#still not used to it and dry heaving in the bathroom floor

[sinnamonpork]

Dabi getting deaged but its into his teenage self. I want the League(and also Hawks) to deal with this bratty, very explosive teenager who's so different from the aloofness of Dabi they have gotten used to. Oh shit he's crying now? Quick, leave him with Tomura, he'll know what to do. Lmao just the League passing him around like a hot potato because young Touya would cry at the smallest of inconveniences. Everyone thinks they're doing something wrong because Dabi has never been like that - no one knowing his tear ducts are burned shut.

I want a Touya that becomes a blushing mess when he meets Hawks, suddenly turning shy and stuttery - even going as far as to hide behind Mr. Compress - and not making any eye contact with the hero. Normal Dabi is already a simp for the pretty bird. Imagine a Touya riding on teenage hormones seeing the full beauty of Hawks. Anyways, Touya and Toga spend the rest of the day trying to find ways to attract the pretty hero, Toga finding it sooo romantic and cute. Keigo just wants to be freed from the torment of having his crush's teenage self be a total cutie pie - is he doing a mating dance?? - when it is very much illegal to event think about anything nsfw relating to the teen. Hawks is trying to be a villain, but there are some lines you don't cross.

Or on a more angstier note, this happened post reveal and everyone is aware that Dabi is Touya, but it never really registered how bad a 13 year old burning alive really is. 16 year old Dabi is scared and feral from living on the streets, not trusting anyone at all and always carrying a knife around. He startles easily at fires and big forests, memories of pain and more pain coming back to haunt him. I want Hawks to make the mistake of mentioning Endeavor, because in his mind the no. 1 hero would always be a safe space for young kids and the like - forgetting that the person in front of him literally burned alive due to the hero. Just Hawks and the League dealing with a very skittish Touya that is ready to run or shank somebody in the thigh if they get too close, being slapped in the face of what years of abuse and trauma by the no. 1 hero does to a person. Dabi hides it well, but Touya isn't really Dabi yet, is he?

[maccreadysbaby]

Some of My Favorite Ways to Describe a Character Who’s Sick

pressing their forehead into something cool or comfortable (this could be an array of things. the table, the floor, someones leather jacket, their water bottle, the countertop)

warm to the touch, or heat radiating from them (could be noticed if someone’s gauging their temperature with their hands, hugging them, or just generally touching them)

leaning into people’s touch, or just spontaneously leaning on them (like pressing into their hand when someone’s checking their temp, or just, like, literally walking up and laying their head on them from fatigue. bonus points if the character is usually feral and the other is scared to engage™︎)

falling asleep all over the place (at the dinner table, on their homework, in the car, in the bathroom — just being so exhausted from doing literally nothing)

being overly emotional (crying over things that don’t usually bother them, like their siblings arguing, or their homework, or literally just nothing)

stumbling/careening/staggering into things (the wall, furniture, other people. there is no coordination in feverish brains. running into chairs, hitting the door, falling over the couch, anything and everything)

slurring their words (could be from fatigue or pain. connecting words that shouldn’t be connected, murdering all of their conversations with the excessive use of ‘mm’ and ‘nn’ in place of words) (this is my favorite thing ever)

being overly touchy (basically like a sick kid — just hold them, please. do that thing where you brush their hair back out of their face, or rub circles on their back, or snuggle them. they won’t care. bonus points if this is also the feral character and they refuse to believe it afterwards)

being extremely resistant to touch (flinching away when they usually don’t so someone can’t feel the fever, not letting themselves be touched because they’re so tired they just know they’ll be putty in their hands if they do)

growing aggressive or being extremely rude (it’s a defense mechanism — they feel vulnerable and are afraid of being manipulated or deceived while they’re ill)

whimpering/whining/groaning (this was in my “characters in pain” post but it’s so good that i’m putting it here too. this shite is gold, especially if it’s just an involuntary reaction to their symptoms)

having nightmares caused by a fever and/or delirium (crying and murmuring in their sleep, or being awake but completely out of it and convinced they’re somewhere else)

making themselves as small as possible (curling up into a ball everywhere they lay, hunching over slightly when standing, wrapping their arms around themselves)

TW for vomiting below cut !!

