up. Aaron’s side of the bed is empty but warm, and you start to stand up to go find him when you’re hit with a woozy feeling and have to sink back into the pillows. “Aaron?” You call out, sniffling a couple of times as you take stock of how you’re feeling.

Honestly, you feel like trash. Your head has started to pound and your sinuses feel so pressurized that you have to stick your face into Aaron’s pillow in case your head explodes from being upright. You aren’t feeling nauseous, luckily, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t miserable when you realize that you’re sick.

Footsteps of socked feet pad down the hallway, and you hear the door crack open. “Hon? Jack is sick, he’s asking for you,” Aaron says.

He’s probably speaking at a normal volume, but every sound is so amplified to your aching head that you just whine, an unintelligible sound that kind of resembles, “Shut up.”

The door opens a little wider, and the creaking of it gives way to the creaking of the bed when Aaron sits down on the edge. “Are you okay?” His voice is softer and his hand finds the place between your shoulder blades, rubbing small soothing circles.

You try to shake your head, but it’s hurting too badly for that. “How’s Jack?” You croak out, just hoping that he feels better than you do.

“He’s running a fever and he threw up a little. I changed his bedsheets and cleaned him up, and I already called in to keep an eye on him today. I think you should call in too.” His hand moves to your cheek and then your forehead, presumably checking for the same fever Jack has.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll call in, though, if you insist.” Even though you’re speaking sarcastically, his answer is predictable.

“I do.” Aaron stands up and kisses the top of your head. “I’m going to go find some medicine. I’ll be right back with that and some water for you, alright?”

You hum, a noise of affirmation, but you’re fast asleep by the time he returns a minute later.

When you wake up, you’re alone. The curtains are half-open, exposing just enough light for you to be able to see, but still comfortably sleep. The nightstand is cleared off aside from a glass of water, a dish with three pills in it, and a silver handheld bell.

You wrinkle your nose, eyes adjusting to the light as you reach for the glass of water with one eye shut. The bell is knocked to the floor instead, a result of your poor coordination, and the door opens.

“You rang?” Aaron says softly, and you can hear the smile on his lips.

You groan in response, covering your ears with both hands. The ring of the bell echoes in your head for a long moment, and you take the time to wonder if divorce is still an option. “What were you thinking? A bell, seriously? My head hurts.” You’re all but whining, but Aaron doesn’t appear to take it personally.

“Sorry, my love. I thought it would be easier than shouting for me,” he apologizes, helping you sit up. You take the glass of water from him and use it to swallow the pills he hands you, and he kisses your forehead as he takes the glass back. “Is it just a headache?”

“I think I- I- achoo!” You cut yourself off with a loud sneeze that turns into a groan of pain. “No. What about Jack? Is he feeling any better?”

“He’s sleeping, but his fever is steady. I was thinking, if you’re up for it, I could set you up in the living room. We could close the curtains, turn on a movie, bundle you up on the couch. How does that sound?” Aaron suggests, one arm wrapped around you to rub soothingly at your upper arm.

It sounds nice, actually, so you manage to stand up with the duvet wrapped around you and shuffle out to the living room couch. Aaron knows you well; the couch has already been primed with your favourite throw blankets, a couple of pillows, and a bottle of Gatorade nestled against the arm.

There are Disney Movies queued up on the television, and you sit and let Aaron wrap you up in blankets as ‘Lion King’ starts to play.

For a few hours, you doze in and out of sleep while Aaron stays nearby, always with a hand on your back or an arm around you. You awaken to drink a bit more water, sneeze a few more head-splitting times, and eventually you find that you can’t fall back asleep.

The blanket is too hot now, and you push it off only to start shivering. That’s how you find yourself curled up against Aaron’s side, tucked under one large arm while you clear your throat to bring up what you’ve thought all day. “You shouldn’t have called in.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he whispers, stroking a thumb over your shoulder. “I want to be here. I promise.”

“You just had two whole weeks off for the honeymoon. Strauss won’t be mad?” You ask, and a knowing smirk splits Aaron’s face.

“You mean the third honeymoon? Because I got called to work on the days we were supposed to leave the first two times we tried?” He reminds you, holds you a little closer. “Strauss owes me a day off. And I want to spend the day making sure you’re being cuddled back to health.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal no matter how badly you want to, because your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. “Daddy? Momma?”

