#like you’ve been sick you’ve been unwell

[captain039]

PART 4 Unconventional Alpha

Alpha!Viktor x omega!reader

Warnings: Heats, suppressants, AOB, light swearing, Viktor’s not dying but still disabled, reader has chronic pain, plus size reader, nesting, Older Viktor, Professor Viktor, artistic reader, age gap reader is in their 20s +, virgin reader, first times, smut? Haven’t decided yet

Notes: Sorry it took so long I’ve been having some bad vertigo lately 😭

Previous part <-

You didn’t end up telling him anything. Just hobbling back to your room, feeling like shit. You send an email to your teacher explaining you’re going to need a few weeks off to recover, you don’t go into details but you get Dr Marion to send him a note too. You’ll do your work from your room instead. You’re not prepared mentally or physically you stare at your suppressant pills and wonder if you could get away with taking one as normal, but you heard the doctor and didn’t want to make this any worse than it was. So it was time to stock up and prepare for a heat, fucking great.

You’re lucky this academy is the size of Piltover itself you swear. There are shops here, a doctor’s office, a pharmacy office, a cafeteria, the teaching grounds then the dorm grounds the grand hall as well. You feel like a crazy survivalist person stocking up on items for the end of the world, but like hell you’d go anywhere when your heat hits, and like hell you’d ask anyone for help or food deliveries.

Viktor feels he may lose his mind if this equation doesn’t figure itself out in five minutes. He can’t stop thinking about you. Your face, how unwell you looked. When you left the doctor you were stuttering, not wanting to tell him so he assumed it was personal only now his mind is running wild with every probability. He’s half tempted to pull rank as a head of the academy and alpha to see what’s wrong, but he wouldn’t do such things to invade your privacy. He also can’t help how adorable you looked in that oversized hoodie like you wanted to be swallowed up by the clothing. He throws his chalk down onto the table before grabbing his cane and storming out of his lab. His brows furrowed in thought before he spots a familiar figure. He slows watching you with your bags of items and hurrying back to your room a frown on his face. His curiousness tugs him to go check on you while his logic side knows he should keep his distance regarding academy rules and let you get better. You weren’t contagious though not that he’s worried he would risk getting sick if he could see you.

“Food, water, towels, blankets” you list out loud to yourself unpacking the food and water and putting it in the mini-fridge you bought a while ago. You feel restless needing to prepare yourself for a heat. What are you supposed to do? You end up sitting down and searching for it on your laptop before you snap your laptop shut as soon as a ‘knot dildo’ shows up on your screen and your cheeks go bright red. Surely it wasn’t that bad? Was it? You pace your room a bit chewing on your nails, you’ve already missed your second dose now, nearing bedtime. One in the morning one at night. Now there’s nothing in your system, sort of, nothing new in your system. You try to think back to your first heat but that hardly compares to now, your first heat was more like a flu, and now it’s the need to mate. Fucking omega genetics. You take a small breath trying to calm yourself, you keep glancing at your bed, hands shaking and twitching before you give in and begin stripping your bed and remaking it into a nest. You’re too caught up, mumbling to yourself getting angry when something doesn’t feel right to even hear the knock at the door. You groan in frustration throwing a pillow across the room before you hear your name in a familiar accent. You look out the archway to your bedroom and see Professor Viktor at the door which is opened. He’s stood frozen, nose flaring his hand shaking as it hovers above the doorknob, his eyes snap to yours in a predatory gaze you’ve never seen.

“Viktor” you gulp suddenly as he takes a small breath.

“I-I’m sorry the door was unlocked and I heard your commotion,” he says voice cracking slightly.

“I- uh” you gulp a bit.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that it was wrong of me” he looks to the ground like he’s mentally kicking himself. Your rationality is out the window the moment you catch his scent. You grip the archway in the wall and shudder before you hide. You lean against the wall panting heavily mind reeling. A perfectly well-aged alpha is standing at your door while you’re like this.

“Miss Y/n?” He calls out and you feel your legs shake at the lowness, the thickening of his accent.

“You should leave. I’ll- I’ll be fine, out of commission for a few weeks” you chuckle nervously.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you” his voice is still low and you run a hand down your face pinching the bridge of your nose.

“It’s alright, Viktor” you call back.

“If- if you need anything send me an email, I’ve left a card on your table by the door ok?” He says before the door closes and you groan sliding to the floor in a heap.

You pick up the small business card noticing the cursive handwriting on the back, it’s slightly shaky though. You stare at the card for too long before you walk back to your room and put it on your bedside table. You continue to stare at it, leg jogging as you sit on the edge of your bed. Your nest is being forgotten by thoughts of the alpha.

“It’s fine, everything will be fine you are an adult and can handle this” You give yourself a pep talk and nod.

You’re not fine, far from fine actually. The moment you wake up you feel like you want to crawl out of your skin. Your anxiety is through the roof and your overthinking is running a million miles an hour. You tried to busy yourself with normal things, breakfast, showering, getting dressed, but you’re in panic mode, you don’t know how to handle your heat, not a mature adult heat anyway, what the hell are you supposed to do? Give yourself orgasm after orgasm till you pass out? Your ‘research’ may have been a little bit too extensive and the sights you visited are now deleted from your history. You’ve always been on suppressants, after the first ever one you said nope it sucked and your mother listened to you. She said it’s easier anyway with not being fully matured, your doctor suggested going off them once you hit 18 but you got into the academy and thought there was no need for such things so, you’ve never had what the internet called a mature heat and now you’re panicking.

It’s the middle of the night and you’re rushing down the halls like a kid trying not to get caught. You’re making your to Viktor’s class you don’t know why, you think he probably won’t be there. When you make it you peer through the window and see it empty, you curse to yourself before going to his office, you don’t find him there either and internally groan. Your mind clicks then, his lab. You’re sneaking through the halls even though you don’t have to, the academy doesn’t have a curfew or rules about night roaming. You know where the labs are you just don’t know which lab is Viktor’s. You peek into each lab like some secret agent looking for enemies. You hear a light chuckle behind you and freeze before turning around. Professor Jayce Talis.

“Professor Talis!” You say straightening up.

“Care to explain your peeking methods?” He asks head tilted an easy smile on his face.

“I was uh-“ you gulp a bit glad he’s at a safe distance.

“Viktor’s lab is number 39,” he says before leaving and you stare wide-eyed before rushing to it. You knock quickly hands shaking your mind reeling again with anxieties.

“Knocking like that won’t-“ Viktor’s stern voice and expression break off as he sees you, surprise crossing his features. You look around before rushing in almost knocking the poor alpha over but you’re too far gone.

“Is there a reason you’re barging into my lab Miss Y/n?” He says frowning closing the door before he turns and looks at you. You’re panting a little heavily from your rushing around, your hands are shaking and you feel your stomach and throat clench up. His frown deepens before it softens and he steps closer his cane hitting the ground softly.

“Calm down” he says gently hanging his cane in the crook of his elbow.

“I can’t- I just- the doctor said the virus was caused by my suppressant tablets because I was taking two because my hormones were going haywire since I was talking with you. The over-dosage made me super sick but I’m fine now I’m off them only now I have to stay off them to flush it out of my system and I’m going into heat and I’ve never had a mature heat I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m freaking out” you say in a rush of nerves. You watch as he processes your words realisation, a flush of cheeks his mouth opening and closing, his nose flaring, pupils dilating. Your hands are shaking as you fiddle with them, cracking already cracked knuckles, fiddling with the hem of your jumper, your stomach flipping, your throat closing over, your breathing heavier.

“Omega, calm down,” he says voice firm as he steps closer his hand on the back of your neck. You let out a small involuntary noise, you close your eyes and let your hands fall to your side clenching and releasing them. You breathe him in, feel the warmth of his hand on your neck and take a shaky breath before opening your eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s alright” he answers voice low and gentle.

“I can’t believe I just blurted all that to you” you groan quietly in embarrassment.

“It’s a sign of trust,” he says a small smile playing on his lips.

“I know, but still, you’re a professor not even my professor, you probably don’t wanna know about that” You sigh your cheeks warm.

“I’d rather you speak to me than be in your room driving yourself into a panic attack you can’t escape,” he says a little more firmer.

“You-you’re right” you mumble.

“Let’s sit you down” he says softly nodding to the couch behind you. You sigh and nod stepping back before sitting down on the two-seater sofa. You run your hands down your face still shaking slightly as you watch him move to a small closed office area that has glass panels. You notice a tea and coffee maker which he turns on before walking back out.

“I have a blanket in my drawer if you’d like” he offers and you shake your head before you give in and nod it. He smiles gently heading back into the office and pulling out a blanket from his bottom desk drawer. He walks back out and hands it to you.

“Sometimes I fall asleep in here” he explains and you nod wrapping it around yourself. You sigh catching his scent faintly on it the material. He doesn’t say much before finishing the tea and handing you a cup.

“Thank you” you mutter as he sits down beside you with his own. You take a sip of the tea surprised at the sweet taste of it.

“You’ve… never had a mature heat before?” He asks and you shake your head.

“I uh researched it and well that wasn’t- a good thing” You feel yourself flush embarrassed.

“The internet is hardly a good place for such things people tend to exaggerate” he chuckles softly.

“I’ve been panicking since this morning, since the doctor told me actually, I tried to busy myself you know normal day-to-day things, then preparing and then I just spiralled” you explain softly.

“Did you talk with Dr Marion about it?” He asks and you shake your head.

“I blanked out” you sigh running your hand down your face.

“I know this isn’t appropriate” you huff softly as he says your name softly. You look at him, looking at his honeyed golden eyes.

“I’m honoured you place such a trust in me,” he says carefully.

“Though if I’m being honest the idea of you conversing this with another has me…jealous” he says and your eyes widen a bit.

“So I’m glad you came to me” he finishes voice lowering again.

“I’m glad you found yourself searching me out in such a state” he says softly his hand lifting again his thumb gently caressing your cheek. You feel your body go warm and you quickly look away in embarrassment.

“Why did you come to me?” He asks and you frown in thought heart racing again. Why did you seek him out? You’ve talked to him every day for the last month and a little bit, those moments of talking about his inventions and you talking about art, his question that made all your talking reality, the heat pad he had made special for you, your silly crush on him.

“In the middle of the night,” he adds gently prying.

“I just- I just came here I wasn’t thinking I just needed to find you,” you say gripping the mug in your hand a little tightly.

“I’m not judging you, little one, merely understanding” he says softly his hand on the back of your neck again, gently massaging. You sigh your body relaxing instantly, you remember your mother doing this to you when you were upset or overwhelmed as a child.

“I don’t know” you mumble your emotions haywire, your eyes filling with tears a bit.

“What do you need or want from me?” He asks and your mind reels.

“I want you to…to stay with me” you admit.

“For the rest of the night?” He asks.

“No, my whole, the whole duration of coming off my suppressants and- and my heat… when it hits,” you say your hands shaking again with your admissions. It’s selfish to put an alpha in such a situation, you probably smell of pre-heat already mixed with anxious omega. He’s older than you too and a professor.

“Forget I said that” you mutter.

“I don’t want to” he answers and you brave looking at him. You shiver at the intensity in his honey-golden eyes, the serious look on his face, it’s different from the ones he holds in lectures or normal life, it’s intense underlying with feelings and emotions.

“You want me to stay with you while you go through coming off your suppressants and your heat” he repeats and you nod feeling your cheeks warm.

“It’s bad I know-“

“Shut up” you instantly silence at the order.

“You need to be sure,” he says tone softer.

“I’m sure” you whisper.

“Ok then” he answers.

Next part ->

Taglist

@donnie-is-here

@imithicwolf

@justmoniesworld

@sseleniaa

[loplainlointhemorning]

I’m fucking it up I’m fucking yo everything Kurt taught me I’m ruining it

[shy-writer-999]

Summary: Luffy gets into an alluring tin of mysterious cookies. One thing leads to another, and he ends up in your room, disoriented and distressed. What will it take to help him feel better? ~5k words.

CW: Smut with a bit of plot. Afab reader, gendered language (“princess”), overstimulation, dry humping, begging, aphrodisiacs, penetrative sex.

MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

Luffy stumbles into your cabin late at night. The door is wide open and it seems like no one else on the Sunny is awake. You’re messing around on your phone, doom scrolling to pass the time and entertain yourself. You wish that you could fall sleep, but it won’t come any time soon. It’s a restless sort of night.

He almost trips over his feet as he crashes onto the chair by your desk.

“Luffy, what’s up? It’s late.”

A closer look at him reveals that he’s sweating and bright red. His eyes look off and he looks sick.

“Are you okay?” You’re worried—he looks seriously unwell.

“I feel funny. I think I ate something bad, my tummy hurts.” Luffy’s brows are bent in the middle and he’s grimacing.

You’ve seen Luffy when he has food poisoning before. He literally turns green and complains non-stop. It’s his own fault, he’s like a racoon. He’ll eat anything, regardless of how questionable it is. Old leftovers wherever he can find them, almost-rotting fruit, poisonous fish, none of it matters for Luffy. If it looks edible, he’s taking it to the neck. He frequently suffers the consequences.

But right now, he’s not green, like he usually is when he’s eaten something spoiled. He looks different.

You get up and walk over to him, placing your hand on his forehead. When your skin touches his, he lets out what initially sounds like some sort of moan, but you shrug it off—that must have been a wail of pain, right? He’s concerningly feverish and sweating bullets.

Does he have the flu? Should you wake up Chopper?

“Luffy, you’re burning up. Like, you have a really bad fever. I’m going to get Chopper.”

“Wait, I feel—I feel weird inside,” Luffy’s voice strains and he sounds like he’s in pain He’s visibly shivering. “It’s like my stomach is on fire, but I feel cold.” He continues almost babbling, so obviously in distress and discomfort, feverish nonsense falling from his lips impulsively.

You don’t realize it yet, but his hand wanders to his crotch and starts to fidget.

“Your stomach is on fire but you’re freezing cold? Did you eat something that went bad again? What did you eat?” You raise an eyebrow at him, vaguely annoyed. He sure doesn’t look like he has food poisoning. Also, there isn’t usually much spoiled food on the ship. Sanji keeps the fridge nice, tidy, and clean.

Why did Luffy come to you, instead of Chopper? He’s distracted, eyes zoning out somewhere and his face wrinkled up. He must not have heard you.

“I said, what did you eat? Luffy!”

“I ate—fuck,” Luffy’s brows furrow and he closes his eyes in anguish. “Ate Sanji’s cookies.”

“You did what? Sanji’s cookies? The ones with the huge note that says ‘do not eat’ on the tin?”

Luffy lets out another wail of pain and shifts in his seat. His fingers squeeze his crotch again. He’s hard, rubbing his massive erection, sliding his fingers over it, squeezing it and playing with himself.

“Luffy, what are you doing?!” You’re incredulous when you realize he’s touching himself. You’ve never seen anything like this before. He’s your captain, for fuck’s sake. What was he doing touching himself in your room, with a raging fever and chattering teeth?

Putting the pieces together, you remember that Sanji had devilish smirk as he brought his special souvenir onto the ship. It was a pretty box, made of metal, covered in some sort of light blue paint, filigreed with gold accents and illustrations of pretty pink ribbons. The chef put an obnoxious “DO NOT EAT SANJI’S COOKIES” sign on the box and slid them to the top shelf of the pantry, almost out of reach. It was, admittedly, extremely naïve of Sanji to expect Luffy to pay any heed to that sign.

You put two and two together. The cookies must have had something in them.

As a response to your indignance, Luffy squeezes his erection harder and gasps quietly. Sweat drips from his temples and down his cheeks. His mouth hangs open, and his pupils are huge. He’s a fucking mess, and you have no clue what to do in this situation.

“’m so cold,” he whines and shakes. “Too c-c-cold.”

This is wildly inappropriate, but… you are kind of turned on, just because he’s touching himself. You have some sort of repressed crush on your captain—how could you not? You usually push it to the back of your mind, though. Pining over him is a waste of time when nothing would ever come of it.

“Fuck,” Luffy’s voice is gravelly and his hand moves of its own accord. “Feels like it’s helping. Feels warm.”

Your heart does a flip. Luffy is palming his cock in front of you, panting with arousal, head thrown back. He can’t help but touch himself. It’s the only thing that’s relieving his discomfort, evidently. You feel awkward, but it’s almost starting to get you going. You’re blushing up your neck and frozen still.

Luffy’s eyes wander to your chest—he’s staring at your breasts, drinking in the shape of them and the outline of your nipples though your shirt. You start to turn red, matching his color rapidly.

“Luffy, what the fuck? Stop! You’re a wreck.” You divert the awkwardness for a second. “No wonder the sign says do not eat! I’m going to get Chopper. You need to rest. Go do that in your room.”

Luffy grinds his palm down his erection and a stifled sound of pleasure gets caught in his throat. You pause, against your better judgment. That sound—the sound of Luffy in pleasure—makes you feel some sort of way. You start to warm up between the legs.

“I want you to do it.” Luffy’s voice gets lower each time he talks. He’s still shaking, freezing, sweating, and unwell. But he’s touching himself, and you had imagined this before. It’s hard to look away.

“What?” You respond reflexively, caught completely off guard. Did you hear him right?

“Want you to touch me,” he whines and continues to rub himself. The friction feels electric. “I think it’ll h-help.”

Luffy’s eyes are half open and glossy, still riveted on your tits. His pupils are really dilated. His fingers grasp and stroke his hard cock through his shorts, and each sound that leaves his mouth goes straight between your thighs.

“You want me to touch you? Are you… Are you sure, Luffy?”

“Need it,” he scrunches his face up. “’m going crazy.”

You bite your lip and pause for a second. If your captain was asking you for help, you might as well assist him… Also, this didn’t feel like that crazy of a request for help, considering the fact that he’d literally die for you (and has gotten close to that on multiple occasions). And you could tell he wasn’t being malicious or predatory about his request—he was just being Luffy, asking plainly for something. If you said no, he would be fine. He may whine a bit, but he’d never genuinely pressure you to do something you were uncomfortable with.