sleeping in the bathroom floor because they keep getting sick over and over (bonus if someone finds them all weak and pitiful. bonus bonus if they find them there in the morning only to learn they’ve been there all night)

using their hands/other body parts to clamp over their mouth so nothing can come out (like pulling their knees up to their chest and using that, or like, their arm, y’know) (~maccreadysbaby who has emetophobia suddenly gets very awkward about this post~) (~yes i have a phobia of puke and still write this happening to my characters, shut up~) (~it’s about the hurt/comfort okay~)

sympathy pukers (people who aren’t the sick ones but get nauseous/vomit when they see someone else throw up) (~aka me~) (~okay I’m done now~)

dry heaving (it’s gross, but good for making your characters absolutely freaking miserable)

rolling/churning/spinning/cramping/ lurching and all those awesome words that describe what stomachs do when sick (i hate these words with a deep, fiery passion. but they’re good for writing or whatever)

[quillcraftconquer]

John Price x Ex Wife Pt. 4

(Pt 3)

John eyed you from behind the shower doors, shifting his body from the left to the right, letting the hot water fall over him. You had followed after him like a mindless zombie, and now here you were - unable to speak.

Why was it so hard to say anything?

You’ve stood in this exact spot hundreds, if not thousands, of times before you got divorced. You’ve seen John naked hundreds of times, you knew his body like you knew your own, so why was this so hard? 

“You’re avoiding me.” The words tumbled out, and John lifted his eyebrows in amusement. 

“Am I?” John asks, ignoring the aggravated look that flashes across your features. The smart ass reply was enough to clear the fog from your brain, and remind you why you were here.

“Yes, you are. Is that the type of co-parents we’re going to be? Our son never sees us together, because we cant stand the sight of each other?” You ask, attempting to hide the worry behind the annoyance. You know thats not what you want, and after the past few weeks, maybe its what John wants.

“You seem to be enjoying the sight of me, love.” John smiles, rinsing the soap from his body. He slides the glass door open, and the steam mixed with the scent of his body wash hits your face, causing the brain fog to return. John grabs a towel from the rack, drying himself off as he continues to stare at you.

“I don’t want to be those parents.” The confession comes out in almost a whisper, and John ties the towel around his waist as you continue. “I want us to be better than that, I want him to know that even if things don't work out, it can still be okay.”

“My door has always been open for you, love.” John says softly, cupping your face in his hands. The gesture feels bittersweet, and you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes.

“You just needed to come by.”

“I’m here now.” You whisper, and John’s eyes crinkle at the ends, his lips tilting up into a small smile. 

“I know. It’s about time.” He says, leaning in to press his lips against yours. The gesture is soft and subtle, almost reassuring in a way. You don’t know if its a combination of the hot shower, the grief of your failed marriage, or the sweetness of the kiss from the man you never stopped loving, but it all feels like too much. It feels nauseating. It fee-

Your thoughts dissipate as quickly as they came, and you only have time to shove John away from you before you vomit. On the floor, on you, and on John. 

“Christ!” John yelps in surprise, and like a dam breaking, you start to cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You repeat, heaving again. John grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around and shoving you into the open shower.

“No, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He comforts, dropping the towel from his waist to clean the mess on the floor. He deposits it into the dirty laundry, scrubbing a hand down his face before pointing at you.

“Stay.” 

Your compliance comes out in the form of a sniffle and a whimper, and John is gone. He returns a few minutes later, freshly dressed and with your baby, and a wooden spoon, in his hands. He places him in the doorway of the bathroom, giving him the wooden spoon, before entering the shower with you. John grasps the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. You let him undress you, the sensuality of the moment long gone. He lets cool water run over your body, washing away the remnants of the vomit.

“Why does he have a spoon?” You croak, pointing at your son, who is waiving it wildly in the air. John glances at him before he focuses back on you. 

“He likes to hit the pots with it.” John answers.

“He doesn't have a pot.” You sniffle, and John stares at you a moment before he lets out a laugh. 

“Love, I think he’ll be alright.” John muses, and he’s right, because your son has entertained himself by whacking it against the cupboards. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was sick, or I wouldn’t have come.” You say, and John wraps a clean towel around you, helping you out of the shower. He lifts you up briefly, setting you on top of the counter before he digs around inside of it.

“You don't have to apologize. You’re not sick.” John says, straightening up and holding a familiar box out to you.

“You’re pregnant.”