Aaron squeezes your shoulder and then stands, making sure to tuck the blanket around you so that you don’t get too cold again. Confident steps carry him down the hall to where you can imagine Jack is standing in the doorway.

There’s murmured conversation, Aaron’s voice saying, “Are you sure?” and Jack’s insisting that he is. When Aaron returns, the boy is bundled up in his arms.

“Somebody wanted to join us for movie time and cuddling,” he explains to you, setting Jack in the big armchair. When his son starts to protest, Aaron defends himself. “Momma is sick, too, buddy. I don’t want you making each other worse.”

“Give him here. It’s okay, Jack, you can lie down with me,” you offer, holding out both arms. “I’ll try not to get you sick.”

“Too late for that,” Aaron grumbles under his breath, but he carries your son over all the same. When he tries to sit, you hold up a hand.

“Uh uh. You said you’d make sure I get cuddled back to health, right?” You rub Jack’s back, holding him against your chest as he curls up in your lap. The movement brings with it a wave of nausea that you ignore. “You’re in quarantine, Hotchner. We aren’t getting you sick, too.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He moves into the kitchen, leaving you and Jack alone for a few minutes while he clanks pots and pans around.

You bring a hand up and lay the back of it against Jack’s cheek. “How are you feeling, little man?” You ask quietly.

“Tummy hurts,” he mumbles into your neck. “But it hurt more before.”

“Yeah? Do you want to take a nap and watch some movies with me?” You offer, and he snuggles in a little closer.

Finding Nemo is playing now, and you watch Jack as he watches the screen with increasingly droopy eyelids. He’s on the verge of falling asleep when Aaron returns, carefully balancing two soup bowls.

He places one on the coffee table for Jack, and sets the other in your free hand. “It’s turkey gnocchi. It shouldn’t be too hard on your stomach,” he explains in a whisper, turning the TV down.

“Thank you, baby.” You turn your head away when he leans down to kiss you. “Quarantine, remember? Go, be healthy somewhere else.”

Aaron’s eye roll is predictable but he stands up all the same, prepared to exit the room as per your demands. He’s almost over the threshold when he pauses and you start to ask what’s wrong, but before you can speak he lets out the loudest sneeze you’ve ever heard.

It’s so loud that Jack wakes up just in time to hear Aaron sneeze twice more in succession, and he pokes you to get your attention. “Is Daddy sick?”

You grin, holding him a little closer. “I think he might be, buddy. Aaron, are you okay?”

Aaron sniffles a couple times from the doorway, and you notice how congested he sounds when he says, “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine, really? So you’ll go spend the rest of the day in bed while Jack and I get to hang out?” Maybe baiting him with his son isn’t the nicest way to get your husband to admit to feeling ill, but it’s really the only way you can think of.

It works, if the growing frown on Aaron’s face is anything to go by. “Well, I didn’t say…”

“No, no. You’re fine, you’re healthy. So go on, don’t let our germs stop you.” Jack is giggling in your arms now, having caught on to the game. “Go, before we get you sick. ‘Cause that was just, what? Allergies?”

He’s moving back towards you now, pulling the bowl of soup out of your free hand; the other is still wrapped around Jack.

“Wait, wait. I can’t lie down with my husband, and now I can’t even eat soup?” You complain, and Aaron plops down next to you on the couch.

“It’s one or the other, sweetheart. And I don’t mind your germs all that much,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around you. Jack crawls between the two of you, lying on top of the space where your bodies press together.

“Is that so?” You ask as he hands you back the bowl, beginning to eat it since your hands are both free now. It’s delicious, like everything Aaron cooks, and still warm enough that you can feel it in your belly. “I’m the luckiest newlywed in the world.”

Instead of responding, Aaron pulls a blanket up over the three of you and grabs the remote. ‘Ice Age’ starts to play as you swallow another spoonful, and Jack rolls over into his dad’s waiting arms.

The living room is quiet for a few minutes, save for the sounds coming from the TV. Jack is half asleep with his head on Aaron’s stomach and a hand resting on your knee when Aaron finally says, “You aren’t, you know.”