But fuck, was he in his right mind? You shake your head. You want to touch him. But you are genuinely worried about him. It must be 2:00AM, so you need to wake up Chopper. You might want to touch Luffy, but you have to do your due diligence. You care about Luffy. If he’s sick or in danger, you have to make sure he’s okay.

“Luffy, no. I’m going to get Chopper. Just wait here.”

You speed-walk down the hallway, heart racing. What a bizarre turn of events. You didn’t expect that to happen when Luffy initially walked in your room. When you reach the door to Chopper’s cabin, you knock.

No answer. He’s obviously asleep.

You knock again. “Chopper? It’s me. Please get up. Luffy’s sick.”

Another knock. Rustling blankets. You can hear Chopper hobble to the door. He opens it and pokes his little head out, squinting. He’s wearing one of those sleeping gowns and a cute hat. “Mhm? What’s wrong with him?”

“Uh... He has a fever. He’s burning up and he’s shaking. He’s sweating a lot, too.” You figured you’d save the ‘and he’s masturbating’ part for later. Maybe you didn’t have to say it at all?

“Does he have food poisoning? Did he eat anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I don’t think he has food poisoning... But he ate some of Sanji’s cookies.”

“What’s in the cookies?” Chopper is shading his eyes from the dim hallway light. He’s half asleep and you feel bad for waking him up.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe there was something weird in them?”

Chopper yawns. Fuck. He looks like he’s falling asleep again. You can’t blame him, really, it’s way past his bedtime.

“Chopper, can you please come look at him?”

He yawns again. “I’m sleepy. Can you ask Sanji what’s in the cookies and get back to me? I just want to go to bed a little bit longer.”

You huff and frown as Chopper shuts his door. So now you were supposed to play telephone? If it was anyone else you would have chewed them out, but you couldn’t do that to Chopper.

Extremely aggravated, you storm down the hallway to Sanji’s cabin and knock on the door, loudly. It’s an angry knock. A fuck-you knock.

“Sanji. Get up.” Silence for a moment while the blonde jolts awake. “I said get up.”

His door opens just a tad until he realizes it’s you. Then he opens it wider. His hair is all rustled up and he’s shirtless, in boxers. If he wasn’t half-asleep, he’d be blushing and acting ridiculous because you’re seeing him half-naked.

“Oh, hello beautiful.” His voice is scratchy and he’s blinking. “How may I help you? Are you finally going to crawl into bed with me?” He flashes a cheeky grin and you almost slap him.

“No, Sanji. Luffy ate your cookies. He’s a mess.”

The cook’s half-asleep composure immediately drops. “He did what?”

You can tell he’s fully awake now.

“I said, he ate your fucking cookies, Sanji. What is in those things!?”

“FUCK. How many did he eat?”

“How many? How should I know?! He’s in my room with a fever right now. It’s Luffy, we can assume he probably ate the whole box.”

Sanji smirks and laughs out loud. “Well, there’s only one way to fix that. Good night, princess.” He winks and shuts the door in your face.

“Sanji, what the fuck!?”

You knock on his door again, but you can hear him get back in bed. You’re beyond pissed. You’re ready to kick the door down and wring his neck. But… you have a sinking feeling that you know what the cook is getting at. Fuck. The cookies have some sort of aphrodisiac in them.

You trudge back to your room, flabbergasted and defeated. Luffy is still in your chair, letting out wails of “pain” which you are now realizing are just fucking moans. Not to say that he isn’t in pain but… if the placement of his hand is any evidence right now, he’s feeling pretty good.

“Y-you’re back,” Luffy gasps as he grinds his palm on his erection for what is probably the 50th time.

“Fuck, Luffy. What did you get yourself into tonight? You can be such a bonehead. Goddamn.” Your hands are on your hips and you’re looking at him, weighing your options. You could kick him back to his room and tell him to masturbate.

He looks downright pathetic. His face is twisted up in agony and his hand is putting in work. “T-touch me,” he whines. “P-please.”

“Luffy, are you sure?” You walk over to him and place a hand on his cheek in pity.

He opens his eyes and weakly croaks out, “Not there. Lower.”

You tut and frown. “Ohhh Luffy. What am I going to do with you?”

He tries to give you puppy dog eyes and fails. Another erotic sound escapes his lips as his palm grinds on his cock particularly hard. He whispers, one last beg before he’ll do all the work himself. “Please.”

You cautiously reach your hand down and place it on his erection. Luffy throws his head back, hissing in air through his teeth, and fidgets under you.

“Fuck, that feels weird. Feels tingly, like—like it’s on fire,” he whines.

He grasps your wrist and makes you rub his cock harder, widening his thighs. His grip is so tight that it hurts. He’s forcing your palm down on his cock so hard that you can’t believe it isn’t hurting him.

Luffy’s eyes are closed and he’s actually drooling. He’s still shivering, and his cheeks are crimson. Sweat plasters his hair down on his forehead and temples.

The obscene sounds leaving his lips make you hotter between your legs—you squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to mitigate the rising heat, but Luffy’s desperation is making it worse. He’s starting to rut his cock up into your hand.

“Ah, that feels—feels so hot and—fuck—feels funny, like it, it feels good.” You can feel his cock twitching under your fingers. He’s writhing around and whimpering, and fuck, he looks good. “Need more.”

“Y-you need more?” You ask hesitantly.

“C’mere.” Luffy grabs you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up, guiding you to straddle his lap. You freeze up. There’s no way this is really happening.

“Mmmmmm, fuck.” He murmurs in your ear and his hips buck up, cock craving friction through the layer of his pants and yours.

“W-want you to rub on me,” his voice is wretched and depraved. “Feels good.” When you lock eyes, you can see animalistic desire plainly. You’ve never seen him look like this—it’s like he’s a different person; lust is completely driving his movements. It’s like primal instincts took over the second the aphrodisiac cookies went to his stomach.

Luffy dry humps you and it’s starting to feel good. His hands are gripping your hips and he’s doing all the work, dragging you over his cock, pushing you down on it and making your hips roll while needy noises trickle from his parted lips.

As friction builds on your clit, you stifle a moan that threatens to jump out of your mouth. Luffy’s so aroused that he’s panting and slobbering down his chin.

It’s like he’s in heat, the way he humps and grinds on you. Seeing him like this is making you wetter. Your panties must be saturated by now—the friction is already making you buzz, and he hasn’t done much other than rub you on his cock a bit.

“It’s helping,” the words fall carelessly from Luffy’s mouth. He has no clue what’s going on. He’s on autopilot right now, lost in lust and barely cognizant. “Wanna be warmer, ‘m still so—so cold.” His teeth are chattering amidst his moans. Considering how hot his cheek was, he must really be freezing.

Luffy’s hands wander to grip your chest through your tank top so hard you let out a yelp. He pulls it down and starts to greedily squeeze and knead your breasts. Your breath hitches when his fingerpads move back and forth on your already stiff and sensitive nipples.

When he leans forward and wraps his lips around one, you let out a gasp. His tongue swirls around your bundle of nerves and he starts to suck on it hungrily. Luffy is making you wet beyond belief—the suction on your nipple is feeling dangerously good. You’re on the verge of losing it, totally giving in to the nagging animalistic voice in your head that’s telling you to fuck him like crazy.

His erection is huge and hard as it grinds on your core. It feels good—no, he feels good. The noises he’s letting out add to the effect. Your core is throbbing and sopping wet.

“L-luffy,” you moan, finally, as he grazes your clit and sucks your nipple particularly hard. He lets out a muffled hum in response, vibrating your nipple. “Luffy, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.”

He goes faster. He thinks that if he sees your face contort in bliss and hears you moan some more, it’ll fix him. He’s starting to feel better already with each hump. Maybe if he sees you cum, he’ll stop pulsing and his body will stop screaming at him. Maybe if you cum from his dry humps, he’ll be satiated. Maybe his fever will go away.

Luffy can hardly form cognizant, coherent thoughts like this, though. His mind can only focus on two things. First: you. Your pleasure. Your cunt. Your tits. Your smell. He wants to devour you. Second: he’s freezing cold. He needs warmth—twenty blankets, a cup of hot tea, a heating pad, something. He feels like he’s in a vat of ice water.

“Can’t stop,” he chokes his words out with effort, somehow picking up the pace of his cock humping your cunt through your pants. “Need more.”

He grinds your clit just right and it sends you over the edge of orgasm. As you spasm over his clothed cock and soak your panties in ecstasy, he never once lets up the pace. He pushes you back and forth on his erection and doesn’t pay attention to your whimpers from overstimulation.

You collapse forward into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck while he uses his grip on your hips for leverage to rut harder into you.

“Wanna put it in,” Luffy groans and his voice is deeper than usual. “L-lemme put it in. Wanna feel you. Need it. N-need you to—to help me feel better.”

You whisper a hum of affirmation in his ear and he picks you up. Fuck it. He already made you cum. He’s begging for it. You decide to let him ravage you.

Luffy basically throws you on the bed and rips your clothes off. You realize that the door to your cabin is wide open—anyone could walk by and see this. You don’t have the willpower to care right now.

You’re lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Luffy grabs your wrists and holds them over your head with one hand, pinning you down on the bed. His other hand steadies his cock flat on your inflamed, wet folds. He starts to thrust forward a bit, rubbing himself on your cunt, teasing himself before he finally fucks away the ice-cold blood in his veins and stokes that roaring heat his belly.

His cock gliding over your clit feels too good. If he keeps it up, you’ll cum a second time. “Luffy, fuck,” your whimper makes his heart pound. Reality fogs up more and he can’t think straight. He rubs his cock flat on your lips until you’re arching your back, then lines his tip up with your weeping entrance.

When Luffy pushes his cock into your slit slowly, he groans the whole time. “So fuckin’ tight, ‘s like you’re swallowing me whole, fuck. Y-you’re so warm, feels good.”

He’s shaking and shivering still. After a moment of being bottomed out, he starts to fuck you at a measured pace. He’s entranced by the way your tits bounce. He’s still drooling shamelessly, his pupils are blown with lust and he’s sweating. His free hand gropes up for your tits and plays with your nipples. Every time you moan his name, he feels like he’s an animal.

“Nnnnggghhhh, fuck, fuck, you’re—you feel so slippery,” Luffy feverishly grinds his hips into yours, hitting your deep and sensitive spots just right. “Feels weird and hot in my stomach, like s-something’s gonna happen.”

“Luffy, it feels too good,” you keen his name and squirm. “’m gonna cum soon.”

“W-wanna see,” he chokes out an answer between breathless thrusts.

He brushes your hot and soft spot, and you once again are drowning in pleasure, toe-curling and delicious. You cum, squeezing his shaft and milking out as much precum as possible.

He sounds like he’s hyperventilating. He’s truly going crazy. He keeps fucking you through your orgasm and you start to squirm. The sight goads him on.

“More,” he groans. “Please, more.”

Luffy rocks his pelvis into yours. His abs and arms are muscly and defined, his hair is sweaty, his eyes are totally dilated, and he’s looking at you like he’s going to fuck you for hours.

When he feels your walls clench down on him, he starts to cum. He seizes up and his cock plunges into your cunt. “F-fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m cumming, it—feels too good, feels so good, fuck.”

His thrusts are erratic while he pumps ropes of cum into you. He pauses and looks down at your cock-crazed face, closed eyes, and slack jaw. His cum is currently seeping out of your slit, coating the base of his shaft.

But even though he just came, his cock is already starting to pulse again. That one orgasm? It isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He feels better than he did before, but still not back to normal. The fire and ice in his veins still runs strong, he feels like he's buzzing, like he’s an animal looking for a mate.

You think that he’s had his fill until he starts thrusting again, just as hard as before. After a minute, he shifts you. Luffy pulls out and picks you up again, maneuvering you so you’re laying on your bed with your stomach touching the covers. He gets on top of you and—fuck, he’s heavy. And his skin is boiling hot. You can feel the sheen of sweat on his chest when it presses on your back.

He has you in prone bone now, spreading your thighs wide with one of his hands. When he finally presses his cock into you, your back arches. It feels much deeper than before—is he using his devil fruit powers, or is his cock just this big?

“Fuck,” he’s rasping in your ear. His husky voice goes straight to your throbbing core—god, he sounds hot right now. You can feel his hot breath. One of his hands is braced next to your head as his cock rolls into you. He’s hitting the perfect spot and it’s starting to feel so good that you’re seeing stars. “Your pussy—feels so, so warm and good, I think it’s working.”

You lose track of time while his cock caresses your sweet spots. Before you know it, you’re cumming again. You hardly have the energy to let him know what’s happening. Is it the aphrodisiacs making his performance this good, or does Luffy just know how to fuck? How is he this good in bed?

When you squirm and cream on Luffy’s cock for the second time, he reaches a hand under you and thumbs your clit. He draws circles on it and presses it like a button. It feels like an electric shock—he has neglected it until now but still managed to coax three orgasms out of you. And while you are mildly overstimulated, when his fingers start dancing over your clit it turns up the notch of pleasure inside of you.

“Luffy, fuck that feels good,” a sort of guttural moan escapes your lips and you can’t help but buck your hips up and back onto his cock. “Don’t stop. Fuck.”

You’re keening through the waves of pleasure that he’s pulling out from you while he rams you with his cock. His heavy grunts are like music in your ears—feral, low, and ravenous. Your captain is absolutely railing you right now, and you like it. He more than likes it.

“So tight and, ah, so warm inside, like—aaghhhh fuck—like you’re made for me.” He groans and his thighs shudder. Is he cumming again? How many times is this? Second? Third?

Your mind is in a haze. He’s devouring you like a rabid animal. How many orgasms will it take to fend off his fever? How many hours until the aphrodisiac cookies wear off?

In your haze, filth starts to slip out of your mouth.

“F-fuck me harder, captain—please,” you mewl, and you can feel just the slightest pause in Luffy’s thrusts, barely noticeable. “Your cock feels so fucking good.”

After his pause, he starts pressing his weight harder on top of you, moving his hips at an angle so his cock is literally ramming into your cervix. The sensation is overwhelming, to say the least—painful but so, so good. You’re gasping for air and it’s hard to breathe because he’s on top of you. He’s literally fucking you like he’s in heat.

“Say that again,” he grunts and thrusts with each word but he’s struggling to get them out because he’s barely breathing. “Say it.”

“Captain, fuck, y-your cock feels so good. Fuck, captain.”

He’s somehow going faster, bringing you to another cliff, another ledge of euphoria from which to free fall. His cock bullies your bundles of nerves and your cunt squelches with each pass.

“C-captain, Luffy, please, fuck.” You’re spasming under him again, cumming on his cock for, what was that, the fourth time? Maybe it was the fifth. You’ve lost count. You didn’t know it was possible to cum this many times. You’ve also lost track of what words are coming out of your mouth. “Cumming, I’m cumming, y-your cock ‘s too good, captain, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’s right after you, jerking his hips deep into yours and cumming inside again. There’s so much cum leaking out of you that Luffy’s shaft is obscured by milky white goop. There’s a sizable puddle of it underneath of you. It’s going to leave an unfortunate-colored stain on your bedsheets. You’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

His hips are still bucking though. His cum just keeps… coming. It’s a visceral orgasm. It’s the final orgasm (for a brief refractory period). When he’s done shooting seed into you, he collapses on top of you.

It’s like you’re under a weighted blanket except its Luffy, he’s heavy as fuck, and his cock is in you. And damn, he’s sweaty.

But somehow this is the best sex you’ve ever had. And you have a sneaking suspicion that the night isn’t over yet.

When you protest and Luffy rolls off your back, you use all your strength to open your eyes and check on him. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, his eyes are closed, he’s still drooling but he looks decidedly better.

You bring a hand to touch his forehead again and he lets out another quiet whimper. He must be so sensitive still. Poor thing. But his fever is considerably better.

Sanji must have been right when he said there’s only one way to fix this aphrodisiac frenzy. You wonder what Sanji was saving those cookies for. The day you finally crawled into bed with him?

Pfffft. No, thank you. After round six or seven with Luffy, you’ll never look back. You truly didn’t expect your captain to fuck like this. Or to like being called captain when his cock is in you.

“Luffy, are you doing ok?”

He hums in response.

“Use your words. Luffy, are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Feels a lot better.”

When his chest slows, he starts to sleep. You’re left on your bed with a puddle of cum under (and inside) of you, and your captain sound asleep like a rock next to you. And fuck, the door is still open.

Hopefully no one heard that. Even if they had heard, oh well. Too late now to stress over it.

You close the door and turn off the light. Then, you get cleaned up and put your pajamas back on.

Luffy may be sound asleep, but you shove him around so he’s at a decent angle. You fall asleep together on your bed, cuddling, and sticky with sweat (and cum).

Of course, no more than two hours later, Luffy is awake and his cock is throbbing again. He tries to touch himself and make the heat go away but it isn’t working. So… he wakes you up. And that’s how rounds eight, nine, and ten go.

When his fever finally goes away, he’s left with a long-lasting craving that he can only satiate one way: you.

It should go without saying, but the next day you literally cannot walk. You hobble around, trying to play it off like you slept weird or something. Sanji rubs the whole thing in your face.

“How was last night, angel?” His smirk is sly and smug, teasing and suggestive.

“Sanji. Please. Not right now.”

“Do you want me to get more of those cookies sometime? Maybe we can eat them next?” He winks and you blush.

“Fuck off, Sanji.”

The chef chuckles and saunters away. He’s never going to let you live that down.

thank you for reading!!! ive been feeling a certain way about luffy recently. its just his fucking muscles in wano that have me in a chokehold. muscle make brain go brrrrrrrrr.

here's my masterlist and my posting schedule for october!

i'm posting every day from now until halloween!

finally, trick or treat? (tumblr links)

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

For King and Kin

22/12: Party and Position Changes - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, smut, prince regent aemond, doggy

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

“She is of a weak disposition, I heard. Perhaps she is with child.”

“The Prince Regent certainly needs an heir.”

“He has looked sour since his Lady Wife left the celebrations.”