[aealzx]

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Update Post

Prologue | AO3

Previous Next

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Danny was thirsty. And while that was usually a problem that was easily remedied by the water bottle that had been left for him on the bedside table, he’d already drained it. And the others were probably all in the kitchen having lunch, judging by the fact there was no one in the room with him other than the two dogs, and the amount of sun coming through the window. He’d woken up extremely late that day, so they’d probably decided to let him sleep and bring him more broth later. That was fine, he wasn’t really hungry, his mouth was just dry. As if his body was ignoring the IV stuck in his arm.

Oh well.

He knew he was supposed to rest, but he was starting to feel a bit smothered being stuck to the same room for a few more days. So going downstairs to join everyone in the kitchen for some water shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Everyone still got a little fussy when he got out of bed on his own. But trips to the bathroom weren’t that exhausting anymore, so he figured a slow walk to the kitchen wouldn’t be much different. He could manage it easily, he wasn’t even aching much at all at this point. He’d just take it nice and slow, and no one would complain.

With that idea stubbornly planted in his mind Danny pulled the quilt off and slid his feet to the floor. Sitting up always made him feel much worse than when he was laying down, but as the days passed the dizziness and fatigue was lessening more and more. And he’d already settled it in his head that he was going to fetch his own water, so after a moment of letting his spinning head still he shoved off the bed, grabbing the IV pole to bring with him like usual. Ace and Titus, as he’d learned the dogs’ names were, were quick to stand from where they’d been lounging, trotting close to Danny like they usually did. They were really good dogs, and Danny couldn’t help grinning as he reached out to pet Titus’ head a few times.

Okay. He was up, and he knew the kitchen was downstairs. He could make it there, and if he needed to he could take a break on said stairs. No big deal. Just one foot in front of the other, leaning on the IV pole for a little support. Nevermind how his breath became heavy shortly after he’d left the bedroom. Nevermind how the movement caused his numbed body to start protesting with bone deep aching. One step. At a time. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Dragging the pole with him. He’d leave it at the stairs and just carry the bag once he got to them. It would be too much effort to carry the whole thing downstairs.

To Danny’s credit he managed to make it to the top of the stairs before his legs gave out, which was significantly further than the bathroom. And luckily Titus was there to dart in front of him and half catch him as he fell. He barely heard Ace give a short bark as well before coming to wedge against Danny’s side while he sagged against Titus, heaving air into his burning lungs. Okay, so he was taking a break before he’d planned, but that was fine! He’d made it to the stairs, that was still an achievement. He was fine. He just needed a breather. Just a short rest, crumpled on the floor and using Titus as support as the dog was laying patiently on the ground next to him.

“Danny?!”

Aw shoot. Someone had caught him. Who was that? The voice wasn’t completely familiar yet, but Danny recognized the figure easily enough. Once he’d pulled his eyes open and lifted his head enough from Titus’ back to see who was practically jumping up the stairs, skipping steps completely to reach him, Danny remembered his name. Right, that was Tim. The one that had been the first to introduce himself after Bruce.

“What happened? Is everything okay? The dogs are trained to fetch someone if you tell them to, did they not listen?” Tim asked rapidly, kneeling on the ground next to Danny and resting a hand on his back.

It took Danny a minute more of heaving air before he could answer, feeling just a little bad for being caught since Tim seemed genuinely concerned something was majorly wrong. It was enough discomfort that Danny tried to lighten the mood by making a joke. “D’didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to leave,” he teased lightly.

It didn’t earn the response he was hoping for, Tims expression falling instead of being amused. “No, that’s not it. We just don’t want you to wear yourself out,” he explained, wondering if Danny really did think he was restricted in where he could go. Bruce had made a comment before that Danny seemed used to being confined and potentially restrained.

“It’s fine. It’s just a walk to the kitchen. I can do it,” Danny protested. He didn’t need to be waited on for something as simple as a drink of water. He wasn’t comatose anymore, and he was quite capable of moving around. Sure his whole body ached, and his chest and ribs felt like they were being scraped with each breath right now, but it was fine. It would stop once he got his water and got back to bed. No big deal.

Tim seemed to realize something from that comment that made him sigh slightly. Danny was apparently just as stubborn as many others that frequented this manor. “C’mon, let me help you,” Tim requested, reaching forward to try to help Danny upright.