“Aren’t what?” You set the soup bowl aside and curl up, your temple pressed against his shoulder.

“The luckiest newlywed in the world.” His lips graze the top of your head, but he pulls away just in time for you to sneeze into your elbow. “I am.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve- unnecessary, but it feels wrong not to- and laugh aloud at that. “You are, really? With a wife who’s eating up your personal days and getting the whole family sick, you’re the luckiest?”

“Yeah.” He speaks quietly, confidently, voice not wavering. “Yeah, I really think I am. Come here.”

You can’t get much closer but you try, cuddling up as close as possible to your husband and son while Aaron eats some of the soup Jack didn’t end up tasting before passing out. The movie plays on, and you hardly pay attention; you’re too busy thinking about exactly how happy- and lucky- you really are.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #hotch x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

418 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 9 months ago

Note

Dude since you asked about tasm peter request, I have one

What about a sick reader? Like the reader really sick but peter have to be spider man so will he leaves reader or the other way?

Thanks for requesting!

cw: mention of vomit

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 584 words

Peter regrets leaving you the second he gets back. You’re not where he left you in bed, but the room smells of vomit and cleaner as he climbs in the window. He sets the gatorade he’d picked up on the way home on the nightstand. A quick search finds you in the kitchen, leaning both arms on the counter and your forehead on the microwave.

“Hey,” Peter says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your middle. He leans forward to kiss your cheek. It burns under his lips. “What’re you doing out of bed?”

“Just getting water,” you sigh, taking one hand off the counter to rest it on his forearm. He’s still in his suit, and the nail of your pinkie finger skims over the slippery fabric.

“You looked like you were about to have a nap.”

“I started to feel weird,” you admit, “so I took a break.” Peter hums, easing you back so your weight rests on him instead of the microwave. You sigh. “I threw up again.”

“I know, bub.” His thumb strokes your abdomen over your pajama shirt. “Do you feel any better now?”

“A little, I think,” you say optimistically, though the way you sag against him tells a different story.

Peter turns you in his arms, grabbing your water with one hand and supporting you with the other as he walks you back to your bedroom. Your nose wrinkles.

“Do you smell that?” you ask.

“Nope.” Peter lowers you onto the bed, where you quickly curl up as a chill takes you.

“Good. I sort of…there was an unfortunate situation earlier. I didn’t quite make it to the toilet.”

“Mm. Did you clean it up all by yourself?”

“I’m not three,” you remind him.

“I think being this sick gives you the right to act ten and under.” He strips out of his suit, throwing on pajamas so he can flop down next to you on the bed. He touches his cheek to yours. “You’re a furnace, baby. We can just stop paying the gas bill if you’re gonna be heating the place up like this.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, moving away from him. “You’re gonna get sick doing things like that.”

“Don’t care.” He smooches the side of your nose. “Didn’t ask.”

“You’re so sweet to me,” you snark, rolling over so he has to lift his face from yours. Your cheek rests on his bicep. You clutch the covers to your chin despite the heat radiating from you, and Peter brushes an errant strand of hair from your forehead. “You don’t want this, trust me.”

He softens. “I can tell.” He smooths his thumb over your temple, relishing the way your eyelashes flutter as you try to keep your gaze on him. “I brought you some gatorade,” he says softly. “Do you wanna try and drink some of that for me, or do you need to rest first?”

You hum, the sleepy sound its own answer. “I think I should wait a little bit.”

“M’kay. We’ll get some crackers or something in you when you wake up, yeah?” You hum. He pauses. “I’m sorry you’re so sick, bub.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, voice already stretched with sleep, “can’t believe you’d do this to me.”

Peter cracks a smile, nudging your forehead with his nose. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“It’s not so bad. Thanks for being with me.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Dunno,” you murmur, fading fast, “but thanks.”

464 notes · View notes

kiryoutann · 3 months ago

Text

disclaimer and cw: fem! reader. one-nightstand, unplanned pregnancy, vomitting.

CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST.

journalist! reader, abandoning her draft of an article about SpecGru's (your favorite hockey team) recent win, is forced by her coworkers to "have some fun" AND got dragged to a party. seated around a table full of alcohol that your friends have ordered, loud music blares around you almost to the point of damaging your eardrums.

they say you deserve it - something about how they know you're burying yourself in work not only because you're a workaholic and a huge fan of SpecGru, but also to distract yourself from your recent breakup with your cheating ex.