Aemond scoffed from his spot at the high table, circling a finger over the rim of his cup, half-filled with wine. They spoke as if he did not hear them, whispering such gossip. It was infuriating.

It was true that his lady wife suffered from sickness, especially in the mornings, but not exclusively. The maesters had told him in quiet confidence that they suspected she was with child, but that it was sensible to wait until the quickening to confirm.

What an excruciating wait.

She had graced the court with her presence earlier in the evening, but when she began to feel her stomach churning, she need only pay him a furrow of her brows in pain and he was more than happy to allow her rest if she needed it.

He was willing to carry her even, excuse himself from the celebrations himself. But she reassured him she was still able to walk, with a small, amused smile.

Even with the conqueror's crown planted firmly upon his head, all he could think of was the sweet curve of his wife's body in his. How warm she is. How smooth her skin. How plush her thighs. How tight her—

“Your Grace.”

Aemond blinked, swallowing thickly as he felt his breeches tighten at the mere tangent his mind was about to embark upon. Nothing softened him faster than the sight of Ser Tyland Lannister though, smug and stood tall as if he himself had been crowned instead of him.

“I wish to congratulate you on your Regency. As always your council will remain steadfast and trustworthy. And should you ever desire a Hand—”

“Thank you, Ser Tyland,” Aemond half-smiled, half-grimaced, “your loyalty is appreciated.”

Aemond nodded curtly to Ser Tyland, signalling the conversation was over, though the Lannister lingered a moment too long for Aemond’s liking before finally bowing and stepping away. 

His good eye drifted across the festivities. Everyone was drunk at best, smiles too wide, laughter too hollow, and he was overcome with the sudden desire to leave it all behind. He glanced in his mother’s direction as he pushed his chair out, her brown eyes wide with curiosity and judgement perhaps. 

She had given him no other look since Rook’s Rest.

“I believe they’ve seen enough of me tonight,” Aemond said, his tone firm. “The realm will not crumble if its Regent retires an hour early.”

“Aemond–”

“Mother,” he interrupted, his voice low but final.

It was only in the hall where he felt he could finally breathe. Air flowed easily, no longer stifled by the pomp and proper of the evening he had just sought to leave. He opened the heavy door to their chambers and stepped inside. The fire had burned low and she was already in bed, lying on her side, her hair spilling over the pillow.

“You left early,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Her eyes opened slowly, and a small smile curved her lips. “And yet you followed.”

As he reached the bed, she shifted to sit up, the blanket pooling around her waist. “I thought you’d stay longer. Your mother will have words, I’m sure.”

“She always does,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, her fingers grazing her stomach in that way that had haunted him all evening. “No,” she said softly. “Just…tired.”

He hummed, “when will the maesters give their opinion?”

She looked up at him then, her expression caught somewhere between apprehension and hope. “They said it would be unwise to speculate for a few more weeks,” she replied. “But I am aware patience is not your strong suit, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “It is not.”

“You’ve waited for so much, Aemond,” she said softly, her voice warm and soothing, eyes glancing up at the conqueror’s crown sat atop his head. “A little longer won’t harm you.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, crawling over the bed towards her delicate form, pressing his face to her stomach with his hands on her hips, “spare me, dear wife. Have the maesters forbade coupling? I do not think I can wait.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair as she let out a soft laugh. “No,” she said, “but we must be careful. They warned against anything too…strenuous. Until we know for certain.”

“I am no beast,” he muffled against her shift, bunching it up as if desperate to touch her flesh, “I know restraint.”

“I seem to recall differently,” she countered with a teasing lilt.

With a hand to his chest, she pushes him back, enough to be able to straddle his lap as he sits with his back against the bed frame. For a moment his pupil widened slightly and she relished in the warm pride that spread through her at his reaction. 

She wasted no time. Unlacing his breeches was the simple part, but in this position, face to face, it was novel and intimate, more than usual. It was always Aemond on top, commanding her body to his. She wasn't sure how her husband was likely to cope with the change.

His breath hitched, eye closing as she pulled his cock free and worked him to full hardness, her slight palm massaging the ruddy tip, knowing what he liked. He was surely about to speak before she rose her hips, and the tip of him kissed her waiting slit, and slowly, slowly took her husband to the hilt.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, her hands braced against his chest as she guided them both into a steady rhythm. Aemond’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh as he resisted the urge to take control. He let her lead, his lips parting as a low groan escaped him.

“Ābrazȳrys” his voice caught, his eye blazing as he gazed up at her. “You are perfection.”

She leaned forward, her fingers threading through his silver hair, and pressed her lips to his. The dark crown brushed her fingertips, and in her annoyed breath, she slipped it from his head onto the bed. An action only the wife of the Prince Regent in this intimate moment would ever get away with.

Their breaths mingled, their shared movements growing more heated, more desperate. It felt good to roll her hips against him, each slide home was easy, aided by her unending desire to please him. But soon, she began to slow, the strain in her thighs becoming too much.

Her brows furrowed, her rhythm faltering as she let out a shaky breath. “Aemond.”

He must have felt the shake, as he was already moving her off his lap, “enough. Allow me.”

He guided her off him carefully, laying her down on her side before helping her onto her hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and for a moment, uncertainty flickered across her face.

Her cheeks burned as he pulled the shift over her backside, pulling her legs apart so he might see the wetness that glazed her womanhood. She felt exposed and utterly at his mercy in such a compromising position.

Not to mention, this was uncharted territory.

“We’ve never…” she began, her voice trailing off.

Aemond smirked, his fingers trailing down her spine. “No,” he murmured, his tone low, “but we will now.”

He positioned himself behind her, and watched with curiosity and admiration, as for from this angle, he was able to watch himself disappear inside, swallowed by her silky walls. She gasped in turn, this was deeper than she had ever felt him, with her spine curved and backside held against him. Her fingers clutched the sheets as his pace began slow enough, before his restraint began to ebb away.

“Alright?” he rasped, leaning forward to press kisses along her shoulder, his voice rough with both pleasure and concern.

Her hips instinctively pushed back, “don't stop…”

Her approval shocked him, but ignited his confidence all the same as he began to push into her with renewed vigour. She was surprised at how much she liked it, the way he fit against her, the way his hands held her so firmly. It felt raw, intimate, and utterly consuming.

His hands slid up to her waist as he felt her peak quiver through her body, her walls spasming around him and in the force of it, her arms gave out and she pressed her front to the sheets. She swore she felt the palm of his hand on her lower stomach, stroking lovingly as he reached his, pushing hot, pearly ropes of his release so much inside her, that she felt it dribble down her thigh.

Aemond helped her shift onto her side, gathering her into his arms as they both caught their breath. His hand instinctively returned to her stomach, his thumb brushing over the soft skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You will let me know once the maesters give their opinion, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, leaning into him. “But tonight, you are Prince Regent. Let us celebrate that.”

Aemond shook his head, his lips curling into a rare, genuine smile. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his wife, who had managed to calm the storm in him more times than he cared to admit.

“Tonight, I am your husband. Nothing else matters.”

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

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[cirambay-stories]

Sitter

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

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

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

Word count: 6.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.

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

“Easy, easy,”

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

It’s Joel Miller.

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

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

Well, just your father. Not Joel though.

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

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

“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.

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

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

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

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

“And before that?”

“Just a scratchy throat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles. “Yes or no?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not working.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

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

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

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

“Unrelated to you.” he hissed in defense.

You scoff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”

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

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

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

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

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

You wince. “What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joooooel,”

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

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

“What are your pants made of, steel?”

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

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

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

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

Joel groans.

“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”

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

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

“I don’t, but, sure,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel nods.

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

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

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

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

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

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

Just like in the movie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[silverfairywings]

— IN THE WAKE OF FLAMES. PT III

eris vanserra x archeron!reader

summary: even before you became fae, your favourite season was autumn. it’s a little hard to hide this when your least favourite newly appointed high lord has made it his life’s mission to be the most annoying male in your life.

a/n: sorry for such a long break!! pls let me know what u think and again if you’d like to be added to the tag list send me a message or ask as I rarely check my notifs and go back to them. also sorry abt the cliffhanger uhmmmm also unedited ok bye

“You look like crap.”

Your eyes flutter open to see Mor scrunching up her face as she peers at you from her seat across your own at the dining table. It takes a second for her words to register and you throw a belated scowl her way.

“Good morning to you too,” you mumble, sitting up to continue swirling your spoon around your bowl of barely eaten oatmeal. Your appetite seems to have vanished over the past week, but you try and force a spoonful down your throat, nearly gagging.

Mor narrows her eyes at you and her lips press into a thin line of concern. “No, you seriously look like crap. You’re not eating lately and you were literally asleep at the table when I got here.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” you say, defensively. “I was resting my eyes.”

“You sound like Cassian after a three hour afternoon nap.”

“I’m just having a little trouble sleeping.” You set your spoon down and push the offending bowl away from you before slumping in your seat. You brush off her skeptical look with a wave of your hand. “I’m always like this after absorbing Fae magic.”

And over the last few days you’ve been absorbing a lot. All in an attempt to find out as much as you could about the Fae rebel group that had been attacking the borders of multiple Courts, in order to weaken them and make a point against you.

Well, you and your sisters. Not all of Prythian was accepting of Feyre for how she was Made, and even less so of you and Nesta and Elain. Instead, they viewed you as unnatural mutations and the whispers had only become worse after the War. It seemed that the lack of conflict looming over Prythian was unacceptable in their eyes.

With the help of your powers and Azriel’s shadows, you were closer than ever to finding them. Truthfully, the idea that there were Fae out there who hated you didn’t bother you so much in the sense of feeling like outcasts, but you couldn’t lie. They were starting to be a giant pain in your ass.

“You’re never like this,” Mor scoffs, gesturing to the bags under your eyes and the hollowness of your cheeks. As her voice raises, the pounding of your head gets more intense and you attempt to hold back a grimace. “Why is it affecting you so much this time?”

“It’s the type of magic I’m absorbing,” you practically whine, abandoning all pretences of being okay and allowing your shoulders to drop. “It’s so angry and harsh and impure, Mor! It’s literally making me sick because I have nowhere else to redirect it.”

At that moment Rhysand and Feyre walk in to join you at the table.

Rhysand, having overheard you, chimes in as he reaches for a plate of fruit. “Good news, our little Siphon,” he nudges you lightly, the nickname making you scrunch your nose up in mock annoyance. “We have enough information now to move forward using Az and Cass and resources from other Courts. The only thing we need you to do now is rest.”

Rhysand’s upbeat tone brings a weak smile to your face. You know that he’s being flippant to make you feel better, like he always does when you’re stressed or unwell and you’re nothing but appreciative as he whistles under his breath, nonchalantly piling some fruit onto a plate for you.

“You should have been resting days ago,” Feyre eyes you from beside Rhys with furrowed brows, taking in your tired form. “We told you yesterday would be too much.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Give me a couple hours and I’ll be fine for the meeting in Summer.”

Mor snorts and looks up at you, amused. When you raise an eyebrow, her smile drops into an incredulous expression. “You’re not serious.”

“I need to be there to discuss what I siphoned from that knife we found at the border of Dawn,” you say, holding up a hand and rushing out the rest of your words when Feyre opens her mouth to speak. “And Rhys promised me I would be there since it’ll be all the High Lords, Court informants and even soldiers. I couldn’t possibly not go.”

Feyre sighs, sensing that you’re not going to back down. She nods slowly, pointing at your plate. “Finish all of your breakfast and your lunch later on and then you can go.”

You let out a breath, feeling nauseous when Rhys slides your plate closer to you and simply shrugs when you glare at him. Traitor, you speak to him in your mind. He suddenly becomes very interested in a strawberry.

“Watch me,” you say confidently, waving your fork at Feyre who rolls her eyes at you and goes back to her own breakfast.

Summer court is your least favourite court at the best of times, though you’d never admit that to sweet and kind Tarquin, who’s arguably one of your favourite High Lords.

The beautiful, shimmering lagoons aren’t of interest to you as large bodies of water have always unsettled you. The warm breeze that everyone welcomes always reminds you of the times you had to suffer through sweltering heat when foraging for food with Feyre in your adolescence. You’ve always preferred a colder climate and appreciated a more muted daylight.

Considering your current health, the ripples in the water make you dizzy and the light salty breeze nearly brings your breakfast and lunch up.

You’re thankful for the sheer, thin material of the sage coloured dress that Nuala and Cerridwen chose for you because you suddenly feel a sheen of sweat covering your body.

“Are we done sightseeing?” you ask weakly, desperate to be inside already.

Elain turns to you and winces. “You don’t look too good….”

“Aw, thank you, Elain.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she tuts, coming over to fan your face with her hands. You swat them away, sputtering and try to catch Rhysand’s attention to move things along. He reluctantly agrees and gestures everyone to move along, too used to your aversion to Summer.

As you all enter the palace made of gleaming marble, you hang further back to avoid the watchful eyes of Feyre who seems to be waiting to send you right back home to rest.

The palace is beautiful and you push down your nausea to look around and take in the tall arched windows. The jewelled embellishments adorning the frames trail higher and higher and you crane your neck to see them.

This turns out to be a mistake when your vision starts to blur and another wave of nausea causes your steps to falter, the world tilting sharply.

A firm hand grips your elbow in an all too familiar fashion, steadying you before you’re sent flying to the ground. Another hand settles around your waist where the cutout of your dress exposes your now damp skin, glittering with sweat.

You look up and find Eris’ amber eyes locked onto your own.

“Foolish,” he mutters, his voice sharp with irritation, yet his hands remain steady in their position, holding you up. It’s the first word he’s uttered to you since your encounter a couple of weeks ago in the Spring Court where he’d left on frosty terms. You had seen him twice since then, but it was in the middle of meetings and siphoning sessions and he had barely spared you a single glance.

Your lips part but your senses are too overwhelmed to think of a response before he carries on, lightly shaking his head at you. “You overexert yourself all week and then travel here? What are you trying to prove?”

“I’m fine,” you manage to say, pulling away from him, but his grip only tightens. You can’t help glancing around and noticing that the growing crowd of all the Court officials has separated you from the Inner Circle. You huff out a breath as you register his words. You knew Rhysand had to communicate with the other High Lords with updates, but you didn’t know that included your physical state. “Gods, High Lords are such gossips…”

“You’re not fine,” he says, scowling like you’ve dreadfully inconvenienced him by nearly collapsing. His gaze flickers over the pallor of your skin and the way you’ve started to shiver slightly. “You drained yourself dry this week. And for what? To impress Rhysand? To prove something to him?”

“Let go of me, Eris,” you attempt to snap at him, but even you can hear the lack of strength in your voice. His eyes soften slightly when you say his name without your usual bite. “I can’t have this same conversation with you when I’m like this.”

“You think I want to be the one always catching you from falling on your face? Trust me when I say I have things I would rather be doing,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes.

You grit your teeth at the reminder and heat flares in your cheeks, whether it’s from embarrassment, anger or the climate of Summer, you don’t know.

Before you can retort, Eris sighs and straightens you up, still not fully letting you go. Releasing the hand around your waist, he loops your arm in his own and makes you lean on him for support. To your utter surprise, he doesn’t say anything as he starts walking towards the meeting room where everyone else files in. Despite your frustration, you’re grateful for his strength.

The moment of blissful silence doesn’t last too long, however. As he begins to lead you to where your family is stood and clearly looking around frantically for you, Eris leans in to whisper in your ear. “You need to sit down at the table,” he orders quietly, High Lord behaviour on full display.

You’re about to argue that no one else is going to be sat and he immediately catches this, cutting you off. “Don’t be stubborn for once in your life,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear, making you shiver more than you already were. “Please?”

You quickly turn your head to meet his, shocked at the pleading in his voice. You didn’t realise how close this would bring your own face to his and words leave you. Thankfully, you’ve reached your family as you hear Cassian’s loud voice and it snaps you out of your little bubble.

“Finally!” he exclaims, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “We were about to send a search and rescue team, thinking you’d finally collapsed.”

“Why didn’t you?” Eris asks, coldly.

Cassian merely rolls his eyes at Eris’ attitude and gestures at Azriel.

Feyre comes forward to take your other arm in hers and explains. “Azriel’s shadows informed us that you were with her, Eris.” She smiles warmly and sincerely at him and Rhysand nods at him in recognition of his actions. “Thank you for looking after my sister.”

Eris shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet. I foresee many falls in her near future that I’m sure I won’t be present for.”

Feyre’s mouth twitches, but she quickly smoothes her face into an expressionless one when you frown at her and she busies herself with disentangling you from Eris.

He takes a step back, dark and fiery hair catching the sunlight through the tall windows and glances at you once more, not breaking eye contact, yet his words are directed towards Feyre. “Just make sure she sits down. The Night Court doesn’t need a martyr,” he says drily, before walking away.

Your mouth goes dry at the double meaning in his words, but you can’t shake off the shock at seeing genuine concern in his eyes. You must have looked practically near death, but you appreciated it all the same and you don’t even realise your eyes are lingering on him as he walks away until Feyre sits you down next to Nesta.

Your older sister raises an eyebrow at you, always so intuitive and you swat weakly at her to look away from you. Cassian’s eyes flit back and forth between you two, confused.

Before he can say anything, the meeting commences and you feel a shift in the energy of the room, full to the brim of Court officials, emissaries, a few warriors and of course, the High Lords around the table.

Your turn to speak comes fairly quickly since the most information regarding the Rebels is from you and Azriel. As per Rhysand’s instructions, you don’t go into any details regarding your siphoning powers, instead just sharing the information you gained due to them. You try to ignore the way people are staring at your weak form, but you continue to speak with all the strength you can muster. Evidently, you’re doing a convincing job as people start to nod, satisfied and scribble things down.

When Azriel’s turn arrives, you zone out a little, already having heard everything a few times over. Your ears only perk up when everyone is discussing plans of action against the Rebels and a question is asked in your general direction.

“Who are we thinking is to be at the front lines of this hypothetical mission?” The question comes from one of the Spring Court advisors, Vaelith, an older Fae with silver hair gathered in one long braid down his back.