“I said I can do it!” Danny snapped, squirming away from Tim and weakly swatting his hands away. But of course his body had to disobey his will, and without support from Titus or anyone else he couldn’t hold himself up at the moment and flopped back on the floor. He knew it didn’t make his claim convincing, so glared at Tim and repeated his words before Tim could comment. Though the unimpressed expression Tim had said enough. “I can do it myself. I just… need a break. I’m fine,” Danny huffed, letting his body rest limply on the floor and averting his gaze in a mild pout.

“Uh huh,” Tim pretended to agree, voicing his disapproval this time, but surprisingly just shifted to sit on the top stair and loop his hands around his knees. Danny wasn’t sure if he was giving in and letting him try to catch his breath, or just didn’t know what else to say. But he wasn’t leaving, and Danny couldn’t figure out if he wanted to be annoyed about that or not. Tim was at least respecting his demands enough to not just ignore him and try to help anyway like Jazz did. But he also wasn’t sassing him for refusing help when he obviously needed it. The silence was a weird response, and Danny couldn’t figure out what his aim was.

Before he could think too much about it though, Tim spoke up again, a little softer this time. “...You don’t have to, you know?”

It was a simple question in construct, but one that Danny hadn’t been expecting. And it made his breath catch in his throat. He’d been expecting to be either met with equal annoyance, or coddled and told he didn’t know what he could do or needed. But that wasn’t what Tim was implying at all… Was it?”

“...What?” Danny asked, staring at Tim in open confusion.

Tim had to snicker as Danny copied Jazz’s mannerisms so closely. They really were siblings. “You don’t have to do everything on your own,” he repeated patiently, turning back to face Danny with a rather strange smile. “Just because you can do it on your own, doesn’t mean you should have to. It’s okay to let people help when they want to.”

For some reason the words Tim said didn’t catch Danny’s attention as much as the expression he was making. Like this was an old battle he’d fought too many times, to the point he was starting to get a little worn. “...Are you okay?” Danny ended up asking, having regained enough strength to push himself upright again.

Tim ended up huffing and rolling his eyes at the question. “Oh yeah, I’m great,” he answered, not even bothering to hide any sarcasm. “I just live with a family full of people who love to push themselves way more than they should and make everyone else worry about their ability to take care of themselves and not end up dead because they were too stubborn to ask for help.”

Danny couldn’t help the wince he gave after hearing that response. There was the annoyed response Danny had thought he’d get earlier. But for some reason the phrasing on this one stung a little more than any of the comments Sam or Tucker had made. Tim didn’t try to drill it into him that he couldn’t do what he was trying to do, just that he didn't have to. And it didn’t feel like he was trying to get Danny to take care of himself because there was no one to replace him if he was gone either. Just that he could ask for help because it was better to not do things on his own.

“I don’t…,” Danny faltered, trying to force himself to respond without having given himself enough time to figure out what to say. “I’m not… used to being able to…ask…,” he admitted, feeling anxiety building in his chest over saying something like that. It was like he was admitting his friends and family weren’t very good at supporting him. After they already did so much for him, how could he say that?

It wasn’t quite what Tim had expected, and what little frustration he had was quick to melt into mild guilt. He felt like apologizing wouldn’t be received well though, so he ended up asking something else that didn't quite make sense only after he said it. “Oh….You wanna… practice then?”

Danny snorted helplessly at the question that once again caught him off guard. It was an offer instead of a lecture, and it once again was too far out of Danny’s expectations for him to have a quick answer. It was a simple answer, he could hear it in his head. But getting his mouth to say the words, to ask for help to the kitchen, seemed impossible. So he tried rephrasing it. “I… the water ran out,” he admitted, already feeling embarrassed for some dumb reason. “I just wanted….” He paused, realizing explaining the situation wasn’t even close to asking for assistance. “I’i… ‘d like to go get some… myself.”

It wasn’t the most clear request for help, but Tim would still take it. “...Would it be okay if I carried you?” he asked, rewarding Danny’s effort by filling the gap in for him.

This time it was easier for Danny to nod in acceptance, and Tim gained a gentle smile before pushing himself to his feet. “Let me just grab a blanket and slippers for you so Alfred doesn’t fuss. I’ll be right back,” he requested, letting Danny stay with Ace and Titus to fetch said items. The bedrooms of the manor were warm, but the rooms with tiled floors could get a little chilly in the cooler months so Alfred would insist on Danny staying warm. Which meant Tim brought back a pair of soft slippers for Danny’s bare feet, and a small blanket to drape on his shoulders before he knelt in front of him to make it easier for the lad to cling to his back.