"honey, you need to forget him, at least just for tonight! look around you, that guy over there has been eyeing you for a while. why don't i hold your drink so you can say hi to him?" one exclaimed, and the others cheered in agreement.

at first, you were reluctant, continuing to plant your back against the back of the couch as if glued to it. but, glass by glass, the alcohol lowers your inhibitions and ability to think rationally. you then slam the glass on the table and approach the brunette with confidence, your friends' cheers ringing out behind you.

so why is it that when you wake up in a strange room - with strange walls and an even stranger bed - the man next to you is a blonde?

you would've just shrug this off and slip out of the bed like any other woman after a one-night stand if he was someone else. but, you recognize that face everywhere - that stubbled jaw and inked left arm peeking out from under the covers. simon riley, SpecGru's top defender.

this must be a dream, you think. this must be some weird, absurd dream you harvested after spending too much time in front of your laptop browsing about him outside of his athletic abilities (whether he's actually single, dating rumors, or some secret Instagram account he has). cause, honestly? out of all the pretty guys in SpecGru, simon is the one who catches your eye.

you slap yourself lightly, intending to wake yourself up from this too-good-to-be-true dream. one slap. two slaps. and the third one is so hard that the said man shifts and grumbles in his sleep. before you can get out of bed, he opens his eyes and looks at you confused.

"uh.. hi," you try, wincing at your own nervousness. "i'm.. well, i'll be going now."

you don't give simon time to respond because the next thing you know, you're already gathering your clothes and heading out of the five-star hotel room.

and of course. of course simon has to give you a "souvenir". cause two months after, you're sitting on the toilet with a positive pregnancy test. you've had your suspicions, but now that you have proof to hold, the fear creeps into your spine.

the cost of living alone is enough to put a dent in your bank account, let alone having a baby? with the father somewhere far and you can only see him on television every time he plays at the hockey rink.

yet, turns out, SOMEHOW, simon isn't as far away as you thought.

two weeks in limbo considering what to do, your boss assigns you to cover this sport lunch event at a hotel. his briefing is short, but you don't think anything of it. probably because you already have a lot on your plate. besides, going means more bonuses for you to receive.

but boy, it's a disaster at first sight.

simon fucking riley is there, with a few of his teammates. his presence is hard to avoid as he stands like a fucking mammoth in the room. you're smaller than him, so you hope, pray to god and the gods in the sky that your size makes it hard for him to spot you (if he even remembers you).

misplaced optimism, apparently. because firstly, simon has the eyes of an eagle. and secondly, for some reason, he remembers you (or even remembers everyone he's ever slept with? you wonder what he's got stacked up in his hippocampus.)

fucking eggs. the second you smell it, you feel your breakfast kicking, wanting to breach your throat. you excuse yourself, walking briskly towards where the toilets are probably located. out of the corner of your eye, you see simon get up from his chair, but you couldn't care less when you're at risk of staining the expensive marble.

"ma'am?" a deep voice called out to you. simon. you felt the stomach acid reaching the tip of your throat now.

to make the day better, this stupid hallway is too long, and simon turns out to be quite determined in his pursuit. when he grabs your hand, you turn to him and-

you stained his armani suit with your vomit. his face was twisted in disgust mixed with shock, but his grip on you didn't loosen. drawing a conclusion, simon knew what this was all about.

well, at least you don't have to worry about the marble now.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x pregnant reader #simon ghost riley x pregnant reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff

212 notes · View notes

wosoamazing · 9 months ago

Text

Accident

Summary: Kyra accidentally hurts you resulting in a concussion

Warnings: Injury, Vomiting (Once)

A/N: Just a short-ish one, not my fav, hope you like it. Also I'm still working on the beach/body image fic, its just taking longer than expected.

You, Kyra, and Charli were just messing around after practice when Kyra accidentally shoved you into the goal post, causing you head to hit it quite hard. You kind of just stood there in shock while the two others stared at you not knowing what to do, before you dropped to the ground, sitting crossed legged holding your head in your hands as you began to cry.