His gaze lingers on you for only a split second before moving onto Rhysand and you feel compelled to answer. “Myself and Azriel,” you blurt out, before you can think twice. “And others of course, but the two of us are the most familiar with-”

“We’re all aware of the Shadowsinger’s abilities,” Vaelith interrupts you, holding up a hand to stop you from talking. You hold back a scowl. “What makes you suitable to lead such a mission aside from your… familiarity with a selection of items left behind by these Rebels?”

“I’m more than able to-” you cut yourself off and swallow, gaining yourself a second to think of a way to defend yourself without giving away your powers, as per your High Lord’s request.

Careful, Y/N

Rhysand’s voice sounds clear as day in your head and you try not to wince at the volume considering the silence of the rest of the room. The other High Lords knew of your powers, but Rhysand had requested they keep it to themselves, even from their own Court officials. Whether or not Rhysand had used his Daemati abilities to ensure this, you didn’t want to know.

“I’m more than able to assist in a plan of action,” you continue firmly, voice hardening. “I’m not sure if you remember a certain War we just had, but you may wish to remind yourself who was at the front lines of that.”

A few laughs break the tense silence and some people start muttering, slowly raising the volume of the room. You almost don’t hear Vaelith’s next words. “You haven’t really answered my question.”

“Let’s use our senses, Vaelith,” a voice rings out from further down the table and you’re startled to realise that Eris is speaking up. The room finally quietens down and you sit up impossibly straight, surprised that Eris is about to defend you.

You couldn’t be more wrong.

He only spares you a fleeting glance, but even from your seat you could see it’s full of amusement and mocking. The thing that surprises you is that the mocking is directed at you. “Look at her. Are you really questioning the abilities of a female who barely has the strength to sit up in her seat, let alone fight?”

Your stomach drops, a ball of humiliation unfurling in your chest as he continues to speak.

“I’d like to believe Rhysand has more sense than to send someone on the frontlines who would just be doing the rebels a favour,” Eris drawls, raising an eyebrow at Rhys, still avoiding your gaze.

Rhysand nods. “I can assure you I’ll only be sending my strongest soldiers, Vaelith,” he smirks, faintly, as though the implication he’d do anything to suggest otherwise is laughable. “Now may we discuss matters of actual importance? Tarquin, what have your soldiers been preparing?”

The tension dissolves almost immediately, but you’re still shellshocked, shaking with anger rather than weakness now. It’s as though you’ve been pumped with a burst of adrenaline and it doesn’t seem to be dampening.

After the conversation has shifted to a completely different subject, you shift from your seat as discretly as possible and mutter to Nesta that you need some air before standing up.

You look at the High Lord of Autumn before you walk away, but it only infuriates you more. Eris doesn’t look anywhere near you, but his jaw is clenched all the same, as though he can feel you glaring at him.

Mor catches your arm as you’re walking out and hisses in your ear. “You’re still not well,” she turns her body fully towards you. “Wait for me to come with you.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, shaking your head and clenching your fists to keep them from trembling as you speak through gritted teeth. “I feel suddenly energised. I’ll only be outside.”

Mor gives you a once over and is clearly satisfied with the fact that you’re unlikely to collapse again as she nods and releases your arm, allowing you to rush through the crowd of people and push through the guards.

You walk briskly away from the doors of the meeting room and further down the empty hallway until you’re satisfied that no one will hear your heavy breathing.

You lean against a pillar, exhaling in and out to control your anger and keep the tears at bay. Gods, you feel so stupid. Of course, Eris is incapable of being a decent male to anyone, let alone to you. Damn him and his cruel smirk and damn Rhysand too for allowing it to happen.

Brushing away the tears that have managed to fall, you curse yourself for not just pushing him away and allowing yourself to collapse on the hard marble flooring. It was giving you whiplash the way he could be so full of concern one second and practically call you useless in front of a room full of officials the next.

The longer you stand against the marble pillar, the weaker you begin to feel and that burst of adrenaline you previously felt is no longer present. The anger that fuelled you mere seconds ago is now winding you and a rising sense of panic begins to consume you.

You decide to turn around to walk back so you’re closer to the doors of the meeting room in case you embarrassingly do collapse.

However, the second you take a step, a flash of movement in the corner of your eye is all the warning you get before strong arms clamp around you from behind and a cloth is pressed against your mouth and nose, preventing you from breathing. You can’t even scream as the scent of something strong and chemical floods your senses, making your vision blur.

You thrash around in an attempt to use the little strength you have left to escape, but the arms only grip you harder and the world begins to spin. The last thing you feel is the cool marble floor as your knees give out and no one bothers to catch you as you hit the ground, darkness swallowing you whole.

tag list: @fabulouslyflamboyant @deepestmentalityperson @lilah-asteria @kitsunetori @abysshaven @nayaniasworld @rcarbo1 @paleidiot @tenshis-cake @bunnyredgirl @goldenmagnolias @whydohumansss @fandomtrash465 @mrsbarnes32557038 @aaprilshowers @scarsandallaz @-im-fantastic- @cat-or-kitten @annamariereads16 @adelina-127 @onlymexsarah @puddlesplasher17 @eyes-capone @hermaeuswhora

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!jungkook (22)⋆𐙚₊˚⊹*nsfw*

series m.list // taglist request closed

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

//

"honey?"

with wide eyes, jungkook rushes toward you, a mix of surprise and relief washing over his face. you open your arms, and he crashes into them with a sigh, melting against you like he's finally letting himself breathe.

his familiar scent, a comforting mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him, wraps around you, making your heart race.

it's only been two nights, but it feels like forever.

your arms tighten around him, clinging, needy, because this is your husband after all. the warmth of his body against yours makes you realize just how much you missed this—missed him.

"what are you doing here? where’s zion—" he starts, his voice a little rough, but you cut him off by pulling away slightly, just enough to place the back of your hand on his forehead. your eyes widen as you feel the heat radiating from his skin, a small gasp escaping your lips.

"yoongi and jaehyun told me you were being a complete douche to them," you snicker, trying to hide the concern creeping in. "said you're sick and refusing to rest or go home. what good is it being here when you're sick and being mean, huh?"

jungkook opens his mouth to defend himself but you cut him off to continue.

"so, i dropped zion off at my parents and drove three hours to tell my husband to get his ass home."

jungkook pouts, his lower lip jutting out in that familiar way that always gets to you, but you hold firm.

"i’m not that sick—"

"i packed your bags and took everything from your hotel room," you interrupt, crossing your arms. "let’s go home."

he hesitates, glancing to the side like he’s about to argue, but then you give him a sharp look. your gaze says everything—there’s no way he’s getting out of this one.

he lowers his head in defeat, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, “no, you’re right. my wife is always right.”

when you get home, jungkook heads straight for a hot, steamy shower. the sound of water rushing through the pipes filling the quiet house. while he’s in there, you start on the soup you promised. truth be told, you’ve been feeling unwell, too. nothing too serious, but enough to worry about zion getting sick. that’s why you dropped him off with your parents before making the long drive.

you aren’t exactly sure what’s wrong with you.

food poisoning? flu season? you don’t know.

but today, you’re feeling a little better than yesterday, which is something. after all, you only threw up twice during the three-hour drive to jungkook and—surprisingly—none on the way back. that’s a win in your book.

as you stir the soup, you hear the shower turn off, signaling that jungkook’s done. turning off the stove, you wipe your hands and head back to your room where jungkook is changing into comfier clothes. he’s standing in front of the bed, pulling on a baggy white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. his hair is still damp, clinging to his forehead in little dark strands, and he gives you a tired smile as he crawls into bed.

you walk over, lifting the covers and tucking him in like he’s a child who needs pampering.

“yoongi said you ate before i came,” you say softly, brushing his hair out of his face. “let me know when you get hungry, and i can reheat the soup—”

“i’m all better,” jungkook cuts in, his voice a little congested but determined. “come here, please.”

you shake your head, raising an eyebrow. “if we’re both sick, zion is gonna have to stay away for—”

“no, no,” jungkook interrupts, mimicking your head shake with a frown. “i’ll be better by tomorrow. i promise.”

“you’re literally congested right now,” you tease, pulling the covers up to his chest. “just get some rest, kook. don’t be grumpy with me because you’re sick.”

“i’m not grumpy,” he protests, his brows furrowing. “you just like bossing me around.”

you roll your eyes, smirking. “right. i love playing nurse for my dramatic husband who refuses to admit he’s sick.”

“i’m not dramatic,” jungkook mumbles, though the pout on his lips says otherwise. you try to pull your hand away from his, but he grips it tighter, tugging you toward the bed. “rest with me.”

“jungkook, you need to—”

before you can finish, he tugs harder, and you topple into bed with a soft laugh. he wraps his arms and legs around you, holding you hostage in a cocoon of warmth. his chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he holds you close.

“thank you for coming to get me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the grumpiness fading. “i can’t believe you drove six hours. aren’t you feeling sick, too? how are you feeling today, honey?”

you nuzzle closer, finding comfort in his embrace.

“i feel okay. i threw up twice on the way to you, but nothing on the way back. only felt nauseous… what did we even eat?”

jungkook chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. but then, silence falls between you two, and a sudden thought crosses your mind. it’s almost like the same thought hits both of you at once.

the possibility—no, the likelihood—starts to settle in, making too much sense to ignore.

you haven’t eaten out in a while, and everything he eats, you do too. if it was food poisoning, zion would’ve been sick by now, right? but he’s fine.

jungkook shifts slightly, his hold on you tightening as if he’s bracing himself.

“do you think—”

“maybe,” you whisper. "honestly? probably."

“okay. ___? i think so too.... should we take a test later?”

you blink, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. “yeah,” you breathe, feeling the weight of the moment. “s-should i just take it now?”

jungkook lets out a deep sigh, his thumb brushing gently against your hand. “let’s just... take a minute. lie here for a bit."

when the morning comes, you realize you and jungkook slept the entire time.

as you stretch and are about to get out of bed, jungkook holds onto your shirt. 

“no.”

jungkook’s groggy voice breaks through the stillness of the morning, his arm tightening around you as if to hold you in place. the warmth of the sheets and the weight of his body against yours make it hard to resist staying in bed.

“no?” you yawn, blinking your eyes open as sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. “come on. let’s get something in your stomach so you can take medicine—”

“no,” he groans, pulling you closer. his voice is raspy with sleep, a slight whine in it as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “stay here. too weak to get up. give me kisses.”

you let out a small scoff, still half-asleep but amused by his childishness.

“what do kisses have to do with you being sick and all?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes.

“they give me strength,” jungkook mumbles into your skin, his breath warm against your neck as he shifts slightly, trying to coax you into staying in bed. “come here. kiss me and find out for yourself—”

you roll your eyes, though you can’t help the soft laugh that escapes your lips. jungkook, even sick and groggy, is relentless.

“seriously? that’s your excuse now?”

he groans again, dramatically this time, as if he’s on the verge of collapse. “please, honey. i'm too weak to move. only your kisses can save me now.”

his hand lazily reaches for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he gives you that pouty look, half-lidded eyes and all.

despite yourself, you feel your resolve softening.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, watching as his lips curl into a small, satisfied smile.

“see? i’m already feeling stronger,” he murmurs, eyes still closed but his grin widening.

you can’t help but roll your eyes again, though the smile tugging at your own lips betrays you. “fine. one more kiss, then you’re eating, okay?”

he hums contentedly, already shifting to make room for you to snuggle closer, completely ignoring your terms. “oh, right... totally forgot but did you know that morning sex heals me?"

jungkook keeps his shirt on while you’re completely naked on top of him. 

as you straddle yourself on top, he rolls his eyes back at the feeling of you sinking into his cock. 

“s-so tight,” he hisses. “god, i love you.”

you laugh. 

“i can’t believe that even when you’re sick, you’re still horny.”

jungkook shrugs. “can’t help it. my wife is divine.”

you shiver at his words. he hasn’t said that in a while.

divine. 

every time he calls you divine, it feels like the first time. it’s such a simple word, but the way he says it—like it holds all the meaning in the world, like he believes it in the deepest parts of himself—makes your heart race. it’s like the ground slips out from under you, like you’re falling in love with him all over again, and it’s almost too much to handle.

you’ve heard him say your name a thousand times, but divine? it’s different. it feels sacred like he’s seeing something in you that no one else ever could. it’s not just a compliment; it’s a kind of worship. the way he looks at you, like you’re something more—like you’re untouchable. truly, he leaves you breathless.

and each time he says it, you feel that familiar rush of love deepening, like he’s pulling you closer in a way that goes beyond words. it makes your chest tighten and your heart race, as if you’re falling for him all over again, but in this softer, more certain way.

as you lift your hips, you drag out how you ride him. 

jungkook loses his mind every time you ride him but right now—god, is he going insane. 

the way your curves are a perfect fit when he holds you—insatiable. the way your breasts bounce in front of him—is mindblowing. he especially loves watching himself cup and squeeze them. they’re always so full. again, perfect for him. they fit in his hands perfectly. 

you fit in him perfectly. 

picking up the pace, you ride him with soft moans escaping your lips. you murmur his name, leaning every now and then closer to him. you take a handful of his shirt, scrunching and gripping onto it as you throw your head back. jungkook follows the curves of your body with his eyes, tracing the way your stomach winces with every bounce. he notes how you squirm when he thrusts, meeting your high halfway. 

when you let go of his shirt, you hold onto his hair. your fingers get lost in it, and he smirks at every tug you pull. he reaches for you, wanting a kiss. 

“no kissing.”

his heart drops. “you kissed me yesterday—”

“you’re sick.”

jungkook, near tears, whines; “you’re sick! no kissing while you ride me like this—”

lowering your gaze, you look at him with a serious look. “do you want me to get off?”

jungkook freezes. 

“are you sick?” he glares. “why are you so mean to me?”

laughing, you cup his face and squish his cheeks together. 

“do you want to cum?”

he nods, eyes wide. his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t. he looks desperate—unguarded, vulnerable as if he’s silently begging for reassurance, fighting the urge to pull you close. you’ve never seen him like this, and it grips your heart.

should he just kiss you?

“if you love me then you’d be a good boy.”

“i am—”

“then just be thankful you’re in me.” 

jungkook gulps. you let go of his face and tilt your head. 

"honey, i am—"

“are you sure?”

he nods again. 

you blink at him. “use your words, honey.”

“what you say goes, mama.”

with that, you and jungkook continue. 

at one point, your hands are planted on the walls behind him for stability. then, his are glued to your ass. the position doesn’t change—he’s too weak to do more than this. either way, you make him cum twice and he apologies over and over for only making you cum once. you tell him it’s okay, and it’s no big deal. 

he doesn’t have to prove anything to you. 

you know what he’s capable of. 

when you two finish, he asks for a kiss. you tease him, telling him he’ll get one after he takes some medicine. quickly, he gets out of bed, gets ready in the bathroom, and rushes to eat breakfast. the minute he finishes, he swallows a few pills and drinks some water. 

just as you finish getting ready and step into the kitchen to praise him, jungkook pulls you in and kisses you as deep and as long as he can. 

you laugh against his lips. when you pull away, you check his temperate with the back of your hand again. tilting your head in confusion, you say;

“w-wait. wow, your fever went down so much. you’re almost back to normal—”

“see what i mean, mama? morning sex heals me.”

[mockerycrow]

SICK MOMENTS; Price Edition (GN!Reader)

price masterlist

authors note; i’m finally completing the sick moments series after being gone!!!! after this, I only have soap to do. i hope you enjoy, pls leave a comment if you can because i’m not sure the quality of this is acceptable 😵‍💫

[WARNINGS; Vomiting, descriptions of sickness, medical emergency. Secret relationship, Price is worried, fluff.]

You first began to feel unwell in the middle of a ruck march, your throat forming a frog and pressure rising in your skull. You didn’t pay much attention to it at first as ruck marches are generally brutal; of course you’re going to be uncomfortable. Your feet are going to hurt, your joints will be screaming for a break, especially your back. Slowly but surely, making your way over multiple terrains with a heavy rucksack on, your stomach began to turn. Nausea bubbles up in the pit of your stomach and into the back of your throat, leaving you extremely uncomfortable and confused.

You let out a cough, feeling sweat drip down your neck and into your shirt. You’ve already begun to slow down, catching Soap’s attention who had been keeping an eye on you already. His head turns to you as you stumble a bit on your feet, his eyes narrowing at the way you grab at the straps of your rucksack to balance yourself. “You alright?” Soap asks, slowing down his pace himself. Soap knows Ghost, who’s leading the march will probably chew into his ass as well as yours, but you truly aren’t looking well. Your eyes are distant, your expression one of pain. “Mm, just a wave of nausea is all.” You grimace, trying to wave both Soap and the sickness off.

Again, extreme discomfort and even feeling sick on a ruck march isn’t too uncommon, especially because it’s humid and there’s no clouds in the sky, which means the sun is beaming down on you with no protection aside from your hat and clothing. Clothing, which is not quite breathable. You don’t really realize how your vision is blinded until your boot fumbles over something solid—possibly another rock, or even your other foot—and it sends you crashing into the dirt below. Gravity shows you no mercy as your cheek presses into the ground, your bucket hat shuffled off to the side, exposing your head to the sun.

“Shit.” You garble, trying to push yourself up, but everything just feels so heavy and God, you feel so fucking nauseous. Throwing up sounds really nice right now.

So, you do.

You turn your head to the side and it bubbles out of your throat and past your lips with a burning pain scratching at the walls. You feel a pair of hands pushing you onto one of your sides—thankfully not pushing you directly into your puddle of vomit, which is mostly bile—and another tugging at your rucksack. You don’t have much energy to question anything, or even think all that much.

Someone’s hands are on your head and face, doing something that you couldn’t be bothered to try to recognize. It only clicks when someone pushes your leg into a certain position that you recognize the attempt of the recovery position. You try to blink to regain your vision, but you don’t even know if you actually blinked. Something feels very off as someone is pressing a luke-warm cloth to your neck before you find yourself in the infirmary.