“...I thought you were younger than Jason,” Danny ended up commenting after Tim had him adjusted comfortably and had made it halfway down the stairs.

“I am,” Tim confirmed, not sure where the comment was coming from but having a vague guess. “I’m only a year older than you.”

Danny made a surprised noise at the comment, scrunching his face. “Wow, you seem older than Jazz. How come you’re so put together?”

This time it was Tim’s turn to snort, not quite sure how to answer that. “Uhhhh… perks of coming from a busted family? I dunno,” he guessed. “I’m just the weird one in a family of weirdos.”

It sounded like it was something Tim was still at least a little insecure about, so Danny decided not to tease him any more. “...Mm… That’s not always a bad thing,” he offered as consolation.

It helped, and Tim chuckled lightly. “Yeah, I guess not,” he grinned, quickly reaching the kitchen much faster than Danny could have on his own.

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This next section ended up waaaay too long, so I have to split it into 3 parts X'D

The nugget is mobile (sort of) yaaaay \o7o/

also I had some of this part written months ago, but it originally had Dick instead of Tim. But I switched it for Tim 'cause I wanted Danny to have interactions with others.

also I couldn't decide what part of the scene to draw, so let my beta reader decide =v=

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Tag list: @galaxy-sharks-and-bottled-ships, @starscreamlover, @nerdynonnativenarnian, @dragongoblet, @megacharizardx99

@bellathecatastrophe, @cj-ghostemoji-destielpie, @asexual-insomniac, @wolfeyedwitch, @tkiesai, 

@fanaroff, @raven1508, @nebulainajar, @serasvictoria02, @oliocelottafanfics,

@honeysuckletook, @omniithe-deer, @wolf-under-the-stars, @gingernutcalo, @that-random-fangirl,

@op-sys-chaos, @kirasigncomics, @ehobep, @paranoid-ira

[mutifandomkid]

Happy Anniversary Part Five

Pairings: Buckyxreader

Warnings: Angst, angst with a happy ending, throwing up, mentions of cheating, think thats it??

Word Count: 2.5k

************

I awoke, groaning immediately and shielding my eyes from the bright light streaming in from the curtains. My head throbbed, my stomach hurt, and my throat burned. I rolled out of bed the second I felt the nausea, and ran to the bathroom, doubling over in front of the toilet and disposing of my stomach’s contents. 

I sat in front of the toilet on the floor for a few minutes after I had finished throwing up, dry heaving. I reached up and flushed the toilet, and then took a few deep breaths before forcing myself up, brushing my teeth and then walking back into my bedroom. It was then I saw the glass of water and two pills on my nightstand. 

I didn’t remember putting those out the night before, yet again I didn’t even remember going to bed. Last I could recall, I threw the glass after drinking three quarters of Bucky’s whiskey, then passed out on the floor in the kitchen.

I walked over and grabbed the pills, popping them in my mouth and then drinking the entire glass of water. When I set the glass down, I saw the familiar scribbles on a notepad. Bucky’s scribbles. Then it hit me, the kiss he shared with Sharon, almost getting hit by a car, him pleading with me to let him explain. 

My hand ghosted over the notepad before I picked it up. The note was short, simple. “Hey, found you slumped on the floor in the kitchen last night, took you to bed. Take the pills, drink the water. We need to talk, really talk.”

I let out a shaky breath, he left a note. I was so drunk I don’t even remember him finding me, taking me to our room? I told him to stay at Steve’s last night. Did I let him in, or did he let himself in? I don’t remember taking his key last night. Did anything happen between us last night? Would he even tell me if something did happen?

I shoved the thought out of my mind as quickly as it came. Bucky would never take advantage of a situation that wasn’t like him. Although, cheating wasn’t like him either. Although…it could’ve just been a kiss. Granted, yes they kissed, but it was possible that maybe that’s all it was and I was just overthinking it. Maybe I was overreacting? No, I couldn’t have been. He would have felt the same way if he saw me kissing John. I shuddered at the thought of John, that weasel.