“Charli, go get Steph and the medics” Kyra order bending down putting a hand on your shoulder, which you shrugged off. “No, go away.”

_____

“Charli what’s the rush?” Steph said when Charli got to them slightly out of breath and panicked.

“Kyra hurt Y/N,” with those three words Steph was sprinting to you.

“What?” more girls turned around at her words.

“She shoved her as a joke but then Y/N’s head hit the goal post and it kinda bounced back off the goal post and now, she is crying”.

“We need some medics over here” Sam yelled before following Steph.

“What’s wrong with Kyra? She’s crying” Caitlin spoke, and with that more girls were headed over along with the medics.

_____

“Hey Y/N, it’s me, can you lie down for me?” Steph said as she reached you, with Steph’s help you laid down on your back.

“Hey Kid, what’s wrong?” Sam asked as she reached you.

“I-it H-hurts” you cried out. “Where does it hurt?” she asked trying to get more information “M-my head, h-here” you said through tears as you pointed to your left temple area, where a slight bump was already forming.

“Okay, it’s okay, we’ve got you and the medics are coming,” she said reassuring you.

The medics came over and moved Kyra and some of the other girls out of the way, but Steph and Sam stayed either side of you, each hold one of your hands.

Kyra started crying at the scene evolving around her when she cried out “I-I’m sorry, i-it was an ac-cident,” Sam looked up to her before reassuring her “It’s okay Kyra” she then looked at the other girls “Can you guys maybe go check on Charli and help Kyra, oh and keep Tony updated. We have it all covered here” they all followed their captains orders and dispersed.

After the medics did some more checking they spoke to Sam and Steph “She’s definitely got a concussion grade 1, maybe grade 2, we’ll talk to Tony but it would be good if she could stay in your room for the next few nights as she will need someone to keep an eye on her and well….,” she tapered off both of the older two women knew she was suggesting the fact that you wouldn’t want to share a room for Kyra for the next few nights after what happened, before she continued “and we will check her out again tomorrow, I think she is still slightly in shock. She may get some nausea, or she may throw up but it’s only a concern if she throws up more than twice a day, and make sure she drinks lots of water and stays off screens. Oh, and wake her up roughly every four hours to check everything is okay and call us if you need anything”.

“Thank you,” Steph and Sam both chimed before helping you get up. They both took you to their room and you had a quick shower while Steph sat on the toilet she insisted she stayed their while you showered encase you fell, and you didn’t have enough energy to fight back, Sam quickly went to your room to get you some clothes and a few of your things you might need for the next few nights before returning, Sam handed you some clothes which you got dressed into and then they helped you get into bed, both finding a position either side of you before you leant on Steph and quickly nodded off.

“Were they in there?” Steph asked moving her gaze from you over to Sam who nodded her head in response. “How was she, well they?”

“Charli was alright, just a little sad that this one got hurt, but Kyra was still crying Caitlin, Mini, Alanna and Macca were trying to calm her down, when I walked in she deffo started crying more, well the glare I got from Mini told me that, and she kept saying she was sorry, I feel kind of bad but I mean they shouldn’t have been messing around”

“Yeah, I think we should tell Tony not to punish Kyra though, I think hurting her friend was punishment enough, she seemed really upset on the pitch” Steph said softly.

“Yeah, I know, I think all three of them learnt a lesson, we always tell them to be more careful because someone will get hurt, and well…” she replied motioning towards your figure lying between them.

“Hey, can you wake up?” Sam said slightly nudging you. You thought it must’ve hit the four-hour mark but when your eyelids eventually rose from their place you saw 6 figures scattered around the room, making you unsure as to why you were woken up. Kyra was hiding behind Caitlin who was trying to coax her out of her hiding, she was sniffling every now and then. “Kyra just has something she wants to say to you, is that okay?” Sam informs you; you were unsure why so many people needed to be in the room for her to do so but you just nodded which was a mistake as a sudden wave of nausea ran through you, but it quickly subsided. That was until Alanna and Macca slammed the door behind them, Tony wanted an update and they said they would go, the loud thud of the door and the vibration of the room made you feel like you could be sick at any moment.

“Go ahead Kyra,” at Sam’s words the nausea increased, and you were about to be sick, you gaged.