Unlucky for you, your skull is still pounding like there’s a little guy in your head using a jackhammer and your stomach is still very unhappy with your decisions, but you no longer feel like you’re melting. Your vision is blurry for a bit and you realize you’re completely laying down. You blink harshly, your lips feeling chapped and dry—and your mouth tastes gross. Great.

Your hand twitches and you try to sit up, but you’re met with a pair of hands on your shoulders keeping you down on the semi-uncomfortable cot. “Easy.” A low, rumbling voice utters softly, a voice you recognize as Price. Your eyes dart to his face, taking a second for his facial features to come into focus. Your eyes trace the worried furrow of his brow, how his lower lip is barely visible from his mustache and the way it’s curled.

“Wha’ happened?” You croak, not attempting to sit up again but you wince at the pull in your throat. “Was hopin’ you could tell me that,” Price utters, reaching over to grab a white, small styrofoam cup with a plastic straw. He helps you sit up just far enough to reach the straw and to not choke. Once you take a few sips, he takes the cup and puts it back as you lay back down. The liquid helps soothe the ache. “I dunno. I just went down.” You mumble, feeling still quite disoriented.

Price sighs, his arms crossing—he’s wearing that familiar coyote brown shirt and you can’t look down, but you know he’s wearing cammies. “That’s the thing, yeah? You don’t go down.” Price rumbles, sitting down in a chair and scooting it closer. His eyes trace your face, frowning as he notes the sweat. “Medics said you’re sick, running tests now. Why’d you go on a march while this sick?”

You blink at him sluggishly, shaking your head. “I didn’t even realize that I was sick.” You croak, raising your arm to scratch the underside, realizing there’s an IV in your arm. You’re careful as you reach under yourself to scratch. “I started to feel unwell, but you know how those marches are, sir.”

Price sighs, his eyebrows remaining furrowed. “There’s no ranks in this room right now,” He murmurs, uttering your first name. Your glance down for a moment, your mouth feeling oddly dry. “They said you were severely dehydrated. Nearly had a heat stroke, love.”

Your eyes shut, a little “oh” escaping your lips. “That explains a lot.” You respond quietly, opening your eyes for a moment. You meet his stare, and your heart sinks into your stomach from how worried he looks. “I’m okay.” You try to assure him, reaching for his hand. Price immediately moves to intertwine your fingers together, his calloused thumb rubbing against your knuckles. “Guess I’m just not used to the humidity, I guess? I was feeling run down earlier, but I just thought it was an off day, y’know?”

Before Price can respond, a military nurse knocks on the door, causing Price to regrettably let go of your hand. His head turns to the door as it opens, a young man walking in, wearing some scrubs with a clipboard. “Oh! It’s good to see you awake.” The nurse greets you, and you return his courtesy with a weak smile. “Let’s see here.. Unfortunately you have the flu, but you tested negative for COVID and strep.” The nurse utters, flipping through the clipboard.

“However, as you did over-exert yourself.. I will have to give you a few days of rest. That means no training, no marches.” The nurse eyes Price as he talks and Price nods. “I’ll make sure they get the rest they need myself.” Price assures the nurse, his fingers twitching, aching to hold your hand again. He wouldn’t let you know, but hearing that you collapsed genuinely scared him.

You don’t ever go down—maybe someone else will occasionally, but no one in his task force ever does and hearing that a ruck march took you out was scary. Price was stuck wondering if it was an underlying health condition, maybe brain related from what he was told; you had collapsed and vomited, and you were shaking. However, they deemed you did not have a seizure. Luckily.

Price kind of spaces out, making a mental checklist of what he can do for you during this time. Soup and other light foods—electrolyte water for sure, crackers.. Heat packs and ice packs, definitely grab you some medicine. Trash bags for vomit. A movie or two.

“John.” You croak.

His head immediately snaps to you, noticing the nurse has left. “Yes, love?” Your eyes scan his face, your hand grasping his once more. You’re shaky and sweaty. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” You ask quietly.

The corner of his lip twitches. He knows you already are aware of the answer, especially when he scoots closer and squeezes your hand once more.

He’ll make sure you’re okay.

🏷️; @kivino @soapybutt17 @microwavedcheetos @frazie99 @narcolepticduck @ch3rrykoolaid @kimdiedlater @glossysoap @thisuserloveshalloween @missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @mushr00mf00d @queen-leviathan @specter319 @theunplannedvariable @spacelia @1117sblog @snoowply @dumb-fawkin-bitch @abigatorchomp @s8nsbride @talooolaaloolla @sstormyskyess @spicyspicyliving @tipsykeen @sweetcorpse

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[strawbeelemonade]

ROMANTIC IMAGINE: Miguel O'hara visits you when you call in sick

i know how to write things other then headcannons i swear. theyre just so EASY. you can request actual fics lmao. promise! This was intended as romantic btw, but you can interperate this however you want!

WARNING: descripion of wounds/blood, description of burns, overprotectiveness,

Miguel lands on your balcony with a heavy thump, his landing was a little awkward from trying to swing with only one hand, but he managed well enough. The Tupperware in his hand looked a little worse for wear, though.

Almost every fibre of him wanted to turn around and forget about this, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to, he needed to know you were ok.

You had called off sick from work yesterday, and you didn't show up today either. In all the time you were working at Alchemex you’ve never done that before. The secretary had told him you sounded like you were in a lot of pain over the phone, so it was obvious you were unwell in some way or another. He’s been worried ever since.

This felt stupid. Over dramatic, even. But he’d gone to his brother for advice, and this is what he had given him: Their moms classic Pozole recipe, The same recipe him and his brother ate while growing up. Obviously Miguel protested, adamantly. he hadn’t cooked for anyone in a very long time. He wasn’t even sure if he’d still be able to… His brothers response?

“Do you want my help or not?”

So Miguel scrounged around the kitchen for what he needed. He squinted to read his mothers old chicken scratch from all those years ago. He put in the work, as uncomfortable as he felt, And He packaged it and come all the way here.

And now he didn’t know how to go forward.

He had never felt more out of his element in his life. As he Stood outside your window with the soup in his freakish claws he realised he didn’t know where to go from there. He hadn’t thought further than this point. What would he say when he gave it to you? What would he even do after that?

He had to awkwardly shimmy through the window with the Tupperware in one hand, almost stepping on a cable stretching across the floor. “Fuck—“

the hinges creaking offensively as he pushed down your open window and he cursed, shutting it as delicately as possible. When he heard your voice ring out from behind him he tensed.

“Uh, Hey Miguel!” You call from the bathroom. He breathed out the puff of air he was holding in. No turning back now.

“…Hey,” he called, not knowing where to begin. “…I brought you a little something.”

He makes his way to where he heard your voice coming from, and pauses briefly by your kitchen counter. He looks down at the soup in his hands.

…He could just leave it here, that would be less humiliating for everyone, wouldn’t it? He knew you were ok, now. He heard your voice, so you were alive. He did what he came here to do. He could turn around right now and escape while you were still in the bathroom.

But something stops him. A little smell wafted by his nose briefly. It was brief. It was faint. But it was there and it made him pause.

So he sits the soup on the counter quietly, but he doesn’t turn around. He walks further down the hall and takes a deep breathe. The smell is clearer now. Miguel gets a bad feeling.

He picks up the pace and pulls off his mask to get a better whiff, and suddenly he’s hit with the all too familiar stifling stench of blood.

No.

NO!

“Y/n!” He runs up to your bathroom door and starts rattling the handle, but the door is locked. He pauses when he hears your voice on the other side, clearer and more effective at preventing him from tearing the door off its hinges—.

“D-Don’t come in!” You yell. “I’m... ngh- I’m a bit busy in here!”

“Y/n, what do I smell?!” He doesn’t need you to tell him, He already knows the answer. It’s pungency rings clear from his side of the door. The tanginess was so prominent that even someone with normal senses could pick up on it.

“N-nothing!” You stutter. You always stutter when you’re nervous. And when you're lying.

“Are you bleeding? Where’s it coming from? Open up!” He starts banging on the door again, his fist unintentionally rattling the frame.

“You don’t smell anything- stop that!” You snapped, annoyance ringing clear. But there was a certain strain to your voice, a painful whine that made his heart drop. “I-I’m just, uh- changing! will you give me a minute? Please, Miguel.”

“Don’t lie to me! What’s wrong, can you not get to the door?” He starts backing up to gauge the frame of the door and… Yeah, he could kick that in, easily.

sensing what he was getting ready to do, you spring up from your spot hunched over on the side of the bath tub and amble to the bathroom door. “No no no!” You lean against the door, heaving. “Don’t do anything drastic, I’m right here!”

He paused and waited for you to open it, but your hesitation makes him start losing his patience. “Y/n-“

“I’m ok, Miguel. S-seriously. I just took a little tumble on the way home.” You swallow back a painful grunt as you lean on the door frame for more support. “Look…” you started. “Now’s really not a good time—“

“Y/n.”

You shut your mouth. ‘Oh, shit.’

the tone of his voice hid a warning. Miguel knew what you were going to suggest even before you said it, and he refused to let you finish. The fact that you were bleeding as much as you were for him to smell you across the house, And you were trying to hide it from him? It must be bad, there was no doubt about that. His brain began racing for answers, for explanations, for names. He didn’t know where you were hurt, god what if it was somewhere vital? Who did this to you and where? Why were you trying to hide it? Did they threaten you? Something must of happened. there was no way he would leave you here, No. There was no getting rid of him now.

“Open this door.” He says one final time. And you can tell it’s the final time from the tone of his words. His voice quaked with fury at even the mere insinuation that he’d ever leave you when you were wounded. That you were even wounded In the first place.

“Now.”

...

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything. And for a second he thinks he’s going to have to break the door open inwards just to avoid plowing over you to get it open. But then he hears you apprehensively turn the lock and he almost breaks the handle from how fast he rips it open.

You stumble a bit, reeling at his strength. and then youre taking a tumble from being thrown off balance, but before you can even yelp out a cry he swoops in to catch you in his arms before your body can even comes close to hitting the floor. “Lo si—! Sorry! Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

from being so close he could tell immedietely that you were running warm, did you really have a fever too? He perches you on to the toilet seat and you wince at the ache washing through your body. God, your back was killing you... and Miguel's hands were all over you. you tried pulling your arms out of his grip, but he wasn't budging. he scoured your front for bruises, cuts, anything.

"what happened, where does it hurt, Y/N, please." he lifted your arms, checking your sides. nothing there... You couldn't bring yourself to answer, all the jostling around was making you go really dizzy... so much so that his words seemed to bounce off your ears. you squint at him. were there two of him before?

"Oi, mami/papi. focus for me. tell me where your hurt." he pats your cheek, snapping you a little out of your stupor. you blinked. his faced was pulled taught with worry, lines creased his skin in places that looked almost painful. and his eyes...

"Miguel... hhhave... your eyessschanged?" you weren't sure if it was the delirium from the pain finally setting in, or if your bathroom light just highlighted the underlying hues, but his tired brown eyes had shifted to a shade of... dare you say red.

they flicked back to your face, they had this wild look in them, like he was angry. but his voice wobbled like he was scared. "tell me where the pain is."

"... M' back.." you mumbled. he tugs on your shoulder to twist you around, making you whine. he apologizes quietly, before turning back to the red stains that were crawling up the back of your shirt.

you both descended into a tense silence. Miguel looked cramped, hovering over you in your tiny bathroom. he had to draw in his arms to not knock into your shower. not the most ideal place to play nurse... but he would manage. Miguel unshealthes his talons and cuts open the fabric like its warm butter. all you feel is a cold draft hit your back, and you shudder.

when he gets a good look at the state of your back his heart drops, what he finds isn't what he was expecting. your lower back is marred with an explosion like mass of burned skin. the center of the wound is deeper and more bloody then the rest, like something fast, blunt and burning hot struck you there.

God.

"Y/N, what the hell happened?" he glances at your bathroom bin and spots your old, scorched shirt lying inside. so you really were changing... that explained why the shirt you were wearing didn't have a massive gaping hole in it.

"Lyla. whats the aetiology for this." she flickers into view next to him, screening your back, and she winces.

"the lascerations have been caused by 1st and 2nd degree burns, the wound has become infected and needs to be treated immediately. the depth of the wound is telling me that the collision was hard and fast, likely a projectile."

"they were shot?."

"most likely. not by any normal weapon though, obviously." she confirmed, "it... doesn't look like the infection has interfered with the spinal collum." she optimistically added.

"will it scar?" he tilted his head towards her, but didn't take his eyes off the wound.

the Ai assistant didn't respond, calculating the most nerve settling response to his question. her silence told him everything he needed to know. "yeah, don't answer that." a snarl was building in his throat, fighting its way to the top.

he spots the first aid bag and its contents sprawled across your counter. most of it was over the counter painkillers, light ointments and bandaids. nothing in there that would help you.

"ok." he drags his hand down his face looking around the room. "Hijo de puta-!" his fist banged against the wall in a burst of anger, the pathetic thin walls rattled underneath the force. "Y/N, what the hell were you thinking?!"

you were stuck in this apartment by yourself, barely able to move or, jesus, even think. the fact that he could have never come… No, that he had come but couldve left here without knowing you were going through this on your own... the thought made him sick. why did you let it get this bad? what had happened?

you don't answer his question, your breathing has started to grow heavier, fevered. the sheen of sweat on the back of your neck had grown thicker as well. miguel reaches out to hold you steady. his mind racing. you can't stay here.

he knows he has to make a call. literally. he lifts his watch to his face.

"Jess, get someone on the medical team to prepare for my arrival." he picks you up carefully and fights to keep his voice from rising, he wasn't thinking clearly. all he could think about was getting you somewhere safe.

it wasn't common for miguel to ask for medical assistance, even at times when he probably should. he didn't like calling for help, he prefered to do things on his own, even to his own detriment. the idea that something could shake miguel up like this, making him ask for assistance, was new. Jessica could hear the tension in his throat as clear as day.

"whats your condition." she responded, concern shining through in her voice.

"no, no. i'm fine." he answered. "i've got an injured with me, they've been shot and need first aid immedietely. its a second degree burn that been left for over 24 hours, its infected."

"...done." she answers. "are they a new recruit?"

"they're a friend."

Pozole: a traditional soup or stew that is made from hominy with meat, you can put in things like shredded lettuce/cabbage, chilli peppers, onions, garlic, radishes, avocado, salsa or limes. (this sounds scrummy ngl i'm so hungry bro)

"Lo siento": i'm sorry (this is when he goes "Lo si-" but cuts himself off)

"Oi, mami": hey, Mama (i learned that mami or mamita can be used in a lot of different ways. native spanish speakers can use it to adress parentel figures, friends that give motherly energy, or it can even be used as a funny nickname for kids. i've seen a lot of people use it sexually in fics, but apparently thats not always the case!)

aetiology: kind of like a diagnosis, but different. its the cause of a desease or condition. idk if it's applicable to wounds, though.

"Hijo de puta-!": son of a bitch-!

I put these here so if anyone has any corrections i could make to the terms I’ve used to be more accurate then I can change them accordingly. I used online translators and articles… if anyone has any good websites for translating languages let me know! i'd be really interested.

[yuwuta]

HOW DID YOU GET USED TO THE HAUNTING, THE WILLING, THE MISSING, THE WANTING — YUUTA OKKOTSU

content, warnings. more of the knight yuuta universe yippee. i got an ask about telling him he’d make a good prince and flustering him, and that struck something in me, though this interpretation of that ask is probably a bit darker/more serious than envisioned... i will publish the ask w the other version of this scenario too. unfortunately for everybody involved i was a theater kid and i did listen to cell block tango and the first half of hamilton before i had this idea </3 i’m sorry if you can tell

more notes. set in the same universe as this drabble, which are all set in the same universe as a full fic draft i have and would love to finish some day lol. anyway, say hello to the gojo of this au 

You are not ready to be queen. As much as you resent your mother, your father, the elders in the cabinet, the system you were raised in—as much as you wish to be a ruler that creates change and peace in your court and kingdom, you know that you are not ready to hold that position. 

It shows now more than ever, with your parents being escorted to a neighboring kingdom for a meeting, and you in charge of the harvest ball. There is china to be chosen, silverware to be polished, candlesticks to be blessed, gowns to be sewn, a menu to be curated, a ballroom to be prepared—and you are sorely behind on all of your duties. 

A lackluster princess does not make for a promising queen. And distractions do not help you become anything of yourself. 

“I do not have time to discuss the lilies Sir Gojo. I am aware they are drooping and that they are your favorite, but I do not control the weather,” you sigh, handing back a scroll to a maid before turning to your head knight.

“That sounded very queenly, my little lady! You’ve been practicing,” he towers above you, with a growing smile and little care for your position. He bends forward to press the tip of his gloved pointer finger to your nose, “I too mourn the lilies, but I am afraid I agree: we have much more pressing matters to discuss. Come along, shall we?” 

You’ve learned to be wary of Sir Gojo’s words over the years. He often leads with a false timbre, or makes otherwise simple conversation into a riddle for his own amusement. Even as you’ve learned when to ignore his games, you’ve also grown appreciative of his light demeanor, and his insistence on speaking to you directly, rather than shielding you away. 

You take his arm, looping yours through his, and allow him to lead you down the courtyard steps and into the grand garden. You put your trust in him, allowing your feet to follow the path he sets, and letting your mind wander. You wonder whether you should set the gold or bronze-trimmed plates for the ball, if the curtains should remain closed or open, if the embossed or embellished silverware would leave a better impression on your guests. 

“Princess?” your knight calls for you. You focus your attention back to him, apologizing for your lapse in attention. 

You expect a smile, perhaps another press to your nose and a light scolding, but Gojo’s expression is much more neutral. “Sir?”

“I said that Lord Hajime is dead. His court will send a representative to the harvest ball, but how would you like to proceed?” 

“Dead?” your breath hitches momentarily, “Was he unwell?” 

“I do not know. The letter gave no detail. I believe the court sent an apology for not being able to deliver a suitor as promised. The family wishes to keep this private until after the harvest.” 

When you look up to him, you see no mischief in his expression. He’s serious, and you feel lightheaded, warm, and icy all at once. “I see,” you say, and pull away from Gojo’s arm, “Excuse me. I—I need a moment to myself.”

“You are sick? So suddenly?” Gojo asks, turning with your body so that his back is never to you.

“No—I… I… I need to be alone,” you confess, wrapping your arms around themselves, curling into your own body. Gojo stands firm, a short nod in understanding. He raises his hand to make a signal; an order for the knights on the periphery who can see but not hear. 

You smile, small, grateful for him. “Please, arrange our finest favors, and ask Ieiri for her favorite elixir.” 

Gojo’s smile reflects yours, albeit stained with more sympathy. “Of course.” 

“And tell the maids that I shall postpone the table placements until tomorrow morning. Should you find yourself with time to spare, let me know if you prefer the bronze to gold trim.” 

Gojo nods, taking a half-step to stand in front of you. In times like these, you feel like the little princess under his watch and care from when you were younger. His presence is frightening, overwhelming, and yet, more comforting and welcoming than your own parents. 

Carefully, he leans down to whisper, “Yuuta and his fleet have not yet returned, he will not be in the knight’s chambers. I will send him to you when he arrives.” You blink in sudden awe, and Gojo smiles, reaches for your hand and raises it to his lips to press a chaste kiss, “Do not regret too long, princess.” 

You hear him before you see him. It’s a bad habit for a knight, you think; you can always hear or feel where Yuuta is, even if you can’t see him. You think he ought to be more stealthy, more secretive, quieter; but then again, you don’t. He reserves plenty of stealth for his motives, stores plenty of secrets in his mind, keeps his words quiet or has a way of keeping other people’s quiet. 

The throne room is cold. It’s your least favorite room in the castle, but tonight, you hope it inspires you.

You don’t sit on your throne, you don’t sit on your mother’s or your father’s; you don’t sit at all. You stand, at the top of the stairs, staring at the seats and the tapestry and the paintings of your forefathers that decorate the backdrop. Behind you, at the base of the stairs, Yuuta kneels. You don’t need to see him to know; you can feel it on your palms with your hands behind your back; you can see it in the eyes of your grandfather’s portrait, you can hear it in the way his knee hits the carpet. 

“You may stand.” 

“I shouldn’t, my lady,” Yuuta replies, “Not here.” 

“You do many things you shouldn’t,” you sigh, steady, “Stand, Yuuta.” 

You hear the metal of his armor rustle against itself. You can feel when he stands; it feels like he’s right behind you, even though you know he’s ten steps below you. 

You inhale, slowly; exhale, slowly. Clench your hands behind your back, and then relax your shoulders the way you’ve seen your grandfather do. Then, you speak. “Lord Hajime is dead.” 

You turn, slowly, and wait until your cape has finished its turn, has settled behind you again before you speak again; a tactic your grandmother was fond of. “Lord Hajime is dead,” you repeat, “He is dead, and I asked you not to kill him.” 

Yuuta looks up to you. Neck craned, hands neatly behind his back, his helmet on the carpeted floor to his left. He does not look small. 

You take a step downwards. “I said this is not how I wanted matters to be resolved.” Another step down, a pause, then repeat, “I said that I do not wish to resort to violence.” Another step down, a pause, “To resort to murder.” Another step down, hurried, “I stood under my balcony,” another step, “and I told you not to murder Lord Hajime. I told you not to kill him,” another step; a pause, hysterical, “And yet Lord Hajime is dead. He is dead because—”

“I did not kill him.”

You pause your descent, four steps above Yuuta. You are only half a head taller than him like this. At this distance you can see the gray of his irises, wide and speckled with brown, without a shred of remorse pooling within them. It makes you sneer. 

“You expect me to believe that it is a coincidence that a fortnight after I catch you on your way to murder Lord Hajime, that he dies?” you question, rhetorical, “I am naive, but I am not a fool, Yuuta.” 

“You are no fool, my princess, and Lord Hajime was no saint,” Yuuta shakes his head, “He was a tyrant. He took three wives prior and treated them all as whores. He alone was responsible for the destruction of the crops in the north. He had only himself to blame.” Yuuta pauses, and you see something melt behind steely eyes. “It was a murder, yes, but not a crime.”

Yuuta’s lips wobble slightly, but the rest of him remains upright. It always goes like this: first his head, then his heart, then his body following—in everything he does. You blink, slowly, and take another step down; eye-level with Yuuta at this height. 

“You did not kill him,” you repeat, leveled with revelation, “You just gave the order.” 

Yuuta’s eyelids fall slowly, then his head follows in a shallow nod. He keeps his neck bent, keeps his head hung in front of you. You sigh. 

“Who was it this time,” you ask. He does not raise his head; you do not wait for him to speak, you dip your head so that your lips are level with his ears. “Megumi? Surely he would have hated the way Lord Hajime treated his livestock. Maybe Yuuji—he has been impatient to prove himself since recovering from his last injury. Or perhaps Toge, he would’ve done it swiftly in his sleep, without a sound.”

Yuuta keeps his gaze on the floor, keeps his words quiet. “Nobara.” 

“Dame Nobara, who strives to replace you as my first blade?” you question, “What, as some kind of test of loyalty to you?” 

Yuuta raises his head, eyes stern, brows drawn. “No, princess. To you.” 

You freeze. Your anger flares, and then subsides to only weak embers as you understand Yuuta’s motives, and Sir Gojo’s final words to you. You’re careful when you reach forward to brush your knuckle against Yuuta’s cold cheek, only the kiss of a touch between your finger and his face; even, still, he shudders, and you watch him melt from head to toe; from his eyebrows to his eyes to his lips to his shoulders to his knees. 

“You are disobedient, and indignant, and ruthless,” you list, voice soft, touch softer as you allow your fingers to graze the top of his ears, adoring the flush that follows, “And kind, and careful, and charming.”

You watch the color stain Yuuta’s cheeks and his ears, you revel in the pout on his lips, and the effort of his breathing. You only wish he were this easy to tame all the time. 

Still, he precious to you, so you are careful when you raise your opposite hand to his face, taking advantage of the difference in your status and stature to tilt his head upwards, lean down and press your words against his cheek, “You would make for a lovely prince,” you tell him, “The people would love you. Our enemies would fear you. The soldiers would respect you.” The kisses between your sentences are featherweight, trailed from the high point of his cheekbone to the corner of his lips.

You can feel him quiver when you pull back, moving a palm back to his cheek to pinch his skin between your thumb and forefinger, “If only you knew how to listen.” 

Yuuta winces, but he does not pull away. He parts his lips to steady his breath, and then to speak, strained, “Please, princess. Have mercy.” 

And for the first time in a fortnight you smile, watching splotched skin stain your knight’s cheeks when you soften your hold on him. You pull Yuuta’s head up further, lean yours down for a careful kiss; short, chaste, the kind you know he hates the most. 

“Oh, Yuuta,” you coo, grazing your thumb against his face, endeared by his wide eyes and quiet whimpers, “This is mercy.”

[merrybloomwrites]

I Can Ease the Pain

Summary: You're feeling under the weather and Louis is there to make it better.

Word Count: 1.9K

CW: sickness, throwing up

AN: My niece wasn't feeling well the other week and napped on me and it inspired this soft Louis fic.

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One thing about you, is you never get sick. You’ll occasionally get a sore throat that bothers you, and you do lose your voice every now and then. You do also get a couple colds each year. 

But you never get so sick that you can’t power through. You’ve never taken a sick day in your entire adult life. You simply never feel bad enough that you can’t continue on with your day.

Which is why it’s so shocking and awful when it finally happens. 

You’ve been feeling rough all day, but you’ve kept going like you always do. It isn’t until you get home and change into comfy clothes that you admit to yourself you’re truly feeling unwell. 

However, you don’t let that stop you. It’s nearly dinnertime, and you know that Louis will be hungry when he gets home. And you know that you should eat, even if you don’t have an appetite. 

Looking through the cabinets you find some soup and crackers. That’s exactly what you need right now so you pull out a pot to heat up the soup. You keep an eye on it, stirring occasionally and making sure it doesn’t get too hot. 

Just as you’re pouring it into bowls, Louis walks in the front door. 

“Hi babe,” he says as soon as he walks into the kitchen. After you place the bowls on the table you turn to greet him. He presses a kiss to your forehead but quickly pulls away. You look at him in confusion, as he normally pulls you close rather than leave any space between the two of you. 

“You feeling okay? You’re really warm,” he says. Louis then looks at the dinner you’ve prepared and says, “Love, are you sick?”

“I’m a bit under the weather,” you reply, still trying to stay positive. “Probably just need a good night's sleep and I’ll feel better.”

“Alright, well don’t push yourself. Rest if you need to.”

“I will,” you say, but you don’t really mean it. You’ve never been one to slow down, and whatever germ this is won’t stop you from doing what you normally do.  

You and Louis sit and eat dinner together as you talk about your days. The warm broth soothes you and you’re feeling a bit better by the time you’re done. 

Louis cleans up the dishes, repeatedly telling you to sit and relax. You’re starting to feel tired, so you listen and let him take care of cleaning up. But just for tonight, you tell yourself. You’ll be fine tomorrow and you’ll go back to cleaning together. 

“Let's take a bath,” Louis suggests, and you go along with it. A warm bath does sound nice right now, it will probably help the aches you’re starting to feel throughout your body. 

Louis gets it ready while you grab clothes for the two of you. When you get back to the bathroom the tub is filled, and the steaming water looks so inviting. 

He helps you get in first, and you feel so serene once surrounded by the hot water. Louis slides in behind you and pulls close so that your back is flush against him. His arms wrap around you and you rest your head back on his shoulder. 

It’s absolutely perfect, and you feel better than you have all day. Louis gently washes your hair before rubbing a soap filled bath sponge all over your body. When the water starts to cool he helps you out of the bath,and wraps a towel around you. It takes only a couple of minutes for you to get ready for bed and climb under the covers.

Normally you can’t sleep unless Louis is in bed with you, but tonight you're exhausted. You’re asleep the second your head hits the pillow. 

Your alarm wakes you in the morning, and it’s incredibly difficult to drag yourself out of bed. You try so hard to do your normal morning routine so you can get to work, but after only a few minutes you know that you have to admit defeat. 

For the first time since childhood, you call out sick. 

Louis finds you half an hour later. You’re wrapped up in blankets on the living room couch, a mug of tea on the table in front of you. 

“Good morning, love. You alright?” He sits next to you and you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I don’t feel great. Took the day off.”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry you’re feeling bad. I can stay home today, nurse you back to health.”

You smile at his offer, but reply, “No, but thank you. I’ll be okay.”

“Alright. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No, my stomach’s a bit off. Didn’t want to risk it.”

“Well you should have a little something. How about toast? Or oatmeal? Maybe some fruit?”

It’s endearing, how quickly he’s switched into this caretaker mode. “I think I could handle some toast,” you answer.

“Perfect. You wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He stands and walks to the kitchen, and you’re surprised how much you miss his presence next to you. But you can’t expect him to drop everything just to sit on the couch with you while you sleep all day. 

As promised he’s back a few minutes later carrying a plate with some toast and a peeled orange. “Thought some vitamin C might be a good idea,” he says as he hands you the food. 

You nibble on the toast and Louis gets up to get himself ready to head to the studio for the day. He checks in on you again before he leaves and says, “If you need anything, call me. I’ll come right back home.”

“Thank you. I should be good. I’m just gonna chill here, watch some TV and rest.”

“I love you,” he says before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You don’t see the concerned expression cross his face when he feels how warm you are.

“I love you too,” you reply with a soft smile. 

He steps away, but not towards the front door like you expected. He heads back into the main part of the house and disappears for a minute. He returns, now carrying a few items.

“You need to stay hydrated,” he says as he places a bottle of gatorade on the table in front of you. Next, he brings the thermometer up to your head, frowning when he sees you do in fact have a fever. Wordlessly he hands you some medicine to reduce your fever and you take the pills, washing them down with the drink he’d brought.

“Thank you,” you say again.

“Of course. Hopefully that will help you feel better. I’ll see you later, love,” he says. This time when he gets up he does go to the front door to leave for the day.

You spend the morning resting, just laying on the couch like you’d planned. But you can’t fall asleep, even though you know you’re tired. And even with medicine, you begin to feel worse.

After a couple hours, what you’re feeling changes drastically. What started as just feeling tired and shaky has now morphed into nausea. Which is the worst case scenario in your eyes. Because colds and body aches you can handle. But vomiting is by far one of the worst experiences you can think of.

You try to convince your body that you’re not actually nauseous, but that doesn’t work. As sweat beads all over your skin and your mouth starts to water, you admit defeat and head to the bathroom. You make it just in time to throw up into the toilet.

It’s an awful experience, but once you’ve emptied your stomach you do feel slightly better. Just to be safe, you stay in the bathroom for a bit, not wanting to move and risk the nausea coming back.

After maybe half an hour, you’re confident that your stomach has totally settled. Plus you’re starting to doze off against the tub so you figure it’s time to head back to the couch. 

Before you can gather the strength to get off the floor, you hear the front door open. You’d be scared, but then you hear Louis’ voice calling out for you. A moment later he finds you and you say, “What are you doing home?”

“Just had a feeling that you needed me. Looks like things took a turn?”

“Yea. I got sick a little while ago but it’s better now.”

“Have you slept at all?”

You shake your head no, and Louis crouches down to help you stand. He leads you to the sink where you rinse your mouth to get rid of the taste lingering there. He wraps an arm around your waist and supports you back to the bedroom.

“I’m just gonna change into sweats,” Louis says as you settle on the bed. After a moment he joins you. He lays on his back and opens his arms, reaching out for you. 

While you’re not normally one for cuddles, he looks so inviting and cozy right now. In your slightly delirious state, you don’t hesitate to lay on top of him. You’re completely flush against him with your head resting on his chest. You can hear his steady heartbeat as he rubs his hands up and down your back in a soothing gesture.

He feels so comforting, so safe, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes is so relaxing. In no time at all, he lulls you into a peaceful sleep.

When you wake up you’re groggy, but you feel better than you had earlier. Louis' arms are around you, holding you close and still rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

“Hi baby,” he says when he notices you’re awake. “How are you feeling?”

“Eh, still pretty crummy. Maybe a little better,” you murmur against his neck. 

“You don’t feel quite as warm,” he says, his hand now touching the back of your neck which is no longer radiating heat like it had been earlier. 

You hum in response, and snuggle closer to Louis. 

“You’re very cuddly right now,” he says. 

Realizing that you’re probably getting quite heavy after sleeping on him for over an hour, you try to pull away and apologize. 

“Don’t be sorry, I love it. This is nice, having you in my arms,” Louis reassures. 

“I like it too,” you admit. 

“Yea?”

“Yea. Don’t wanna move.”

��Well then it’s a good thing you don’t have to. Stay here as long as you want,” Louis says.

“Guess this is an upside to being sick,” you say as you grip his shirt tight, causing him to wrap his arms even tighter around you.

“You know, we can actually do this when you’re not sick,” Louis says.

“No, Really?” you say jokingly.

“Really!” he replies, playing along. “So why don’t we get you feeling better and then have lots of cuddles with no one feeling crummy. As many cuddles as you want. I promise.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Louis keeps his promise, and laying together like this becomes a normal part of your relationship. But there’s still something so special about finding the comfort only he can provide when you’re not feeling well. No matter what, Louis will always be your home, your safe place.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Louis looks so soft and cuddly, I just know he'd give the best snuggles haha

[clockwayswrites]

Both Ways at Once Part 5

WC: 1766, Masterpost CW: discussions of death, vague mentions of child trafficking and rape

Danny leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He breathed in slowly through his nose, counting. He couldn’t let loose. They didn’t know. John said they didn’t know and Danny trusted John. Not with everything, he knew too much to trust John with everything, but he trusted John with this. The other wouldn’t have done this if he had known.

The gloved hand on his shoulder shifted, sliding to wrap around the back of Danny’s neck and give a little squeeze. It should have felt suffocating. It was grounding. Danny could already feel himself settling and responding to resonate back with Red Hood.

That was dangerous to have that resonance.

“Pomp,” John said. His shoes squeaked as he leaned forward. “Talk to me, Pomp, what did I miss?”

That right there was one of the reasons Danny trusted John, he would step up when he fucked up.

Danny sighed and opened his eyes. “He’s— he was a halfa, John.”

John paled. The color drained out of his face and left him a splotchy grey. His voice was strangled as he insisted, “Halfas are just a myth.”

“Rare, very rare, but not a myth. Think about it John. You said that the Red Hood from before was alive, but you know I’m right, the one here is a protector spirit. He died, John.”

“Red Hood is still alive, he has a heart beat,” Superman insisted.

“I’m still not talking to you,” Danny hissed, not taking his eyes off John. “Constantine. He was a halfa. I don’t know what they are anymore. This one is more ghost than human. I assume that the other one is more human than ghost. But put them back together and they would be perfectly balanced and you’ve been keeping them apart.”

John slumped back, rubbing at his face. “Bloody fucking hell…”

“The other half has been unwell, hasn’t he? Maybe just fatigued, but I bet he’s in pain too. His focus keeps wandering maybe. He’s listless.” Danny finally glanced away from John and over to the trio. Batman was, as always, almost impossible to read, but Danny felt sure Batman was tense. He might even be worried.

He wasn’t even looking at Danny but instead at Red Hood, who Danny was sure was avoiding Batman’s gaze. Even still, Red Hood’s fingers were trembling against the back Danny’s neck.

Danny reached up and took the gloved hand, hooking their fingers together.

“Constantine,” Batman growled, but the word sounded broken, under the bite.

John glanced from Batman to Danny and back again. “If Nightingale says that Red Hood is, was, a halfa, then he was. Nightingale’s the psychopomp, the dead is his realm more than any living I’ve ever met and, hell, more than most people who are dead.”

“And what is a halfa?” Wonder Woman asked, still the calm voice of reason.