“I think I’m going to be-” “Someone the bowl from the bathroom,” but it was too late the contents of your stomach were all over your shirt and the bed, and you burst into tears, Kyra cried at the sight, knowing that this was her fault, even if she didn’t mean it, her push was the reason you had a concussion and why you had just been sick. Mini came back with the bowl, sighing at the sight, but still handing the bowl over just encase.

“Are you all good or do you think you’re going to be sick again?” Steph said after a few moments, she was rubbing your back trying to calm you down, in any other moment that you were crying this hard she would’ve given you a big hug, but in this current situation she didn’t really want to do that.

“I-I think I’m g-good” you said through sobs.

“I think we’ll let you be and come back later,” Caitlin said as she put her hands on the now also sobbing Kyra and lead her out the door, Charli followed quickly behind, and she gently shut the door behind her.

“Here, I’ll help,” Mini said as you were tugging at your shirt trying to figure out how to get it off, Steph and Sam had already gotten up and were trying to deal with the bed.

“I-I’m, I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean t-too” you sniffled, you truly didn’t mean to create such a mess, the three women gave you sorry looks before Mini said, “It’s okay, but Y/N/N it isn’t your fault, come on let’s get that shirt off hey,” she helped you get your shirt over your head without transferring anything from your shirt onto you, she was oddly good at it but you supposed having a toddler would mean she had some practice. “Also,” mini started as she looked over to Steph and Sam, “you can have Harper’s room, we are trying to sleep train her, so Tony gave us a second room, but we don’t need it as much as you guys do.” Your two captains smiled at her offer and thanked her profusely.

As the four of you left the room, with two suitcases in hand to head down to your new room you saw the cleaners walking down the hall, Sam mouthed a sorry at them. The new room was only a few doors down and as soon as you entered you climbed into its fresh bed, and the others got sorted, helping Mini move Harper’s stuff out. After a little while they both climb back into bed with you, this time making sure they keep the bowl close by, which in the following three days you didn’t end up needing. Steph and Sam had taken turns going to training so someone was always with you while you were still recovering and Kyra came to apologise and said she should’ve been more careful, you accepted her apology and agreed with her. Thankfully three days later you were cleared and deemed safe to go back to training, and it was safe to say there was no more messing around between you, Kyra and Charli, well at least on the pitch, and near any poles.

#woso #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso imagine #matildas #auswnt #auswnt x reader

569 notes · View notes

wyn-n-tonic · 1 month ago

Text

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: The Marks You Saw

Pairing: Joel x f!reader (formerly Tommy x f!reader). Word Count: 2.1k+ Warning: Alcohol mention. Drugs mention. Emotional word vomit. Author's Note: And you can tell a friend to tell a friend...she's baaaaack. Not really but I have been dealing with some heavy stressors at work and in my personal life that has stunted my writing so it felt good to get something out that I'm actually proud of. I think? Anyway... no beta, we die like men.

“Do you ever see me?”

Leaning back, you assess the man across from you—the scar that’s nicked into his eyebrow, the freckles that are scattered like spray paint across his nose.

The deep brown, almost black, of his eyes that match his brother’s.

Your daughter’s.

“I'm looking at you right now,” you say and it’s immediately apparent that’s not what he meant.

But you knew that.

“No, sweetheart—“

“I asked you not to call me that,” you remind him. “That's not who we are to one another anymore, Tommy.”

A terse nod.

“And no, I do not see you when I’m with him.”

“Did you ever?”

Did you ever?

Did you?

It’s been so long.

Pushing out a breath, you suggest that maybe you did in the beginning. “I was devastated, Tommy,” you say. “I was imagining the worst things possible, I was having waking nightmares which”—you laugh—“says a lot given the state of our world today. Especially in the Zone.”

His eyes take on that glassy look, the one he gets when he thinks too hard or sits for too long. The same way his brother’s do.

Something you hope your daughter will never mirror.

“But never me? Never now?”

He’s so still, you wish he would move or stand—breathe. It’s still so weird to see him breathing, to see him talking. Instead he just sits there on the other side of the small living room where the only thing that seems to rise and fall is his gaze on every part of you not covered by the threadbare fabric of twenty year old clothes.

“Tommy, I saw you dead and then I saw white, hot blinding rage. But I didn’t go to your brother as a replacement for you, I went because you told me to. If you’re still holding a grudge, I suggest you find whatever’s left of a mirror and confront yourself about it because I didn’t do anything wrong and neither did he.”

“But—“

“Tommy,” you cut him off, “I will always love you but I will never again love you like I did.”

Another nod and he finally does move, readjusting himself slightly in the chair as if he’s uncomfortable. But this discomfort is his own fault. You tell him so as soon as he even dares to say it.

“At some point, Tommy, you have to find closure because we cannot keep having these conversations—“

“Because it’ll hurt my brother’s feelings?”

“Because it’s hurting you, it’s hurting me to hurt you like this over and over again. And, yes, it hurts Joel. If I had ran into your arms when you showed up out of nowhere, he would have stepped to the side and remained quiet and let you back into my life. He still would. He is still afraid that I will decide he is too far gone and too fucked up and he will wake up to an empty bed and an empty crib because I went back to you.”

“Because I’m so easy?” He asks. And, somehow, it’s the first time you smell the whiskey stuck so heavily to him.

At no point during the day have you seen him drinking. Not out in the gardens or the community center. He didn’t even smell like this when he showed up here and you didn’t think his presence was due to anything other than not wanting to be alone.

But that’s as far as memory can serve. Because your attention and all your senses have been occupied by other activities.

Like the smell of the stables when Miri wanted to see the horses.

Or the smell in the crook of her neck, the smell that lingers in her hair.

Pulling her sleeping form tight to your chest, you inhale it again—the soft baby smell that’s going away.

“You are far from easy, Thomas Miller,” you say. “An easy man wouldn’t torture himself like this. But that’s what you’ve always wanted, Tommy. You want to be some complicated soul who saves the day. You already did. Me, Joel, Miri… we’re all here.”

Tommy inhales, deep, and stands to his full height. “I should leave you,” he says, before laughing and pushing both hands through his hair. “I guess I already did that though, huh?”

“Tommy…”

Stopping at the door, he takes another deep breath, his broad back expanding and deflating just as fast as he says, “more and more, I see my brother wearing the same marks you used to give me but it’s different.” A hiccup escapes its way from deep within his chest and he turns until his back is to the door. “He is covered in you in every way I always thought I was.”

“Am I supposed to apologize?”

His head shakes. “No, I-I think I’m trying to apologize to you.”

Looking down again into Miriam’s fragile, sleeping face, you see all the parts of her father truly starting to take shape across her features. Golden skin with a smattering of freckles; a strong nose set against soft cheeks—perfect, gentle little girl who looks like such an imperfect but gentle man.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you say but when you look back for Tommy, he’s already slipped through the door to make the short walk back across the street to his own home.

Purple blooms beneath the golden skin just below his ear, in that spot that smells most like him. By now, it’s about as permanent as any tattoo ever was because you spend your days and nights putting it there.

But not just there.

He has marks along his collarbone, marks bitten into his chest and shoulders and the side of his hand.

Some happened as a byproduct of stifling your pleasure against his skin. Others because you didn’t catch the moans in time so he had to do it for you. But, if you’re being honest, all of them are a subtle way of saying back off.

Not just to the curious eyes of the horny, lonelier women in the compound but to the world, too.

After all, all these bruises sucked into his flesh are the same purple-red of the knotted scars that have risen like unwelcome mountains across his body.

Your way of saying lust-filled eyes can’t have him and neither can the earth.

Your way of saying mine.

He came home far too late with eyes way too tired. He showered, rubbed mint soap across his body and tried so hard to be quiet on his big, heavy feet. But you were already up, eyes open to stare at the wall while you waited for him to come to bed and the only thing that kept running through your mind is Tommy’s question.

“He asked me if I still saw him,” you whisper across the short distance between where you lay.

“You see him all the time,” Joel says lazily, one arm draped across your body. “Hell, you could go see him right now. Just open the window and throw a rock at his.”

“Joel, you know what he meant,” you say.

“I do,” he affirms. “And I think about the possibility enough already so I don’t need to commiserate it with the target of all my greatest fears.”

A beat passes and his breathing begins to even out and, when you ask him if Tommy is really his biggest fear, you hope he’s already asleep so he doesn’t have to answer it.