“Rare,” Danny bit back, showing his teeth. He made himself take a breath and regulate his tone. “Someone who is half living, half ghost. They are a balance between life and death. If no one knew that Red Hood was part ghost, there’s a chance he wasn’t fully formed before, but I can assure you he’s a protector spirit now, no matter if he’s still alive. It’s also likely why the spell did this. There were already two halves to split. The human who was the living and the ghost who was the death.”

Wonder leaned forward in her seat. “You seem certain that the other half is sick.”

“They have to be— it’s a part of themselves that was ripped out and that leaves a wound. I suspect that because the other one must have more of the human side, he’s suffering more of the human affects of the separation while Red Hood is suffering more of the ghostly affects.”

“And your recommendation?” Wonder Woman asked.

“They need to be together. They need to be together and the place where they’re together needs to be Red Hood’s haunt.”

“His haunt?”

“Likely where he resided before. Or it would be where he patrolled if those are different areas. It would be somewhere emotionally important to him no mater what. As I’ve said, he’s a protector spirit so it should be obvious where his haunt is considering his role as a vigilante.”

“Crime Alley,” Red Hood rasped from behind Danny. his fingers squeezed tighter around Danny’s for a moment.

Danny’s arm was getting sore holding itself up like that, but he wasn’t going to take the comfort away from Red Hood or even deprive himself of that grounding point. It would be too easy for him to lose his temper here and really give the Justice League something to be afraid of.

“Crime Alley then,” he said. He had no reason to doubt what Red Hood was said. A ghost knew their own haunt. “We have to get him back to Crime Alley and they need to be together. I assume you have a place there?”

“No,” Batman said, though he didn’t shift. Wonder Woman placed her hand on his arm again.

“We’re concerned about there being a reaction of some sort should they meet,” she explained. “Constantine said that it might be possible.”

Constantine grumbled under his breath and ducked his head with a little shrug.

“If we didn’t know what was going on, sure, that’s a fair enough worry, but we do and I’m telling you that they need to be together until either they’re back together as one or until they fully settle into two separate people.”

“No.” It was Superman who protested this time.

“You don’t have a choice if you don’t want to torture and kill one or both of them,” Danny said, resisting the urge to bare his fangs at the boy scout again. “They need to go to Crime Alley.”

“He’s dangerous. If he is just the Red Hood half of the personality, which you’ve basically confirmed—“

“I have not. I’ve explained how they were physically split. It has affected how their split in motivation only because motivation is what a ghost is, but I would have to speak with both of them to learn how they are mentally and emotionally split.”

Superman just frowned in a disappointed uncle sort of way, as Danny talked and then continued on like Danny hadn’t even said anything. “Then he’s even more dangerous. We cannot simply let someone like Red Hood go. We have to think about everyone’s safety in this matter, especially civilians.”

“I thought you weren’t killers?” Danny threw back at them, saccharine sweet in his delivery.

It made Superman’s frown deepen, though Wonder Woman actually looked a bit amused.

“We aren’t,” the Big Blue said.

“If you try and keep him here you are. I’m telling you right here and right now that if you do not let him go back to Crime Alley then you are signing his death warrant. You might try to claim that he died in jail, but you’ll still be the cause of it. But that’s how you kill, isn’t it?”

“Nightingale,” John warned under his breath, twitching like he wanted to reach out and touch Danny, maybe to hold him back.

“No, really, it is, isn’t it? You want to to pretend that you don’t kill, that you’re better than whatever Red Hood has done, but are you really? At least he’s Honest about it. Red,” Danny said, tugging at the other’s hand so that he had to move up to stand more beside him. Danny looked up at the mask, looked through it. “You’ve killed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they wouldn’t stop. They never stopped. Now that they’re dead, they’ve stopped.”

“Who?”

“Poisoning drug dealers. Rapists. Abusers. Child traffickers. People who threatened my….” Red Hood reared back slightly as if surprised by what his cut off words were going to be.

“Your haunt. Your people. Those under your watch and protection,” Danny said. “See, he’s honest about it. Were all of those deaths in the right? I don’t know. But I’m not sad a rapist is dead. I’m not sad children didn’t get trafficked. Those are the sort of people we’re supposed to be against, isn’t it? Well, us small heroes. You fight bigger names these days, don’t you, Superman?”

“Alright then,” John said, standing suddenly. Red Hood twisted to put himself further between the occult detective and Danny.

Danny patted Red Hood’s arm gently. “It’s okay, John’s trying to protect me. He thinks I’m putting my foot in my mouth and making enemies. And maybe I am. But I’m not going to sit by and watch this hypocrisy. You don’t kill. That’s a damn lie.”

“We don’t.”

“You’ve checked up on ever criminal then?”

“What?” Superman asked, thrown by the sudden question.

“Every criminal you’ve fought, every mugger and back robber and goon, you’ve followed up to see how they’re doing the next day, month, year?”

Superman had that lemon sucking twist to his face again. “No?”

“So you don’t really know, do you, how many criminals walked away from you only to die of brain hemorrhaging later because you punched them into a wall. Or how many died from a complication to their lungs or spine or heart because Black Canary ruptured something with her wail or Flash fucked from contact with the Speedforce. It’s not that you haven’t killed, it’s just that you don’t know how many you’ve killed. It’s impossible to act on the scale that you do and not have killed,” Danny said with certainty.

“Nightingale, I believe you’ve made your point,” Wonder Woman said, still calm, still patient. She was different from the others. She has killed, Danny knew that; she was an Amazon. He remembered his stories from Pandora.

“Have I?” Danny asked. He let go of Red Hood as he stood to lean over onto the table. Danny could feel that snarl building up in his throat again now. The other reached out to touch him again right away. The snarl calmed a little, only a little. “Because what about when Superman has used a building as a barrier to smack an enemy into? No one was ever hurt there? No grannie ever slipped and fell as the building shook and never got up again? At least that would be an accident then, unlike punching someone to death, but don’t pretend your hands aren’t red. Don’t pretend—”

The hiss of the door opening cut Danny off.

The room feel silent.

Danny could see all the heroes tense.

From behind him a voice spoke up, “Well, aren’t you all dramatic.”

--- AN: The mysterious stranger is right! They are all dramatic. Danny was about ready to go for Superman's throat-- literally and just not figuratively. Hope you enjoyed how this all played out! I know people were waiting for Danny to let loose some. Fatigue is hitting me hard right now, so glad to have gotten this out!

Stay delightful, darlings!

I no longer tag, you can instead subscribe to the masterpost!

[freedomfireflies]

any chance we can get asher back for mine!harry blurb? i miss my pookie :(

Summary: The one where you're not feeling so hot and Harry and Asher just want to help.

Word Count: 1.1k

Content Warning: 18+, very brief smut, very brief daddy kink, lots of fluff, not suitable for Ramadan!

“That’s it…good. Take it…fucking take me, mama.”

With every thrust and drive of Harry's hips, you can’t help but whimper. Nails scratching down his broad back while his nose dances along your cheek. You feel whole. Connected. In tune to his pleasure as you tighten your legs around his hips and kiss him.

“So fucking wet, sugar,” he exhales. His thumb finds your clit and he rubs in fast, determined circles. “S’it feel good? My baby’s cunny just needed some attention, hm? Needed me to fill her up?”

You nod—about the only coherent response you can offer—and melt into the feel of his mouth moving to your chest. It feels good. This is what you needed. You’ve missed him. And you needed someone to scratch this itch and make things right again.

And then, a throat clears.

Not yours. Not Harry’s.

Asher’s.

He’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom, watching. His kind eyes are now suspicious and deviant. And he’s not looking at Harry. He’s looking at you.

And you know why.

Harry doesn’t mind the audience. He continues, strong hands cemented to your hips as he tugs you up in order to get a better angle. “You all right, Ash?” he calls.

Asher raises his chin. “Tell him,” he says to you. Resolute. Unwavering in a way that suggests he won't be letting this go.

You hesitate, stomach dropping as the threat of punishment hangs heavy in the air. 

Harry smirks. “Tell me what?” 

You shake your head. “Nothing,” you whisper before shooting a pointed look toward the door. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart,” Asher warns, crossing his arms before leaning against the frame. “It’ll be worse if I have to tell him.”

Now Harry seems to understand and begins to slow his thrusts, offering you a curious expression meant to calm you. “What’s wrong, mama?”

You chew on your lip. You don’t want to tell him. You want this and you attempt to clench around his cock in order to get him to continue.

He smiles.

“She had a fever this morning,” Asher finally says and you bite back a groan. “She’s been dizzy all day and nearly fainted earlier. I told her to stay in bed and rest. Not do anything too strenuous. But I have a feeling she didn’t mention that to you.”

Harry’s grin instantly fades into disappointment and you know, undoubtedly, that you’re in rather big trouble now. 

The one thing they prioritize more than anything is your health and safety.

“Sugar,” Harry starts, and you feel your heart skip, “are you not feeling well?”

You squirm beneath him. “I’m…I’m fine. I’m okay to do this—”

“Were you sick this morning?”

“…I was just…I mean, maybe a little, but—”

“Did you know you were going against Asher’s request when you begged me to fuck you?” he says firmly, and your skin feels like it’s on fire. You hate upsetting him. “Were you purposefully disobeying him?”

Shit, shit, shit. “I…I wasn’t trying to, I just…I missed you.”

And it’s the truth. You have missed him. You weren’t trying to be defiant, but you love Harry and you wanted to feel him. And you figured an orgasm could be just what the doctor ordered. 

His features soften now as he dips down to kiss your nose. “I know, mama. I’ve missed you, too. But you know better than to disobey, don’t you?”

Regretfully, you nod.

“Then, I’m gonna ask you a question and I expect the truth. Is that understood?”

Another nod.

“Are you unwell right now? Do you feel tired or feverish or even the slightest bit uncomfortable?”

You could lie. You could tell him that you’ve been fucked back to health. That you rested and now you’re replenished.

But he’d know. And you’d know. And Asher would know.

So, you thread your fingers through his curls and whisper, “I’m…a little tired. And sore."

His expression falls. He’s gutted to know you're in pain but proud of you for finally admitting it. “Good girl,” he says before he kisses your cheek and begins to pull out. “All right then. Are you gonna let us take care of you now? The right way?”

Almost begrudgingly, you nod once again and melt into the mattress as he and Asher discuss the best way to help.

They run you a bath and help carry you to the tub. Harry joins you in the warm water and pulls you between his legs so he can sweep a washcloth up and down your clammy skin. Helping you feel clean and calm.

And when you're through, Asher is there with a big, fluffy towel to wrap you up in. Drying you off gently before bringing you back to bed and kissing your temple sweetly while tucking you beneath the covers.

“Thank you,” you say faintly as he runs his thumb over your cheek. “Even though you’re a snitch.”

He laughs. “Mhm. And I’d do it again.”

With that, he leaves you and Harry alone for the evening, something Harry is more than all right with.

He crawls into bed beside you, quickly pulling you to his chest before taking your temperature and offering you medicine and water. 

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to finish,” you whisper as he’s turning out the light.

However, even in the dark, you can anticipate his frown. “Sugar…finishing is not the goal for me. You know that. I like to finish with you, but I don’t fuck you for that. I fuck you because I love you. I want to be close to you. I want to feel you and make you finish.”

You run your fingers down his chest and sigh. “I know, I just…I like when you do. I like that I can do that for you.”

You feel his lips brush across your forehead before he’s wrapping you between his arms. “I know, mama. I’ll make you a deal. Once you’re well again, I’ll fuck you as many times as you want. Make you cum over and over and over again. Until you’re all sensitive and overstimulated.”

You grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you’ll take it, won’t you?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” He chuckles before there’s a long, silent lull. “I love you. You know that?”

Your heart just about explodes out of your chest. “I love you, too.”

“Good.” Another kiss. Soft. Gentle. “Horny little thing. Even got Asher to tell on you.”

“I know,” you laugh. “I was kind of surprised. But to be fair, I didn’t really disobey him. I was on bed rest. We were doing missionary, and you were doing all the work. All I had to do was lay there.”

Harry laughs and the sound is beautiful. “And you’re sneaky, too, hm?”

“Hey, an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away.”

“All right, that’s enough out of you. Go to sleep, yeah?” He pinches your hip. “We’ll discuss this when you’re better. But something tells me Asher won’t be so willing to let you off the hook.”

You smile.

“Good.”

Okay fine I missed Asher, too 😭 HE IS CUTE WHEN HE WANTS TO BE!!

~ Mine Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @laelamarley @acesofspadess @stylesfever @caynonmoondreams  @virginvirgo @pagesfalling @creativelyeva @char112244 @snwells @armystay89 @oh-my-hecky-padalecki @blackbookwhore @nellylayhoohoo @22fallenangel22 @watercolorskyy @ilovedilfs32 @nicodoesntexist @lelenikki @happypoptart 

[plasticferal]

girl PLEASE write something for facetime/phone sex with matt (he was looking a little too fine on that ipad in the last vid omg)

kiss me through the phone | matt sturniolo.

authors note: matt is looking fine as fuck lately, i'm going absolutely feral. short and sweet 2.8k words. not proof read! just brain goop.

warnings: 18+ content. fem!reader, masturbation, facetime, sweet talk, praise, explicit language. reader discretion is advised.

the vibrating sound of your phone rattling against your side table echoes in your room. you’ve been waiting for matt to call you all night, and with how sick he’s been lately, it’s the only way to actually see him.

you eagerly answer the facetime call, holding your phone up as you lay in bed, revealing the intricate lace bra and pyjama shorts you’re wearing.

matt answers the call, slouching tiredly at his desk, headphones on. his hair is messy. he’s shaved his facial hair into a faint goatee, and he looks perfect. even when he's unwell.

“i can’t believe you look that good and i can’t touch you” his eyes are wide as he speaks, smiling the second you're in his sight.

“i can’t believe we’re talking through a screen” you pout, rolling over in bed and hugging a pillow close to your cheek.

“you can blame nick” matt scoffs, making you chuckle lightly, watching as his eyes dart between his display screens quickly, then focusing solely on you.

“how is my pretty girl?” he asks, scooting closer in his desk chair, rubbing his hands together in that way he does when he speaks, and you get lost staring at his hands.

you’re too familiar with their touch to ignore the thoughts running through your mind. how much you miss them on your body, even if it’s only been a couple of days of not seeing him face to face.

"y/n?" he snaps you out of your trance.

"sorry, i'm good. i just miss you" you huff, rolling over once again with your phone tight in your grip.

you get positioned in an angle that pans down your body as you shift on the mattress, and you hear matt hum through the screen.

"i miss you more," his smile is so infectious.

you're giddy like it's the first time you're speaking to a crush, despite being in a secure relationship with him.

"you look so good right now, you know that?" he sounds so smug, somehow being able to be alluring through a device as he would in person.

"you do too. i like this look on you" you nod toward the screen, as if he's physically ahead of you.

matt rubs his jaw and bites his lip, the same way he would to make his brothers laugh, and you roll your eyes playfully. you know it's to entertain you, but somehow hit little bit genuinely has an affect on you.

you rub your thighs together, feeling a buzz in stomach as your mind shifts, and goosebumps rise on your skin. he just looks so good.

"does it turn you on?" he charms.

"you could do anything and it'd turn me on" you speak sweetly, a light lace of tiredness in your voice that you can drives him insane.

you can tell by the way he drags his hand down his face. suddenly his little joke hit too close to home.

"ugh, don't say that" he groans into his palm.

"why? does it turn you on?" you mimic him, in a luring tone.

"i've been pent up for like four days" he huffs, shifting in his seat.

"alright baby, i'm sorry" you chuckle, watching him suddenly become tense.

"don't be, it's not your fault you're gorgeous" he winks through the screen and you roll your eyes with a smile.

"alright romeo, are you feeling any better?" you ask pleasantly, trying to redirect the conversation, realizing you haven't even asked him how he is.

"my head still kinda hurts" he scrunches his face.

"my poor boy" you frown, genuinely.

you hate seeing him sick, but you know he handles it well. the boredom makes him more uncomfortable than the actual illness. proof being the hundreds of messages he's sent you, having full conversations with himself through text. his screen time would have been off the charts.

"distract me, tell me what you did today" he coos, a dopey grin on his face as he leans into his hand while looking at you.

"nothing exciting. i did some shopping, bought some new panties. you'd love them" you flash a warm smile, knowing your words are going to get his skin hot.

"not exciting? i'm gonna get hard just thinking about it" he blurts out, an abrupt confidence in him that he's had lingering lately. it's awfully attractive.

you watch his hand dip under his desk, where your view is cut off. you assume he's adjusting himself in his pants. you're trying to squeeze your lips together to hide a smirk.

"don't even show me, i'm going insane as it is" matt adjusts his headset, but it looks like he's doing it to make sure he can hear you better. it's like he can read your mind.

"you don't even wanna see the pair i have on now?" you begin to shift your camera closer to your body, slowly, teasingly down your torso.

"fuck" you hear matt sigh, and you lose sight of him as your phone faces down on your waist.

you slip a thumb under the band of your shorts, tugging them down and only flashing him the lace that hugs the crease of your leg. your dainty fingers caress the skin at your hip.

"i thought about you when i chose them"

he grabs your attention through his lack of response. instead, he stifles a cough, as if he's covering up another sound. it's a soft strain in his throat.

you narrow your eyes, snapping your phone back up to your face, the brightness taking you aback for a moment, and you need to readjust your vision. you're laying on your back, neck perked up on your fluffed pillows, but you lean closer to the screen to observe his actions.

matt's mouth is open ajar, and his right arm is tucked tight to his side, moving ever so slowly. you can't see the view past his ribcage, but you can string together what's happening.

“matty?"

"y-yeah baby," he asks, clearing his throat soon after.

you squint, trying to envision what your full view would be, where his hand is hiding, and the way he's in a state of stupor.

"are you touching yourself?” you bite your lip.

"’m sorry baby. just hearing you speak. your body” his voice is breathy and coarse, and he's staring at you on his screen like he's watching porn, viciously lost in his own thoughts.

“it’s been lonely in that room, huh?”