So you don’t have to hear it.

Instead, Joel pushes up onto his elbow, body coming to hover over yours as he flips you back into the mattress and says, “he is now.”

“Why?” You ask, circling the edge of one of those darker patches etched into his skin. “Why would Tommy be your biggest fear when you know what’s out there?”

He shrugs and the movement of his body slips your touch further down, over the ridge of the scar to shatter the illusion that it could’ve been just another one of yours. They all look the same in the dark.

In the dark, he was never hurt.

“My brother is always going to love you and he’s always going to think our daughter should be his,” he says. “He's always going to be the first one of us that you loved.”

“That Tommy is gone,” you say. You don’t know how many times you have to say it.

“I see the way he looks at you.”

“It should be the way I look at you that matters,” you tell him. “It should always only ever be the way that I look at you.”

Joel smiles, that lone dimple pocketing his left cheek, as he drops himself down across you and all of his weight from all of this world comes down with him as your arms wrap around his neck with fingers tangled into wild, unkempt curls that have gone so gray.

That’s when his breathing does even out, soft snores overtaking him as you keep lying there and looking at the ceiling.

In the dark, he was never hurt and it hits you then that the dark is the only place Tommy lets himself hurt.

Sunrises aren’t your thing but you’re already up and dressed by the time it comes around. Usually, by the time you wake, most of the compound is up and working—playing in the sun where you don’t like to be.

For so long, night hasn’t been safe. Not even back in Boston. But here? It’s safe for you. He was never hurt in the dark, your face was never gray and bloodshot in the dark. Miri never had to see her parents falling apart in the dark.

That’s where Tommy finds you. Sitting on the rickety old bench outside in his yard, watching your breath swirl through the air in the early morning light, your feet kicking like a little kid’s.

“You're up early,” he drawls. He sounds like shit.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you say.

“You want coffee?” He asks.

“That depends,” you say, “you still slipping Seth’s rust bucket”—your nose scrunches—“whatever he has the audacity to call that in there?”

Tommy smiles for the first time in a while. “It's alcohol,” he says.

“It's piss,” you retort. “And no, I don’t want that or the coffee it goes in. I just need to say something to you.”

He moves to sit before you stop him, pulling back further into the old, worn wood as you push your hand out. If he’s hurt about that, he doesn’t let it show.

“I’m giving you until the end of the day to toss every drop of everything you’re hoarding,” you tell him. “The pills, the booze. I find it incredibly disconcerting that we’ve made it this far in a world without everything that you’ve been able to find it.”

“Swee—“

“No,” you cut him off. “I let you do a whole lot of speaking last night, Tommy, and I let you hurt me. I have continued to let you hurt me and hurt my husband and I will not let you do that any longer. I don’t care that you’re a grown man, I don’t care that you blame me for this broken heart of yours, but I do care about you. Because, yeah, I put myself all over him. I dig my nails and my teeth and the heels of my feet into him every chance I get. But I do it because of you.”

“To make me jealous?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

Laughing, your head shakes. “Because I lost you,” you tell him. “All I had was a note that said you wanted better for me and all I thought about was how it really meant you wanted better than me. You pushed yourself out into this world without so much as a goodbye and you had no parts of me stuck to you reminding you to come home. I don’t make that mistake with Joel.”

“He's the better for you.” It’s not a question. Tommy Miller may be a lot of things but he is not a dumb man.

“Yeah,” you affirm, pushing off the bench to stand, “and I need you to get your shit together so you can find the better than me.”

He doesn’t speak, there’s no response even as you step back towards your own house across the street but it doesn’t matter and you won’t hear it.

Quietly, you push the door closed, toeing off your shoes at the entrance and pulling each layer from your body before crawling back into the bed you left an hour ago.

And if Joel noticed, if he woke up, it didn’t keep him that way. He doesn’t stir when you force your cold body back beneath his either. It’s enough to bring a very silent prayer forward from your lips to the same ceiling you stared at for so long last night.

The Tommy that could’ve been died in your heart a long time ago and it’s about time the one who scares Joel does, too.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller fanfiction #tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #wyn writes (poorly)#joel miller x you #tommy miller x you

132 notes · View notes