"mmph-you have no idea," he shakes his head, hesitantly picking up the pace of his strokes, making his voice shake.

you're rolling your hips at the thought of him jerking off, knowing he hasn't been able to satisfy his needs unless you're the one helping him through it. it brings you more pleasure than it should, how quickly he crumbles. even when you're miles apart.

"do you want me to stop?" he asks, and you can tell he's slowly palming himself, shamlessly all of a sudden as he does so.

you can't deny the ache that's been growing between your thighs since you've realized what he's doing. your legs arch up on the bed, and he can't see you, but you're spreading them open slightly.

“keep going" you order, sliding a hand into your own panties, and matt sharply exhales through his nose.

matt nods, leaning in his chair. he silently shows you gratitude by the look in his eyes. they soften, but are full of lust. the office chair dips with him, and the further he leans back, the more of him that's revealed.

taking time to let both of you get more into it as he strokes himself, turning the volume of his phone up to hear the breathy sounds you try to hold back. your fingers working between your thighs as you listen to his soft grunts and moans.

"are you imagining that's my hand, matt?" your voice lowers an octave, using your most seductive shift in mannerisms, voice, and stare to guide matt through.

"or my mouth?" and when those words escape your lips, he throws his head back with a moan.

"i wish i could fuck your pretty mouth so bad" his teeth are tight as he speaks, chest rising and falling heavily.

pushing his chair back so he can finally release his cock from his sweatpants, your heart skips at a beat at the sight of him with his hard dick in his grip, leaking tip and veins prominent in his big hand.

"you touching yourself, baby?" he asks, giving long, wrist twisting strokes to himself.

"mhm" you strain a hum, and pan your phone down so he gets a preview of you your hand under your shorts, caressing through your folds steadily.

you circle your clit that's already soaked, spreading your juices, and you're seeping through the fabric of your pants. you know you need to pull them off, becoming impatient by your own restriction. plus, how badly matt wants to see you.

"you have no idea how bad i wanna be in-between those thighs right now" the nearly desperate moan that spilled from his lips makes you clench around your own touch, whimpering as you rock into your palm.

trying to find the same sweet spot matt has always manages to find, you put your phone down by your side, so the camera view is on your ceiling momentarily.

“don’t stop talking, y/n" he pants, focusing the pump of his hand on his swollen head.

"you wanna see this pussy, baby?" you speak while he doesn't have a visual source for a second.

"who's pussy is it, y/n?" matt growls, and you can hear the wet sounds coming from his hand moving more savagely.

you quickly, ferociously strip from your undergarments, discarding them. you whip out a decorative pillow from under your back and rest it at the edge of your bed, using it as a phone stand so matt can have the perfect view, as if he were actually between your legs.

"yours. all yours" you swallow as you look at your screen again with heavy eyelids.

you watch as matt spits into his hand, making your core tighten.

“bet your fingers don’t feel the same as mine. do they, sweetheart?” he huffs, pace of his hand picking up when you moan in response.

you start groping your breasts with closed eyes, imagining it was his strong hand grasping at you.

“you’re a tease” you murmur, pinching your nipples hard with one hand and squeezing your legs together against the other.

"say it" he chokes out, continuing to fuck himself hard and fast, eyes flicking between a narrow stare and shutting tight with a halted breath.

"n-nothing is better than your touch"

you want to get a better view of him. you can see the entirety of him in his chair, but it's just not close enough. his sweats cover most of his hand movements, and you're mentally begging for him to pull them off.

"for someone who's whole life is behind the camera, your angles could be better, baby" you tease, breathless, and matt glares at you.

he yanks his pants to his ankles first. the sight of his shirt pulled up enough to show the tensing muscles of his abdomen and throbbing erection begging to be relieved. needier moans and whines coming from both of you before he finally fixes his camera angle.

he reaches forward to the screen, bringing it closer, and panning down more. your screen is engulfed by a close up of matt's face and lap. a perfect view.

"better?" he rushes his question. you nod, chuckling lightly.

you continue to roll your fingers across your vulva, spreading yourself open for him and tease your own hole with your fingertips. his whole arm is shaking from the quick rhythm he’s set, drowning himself in the fantasy he’s creating as he watches your expressions of bliss.

pushing into yourself while you watch him, matt almost releases right then and there.

the sight of him masturbating is something you're going to be replaying in your mind, and you already know he's going to make this a more common occurrence.

“i’ve been aching all week for this,” he speaks, voice singing through the speakers of your phone, trying not to sound too much like he's whining.

“you have no idea how hard it is to not get myself off when i think about you, y/n.” matt continues, and it makes you fuck deeper into yourself, arching your back.

you feel yourself growing a sickeningly sweet pain in your stomach, a sharp feeling that bubbles like champagne and brings you such a overwhelming sensation. you're a moaning mess. anyone hearing your vocal exchanges would think it's an act, almost sounding scripted.

“matt-” his full name is cut off in a stuttered gasp, pleasure washing over you wave after wave until all you could do was pant and grind against your palm.

"ngh, keep going. that's my girl," you're both desperate to keep hearing each other and melt completely into your own touch, using nothing but desire and the memory of him devouring you to push you over the limit.

you can hear his skin slapping with how forceful his strokes are, almost like he's putting himself through misery by going fast, then slow. playing with himself, giving his cock the same feeling you would by changing the momentum.

"wish that was my fucking hand. oh, fuck” he groans through gritt teeth, following right behind you as his release spills out onto his stomach.

"mm-matty," you shriek, grinding into your quilt cover and pushing into your fingers to feel like your climax hit it's peak, abs tightening and a sharp inhale flooding your entire body. your pleasure slowly subsides.

your mouth feels dry from gasping and you need to lick your lips straight away, to bring some relief. to regain your composure. you lean forward, grabbing your phone with your clean, shaky hand.

"god that was so fucking hot" matt grabs at the armrests, head tossed back, staring at the ceiling in a post-orgasm daze.

you giggle at the state he's in, watching his cock slap against his lower stomach, resting next to his happy trail that you'd give anything to lick clean. he gives himself a few more lazy stokes, overstimulated as he jolts to his own touch.

you wipe your sticky fingers on your shorts beside you, so you can hold your phone more comfortably.

"i can't wait to touch you again" you admire, snuggling back into your pillow and curling into yourself, bringing the screen to your face.

"better be soon, i don't know how much longer i can last without you" matt pulls himself to slide back under desk, hiding the explicit sight. you know he won't be putting pants back on anytime soon.

"come closer to the screen" you implore.

"why? you want a kiss?" he jokes, and you play along.

"i do actually. c'mhere" you wave him over as you hold your phone to your lips, probably not your most flattering angle but matt adores you in any state. from any angle. even when you're virtual.

"you seriously want me to kiss the screen?" he snorts, shaking his head at you while flashing his teeth.

"if you don't, i'll hang up" you shrug to yourself, earning a grumble from matt.

"you're ridiculous" he laughs.

"kiss me through the phone, baby" you both exchange a fatigued half-smile, as you know it's past his bedtime, so you initiate a parting line.

your eyes strain to see the screen as you pucker at the circle camera on the black mirrored surface, and matt is trying to be serious as he leans forward with a 'mwah' sound, smacking his lips onto his more advanced ipad setup.

the messy burgundy silk sheets in his background shot look so enticing, and you're sure he wants nothing more than to tangle himself between them.

"was that your way of telling me to say goodnight?" he raises an eyebrow, and you nod, trying to be stern in your sentence.

"it was, my love" you speak in a gentle tone.

as much as you want nothing more than to fall asleep to his voice, or his light snores, or even the sound of him playing videos. he needs to rest. and you know it'll be a good sleep after his much deserved orgasm.

"alright my angel, i'll let you go" his eyes are getting darker, and heavier with each word.

"goodnight, matty bear" you slip the nickname in, knowing he's too delirious to argue against it.

"goodnight, baby. dream about me." he smiles with his flushed cheeks, blowing you one last kiss through the screen before it turns black.

you're left alone with the vision of him, and your own arms to wrap around before you drift into a sleep where you will absolutely be dreaming about matthew.

end.

tag list: @luverboychris @recklessmatt @floofparker @teampurpleforlife @letstripsturniolo @imwetforyourmom @fake-sturniolos @recklessmatt @kentahoe

[dontbesoweirdkira]

25. “This might sound weird, but I like it when you’re sick. Because then you let me take care of you.”

¡Yandere! Raiden x reader

A/N: y’all be neglecting yandere mk1 Raiden so I had to whip something up (tbh mk11 dark Raiden reigns superior. I love papa) but there’s so much you can do with his “sweet” personality wink wonk

Requests: always open

Masterlist

Raiden was more than desperate for your attention/affection. It has been a few weeks since he’s captured and taken you away for himself, yet you still haven’t come around to him.

You ignored most of his questions and attempts to talk with you. Even shunning away when he’d try to touch you, even if it was a light tap on your shoulder to get your attention.

He knows what he did was wrong. He shouldn't have taken you like that but you were slipping away from him. Your interest in him was depleting and someone else had your attention. He was guilty of letting his sinful desires rule over him.

That guilt wasn’t enough to stop him though. Raiden couldn’t help himself from manipulating you, playing up his innocent side to get what he wanted . He loved being the shoulder you cried on even though he’s the reason your lover was now gone and how soon, you’d be taken by him and locked up for his ownership. It was all so sick yet it filled him with a certain level of joy nothing else could replicate .

He manipulated, stalked and killed his way into your heart. You hated his guts for what he’s done to your life. Just thinking back and putting the pieces together is enough to make you feel nauseous.

You tried your best to not give him anything else he may have wanted from you. You never asked him for items and reluctantly took the necessities he offered. You knew any positive interaction, no matter how small, would just fuel his delusions more…but that all changed after you became sick.

When the virus first hit you, Raiden asked if you were doing okay because of how sickly you appeared but you denied saying that you were okay. You told him how he should just leave you alone and let you handle it yourself.

Deep down you prayed that it was just some common cold with a little fever but each day it became worse. Your entire body ached, your head spun and your throat was sore. You could tell without a thermometer that your fever was through the roof.

Your pride wanted to stop you from calling out your captor’s name but staying in this worsening condition was agony. You couldn’t handle yourself, you couldn’t even stand up to go to the bathroom. You unfortunately needed him.

“..raiden..?” You hesitantly called out

A few moments later he opened your room door, a bit confused to hear his name being called by you. That confusion quickly turned into concern when he saw you curled up on the ground with tears in your eyes.

“Y/n? Did you call me? Are you okay, you seem so unwell.”

Using a bit of your strength to sit up, you reached up your arms out towards him and cried

“Everything hurts, Ray. P-please make it stop.”

Hearing your voice crack and beg for him made Raiden even crazier for you. He knew it, he knew one day you’d come around. It just sucks you’re so sick when it finally happened though.

Without much hesitation, he picked you up and carried you in his arms to the master bedroom, the one you were supposed to be sharing with him.

There, a close eye would be kept on you around the clock and he could wait on you whenever you needed. It was an honor to be needed by you like this. Regardless of how often you asked for something or how tired he was, he did anything you asked without any complaints.

He brought you soups, medicines, food and whatever else you desired. He was so caring and generous to you, even despite how cold you’ve been towards him. It might’ve been the medicine or the feeling of guilt but you started letting up on him. Maybe he wasn’t the worse, besides lifeline at the moment. You found yourself cuddled up to him and craving his affection while you got better. Even pouting when he had to leave for something.

He ran his fingers through your hair and hummed. This moment was so perfect. This was all he ever wanted from you. He could take care of his darling like this forever. Your pouts, whines and clinginess sends him into overdrive every single time.

“This might sound weird, but I like it when you’re sick. Because then you let me take care of you.”

A chuckle escaped your mouth and you sarcastically spoke, not thinking much into your words…

“Yeah, you should savor this. It’s probably the only time I’ll ever be this cuddly towards you again.”

Suddenly, Raiden stopped massaging your scalp and grabbed a fist full of your hair. He you pulled up to his face. His eyes narrowed and he shifted his position yet his signature sweet smile was plastered across his face.

You could feel the light energy in the room switch and become heavy. An uneasiness in your chest raced through your chest as you waited for his next move.

Raiden didn’t appreciate your answer, he’s been so good to you. You’re going to take all this away from him after you get better?! He’s proven his love and devotion to you. He needed this, he needed you.

“Well then, maybe I should keep you sick like this so you’ll always need me. You’re just far too precious like this.”

His voice had a hint of playfulness to it, but it was overshadowed by something far more sinister than that.

“You’d let me take care of you like this forever, right?”

His smile dropped a little bit, his head tilted to the side and his eyes widened, almost like a tiny puppy waiting for its owner to accept its invitation to play with them.

You could tell that he genuinely wanted an answer. Not an honest one, but a sweet one he could replay in his head over and over.

You nodded and agreed.

“Who else would take care of me if you didn’t?”

The biggest smile came across is face as he almost exploded with joy. Cupping your face in the palms of his hands, he pulled you close, smashing a loving kiss on your lips. A soft nip of your bottom lip beckoned you to kiss him back, fearful of where another rejection might lead you complied

You were foolish to let your guard down and to not choose your words more carefully. He’s now gotten a taste of your love and he’s never going back from it.

[dead-boys-club]

†  rest : dr. ratio.

❥ a gift for @somenerd3110 ❥ sick comfort things

the sterile scent of antiseptic that lingered in the air brought you to reality, a seemingly comfortable familiarity in comparison to the unknown, mostly white room. dr. ratio moved with practiced efficiency, footsteps soft but purposeful on the cold, tiled floor. the typical precision and detachment he exhibited in his work were somewhat softened by the worry visible on his face.

you lie in bed, the light sheets drawn up to your chest, your skin warm with fever, feeling as if it were crawling. it began with a slight cough, which you had brushed off as just a fleeting cold. however, it hadn't gone away. instead, the sickness took root in your lungs, turning each breath into a battle, as every cough sent waves of pain through your body. you had joked prior to the world going black about the well known 'death rattle' that sounded from you.

when dr. ratio had found you, trying to go about your day as if nothing was wrong, he had immediately taken charge, his usual calm demeanor giving way to a firm, almost protective concern. he wanted to, and would later on, give you a firm reminder to take better care of yourself. he had insisted you rest, and now, here you were, tucked into a bed in the medbay, under his watchful care. he had vehemently denied anyone else's presence.

you blinked up at him, trying to offer a small, reassuring smile, but it came out weak and tired, something that only made it worse. 'i'm okay, honestly,' you rasped, your voice hoarse from the constant coughing. it didn't sound very convincing at all.

he frowned, not unkindly, but with the kind of disapproval that came from genuine concern. on a normal basis, you would joke about the fatherly tinge to such actions. 'you are not okay,' he replied, his voice calm but persistent. 'you’ve been running a fever for several days, and you’re barely able to breathe without pain. you need to rest and not be so stubborn.'

you wanted to argue, to tell him you didn’t need to be fussed over, but another coughing fit seized you, leaving you gasping for air. not to mention, it would only prove his point on your headstrong behavior. dr. ratio was at your side in an instant, a glass of water appearing in his hand as if by magic.

'drink.' he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

you obeyed, taking slow, careful sips, feeling the cool water soothe your raw throat, cringing just slightly. his hand rested lightly on your shoulder, his touch steadying and reassuring.

'why didn’t you tell me sooner?' he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours. there was no accusation in his voice, only a deep, underlying worry. his concern rooted in the fact you wouldn't be so bad off had you just been honest.

you looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. 'i don't like bothering you,' you admitted. 'you're always busy and i figured it would just.. pass.'

dr. ratio let out a soft sigh, his hand squeezing your shoulder gently. 'you’re never a bother,' he said, his voice softening. 'your health is important to me, as it should be to you. i need you to promise that you’ll come to me if you’re ever feeling unwell again.'

his words were laced with a seriousness that made you realize just how much he cared, not that you doubted it before, but it was still nice to hear. it wasn’t just about your physical health—it was about the bond you shared, the deep, platonic connection that had grown between you over time.

'i promise.' you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, almost reluctantly. it wasn't easy to just start doing something and you couldn't help the guilt that would come with potentially interrupting him.

he nodded, satisfied with your answer, and reached for a small device on the nearby table. 'let’s me check your vitals again. i want to make sure your fever is coming down.'

as he gently placed the device against your wrist, you couldn’t help but notice the way his usually cool, clinical demeanor had softened. there was a warmth in his eyes, a quiet determination to see you through this, no matter what. it was considerably calming to see.

the device beeped softly, and he studied the readings with a focused intensity. as a moment, he nodded, that frown making a brief return to his features.

'you fever is down but only slightly.. still too high,' he murmured, more to himself than to you. he stood up, moving to a small cabinet where he retrieved a vial and a syringe. 'this will help bring it down further and ease the pain in your chest.'

you wanted to gag while watching him prepare the injection, his movements precise and efficient, but there was a gentleness in the way he approached you, a careful consideration that he reserved only for those closest to him. you knew it was needed but you were never one for injections of any kind.

he administered the injection with practiced ease, and as the medication began to take effect, you felt some of the tension in your body start to ease. the pain in your chest dulled to a manageable ache, and the fog of fever lifted slightly, leaving you feeling clearer, if not entirely better. there was still that tug of discomfort at the back of your head, bones feeling heavy.

dr. ratio stayed by your side, his hand resting lightly on your arm, a silent anchor in the midst of your discomfort. he didn’t speak, but his presence was enough—a reminder that you weren’t alone, that someone was watching over you with unwavering care. someone that knew what they were doing and wouldn't leave until you were okay.

as the minutes ticked by, you felt your eyelids grow heavy, the combination of the medication and exhaustion from trying to fight whatever illness you had catching up quickly. he took notice of this, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin in a soothing gesture.

'rest now,' he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. 'i’ll be here when you wake up.'

you nodded weakly, the last of your resistance fading as sleep began to claim you. the last thing you felt before drifting off was the comforting weight of his hand on your arm, a steady reminder that you were safe.

and as you slipped into sleep, the thought lingered in your mind: no matter what, you knew that he would always be there, watching over you with the same quiet, steadfast care that had become such an integral part of your life.