I stood there, staring at the notepad in my hand. I didn’t know whether to be outraged that he deliberately ignored my request for him to stay somewhere else, or grateful that he’d shown up and took care of me. I was confused, so confused. I thought I had told him that it was over last night, that we were done. Didn’t he understand that?

I silently made my way out of the bedroom, and saw him asleep on the couch. Always the gentleman when I was angry with him. Hell, he was even when I wasn’t angry with him. I sighed, leaving him there and making my way to the kitchen. The glass and spilled whiskey had been cleaned up. 

Had he done that too? Taken care of me then cleaned up the mess I had made? I glanced over at him from the kitchen. He was still asleep on the couch. Body relaxed, curled into a corner, hair over the throw pillow, legs outstretched, one hanging off the side of the couch. His metal arm hung off the side of the couch, his flesh arm cradling the back of his head despite the pillow. For once, he looked peaceful. There were no tears, no pained cries or pleading, just peaceful sleep.

I sighed softly, then crossed over to the living room, grabbing the throw blanket from the recliner, and draping it over him. He didn’t give me a response besides a soft hum and then snuggling further into the couch. I rubbed the side of my face. 

What was I doing? Throwing a blanket over him when I clearly saw him kissing another girl not twenty-four hours ago? Letting him stay in the apartment after I clearly told him to find somewhere else to sleep? Told him we were done? I looked at him again, trying to find some sort of will to wake him up and kick him out, yet no matter how angry and hurt I was, I just couldn’t. The sobs that I had heard as I left him on the street, the pained sounds tore at my soul. 

This was a man I had fallen in love with over four years ago, the man who treated me with so much love and respect. Who treated me like his princess for years. Who bought me flowers just because, or brought home small little knick knacks that now lined our apartment from his missions. The man who nursed me back to health when I was sick, who took me on simple dates when he knew I didn’t want anything extravagant. Who kissed away my insecurities when I had them. 

The man who sang in the shower, who played his 40s music loud enough to annoy the neighbors. The man I loved to wake up next to in the morning, the one who would tickle me till I was gasping for air. Who would pull me in and kiss anywhere he could reach if a woman was staring at him, or if he saw someone he didn’t want staring at me. This was the man who treated me exactly how I wanted, who respected me, who loved me, for me. 

“I can hear you thinking.” He murmured.

My cheeks flushed and I took a step back, trying to play it off even if he had already caught me. His steel blue eyes bore into mine. My eyes shot to the ground, and I walked to the over side of the room and plopped myself into the lounge chair, clearing my throat awkwardly. “You said you wanted to talk?”

I watched as he sighed and sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You deserve an explanation, honey.” He said softly.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” I found myself asking before I could let him explain. My voice was soft, gentle as I spoke to him.

“Nightmares.” He answered softly. 

“You can’t just barge into the apartment when you have nightmares. I thought I told you to stay at Steve’s last night.” My voice was still gentle. I was willing to listen to him.

“I know, I just,” Bucky paused, sighing and fiddling with his fingers. “They were about you, and I couldn’t find it in me to stay away from you. Least, not with how we left things.” 

I sighed, dropping my gaze from him and thinking it over for a minute. “Alright,” I lifted my head, my gaze finding him again. His head still dropped and still fiddling with his fingers. “What happened last night at the party, Bucky?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Where do you want me to start?” 

“From the beginning, at the end of the mission you and Sam were on.” I said, no fiddling with my own fingers. “We’ll continue with your answer from there.”

He nodded. “Sam and I finished the mission like normal. I dropped my phone while we were boarding the quinjet at the exfiltration point. I didn’t realize till we had taken off. That’s why I wasn’t responding to your messages.” He explained.

 “When you came to pick up your dresses at Tony’s I was still about two hours out from the compound. When I got to the compound, Stark’s designer had me trying on the suits, and she was rushing. Tony eventually came in and said I was late and that you were already at the party.”

“So when I finally got into the party, I was with Steve for a bit while I was trying to find you in the crowd. I didn’t know you were with Sam and Natasha. Steve went to go get a drink, and that’s when Sharon approached me. At first I thought it was fine, I mean I’m not a big fan of Sharon but she wasn’t doing anything then.” 

I bit my tongue, I told myself I’d let him explain, so that meant no sarcastics remarks. They could wait till he was done explaining. 

“She kept talking to me, and I was only half listening because I was looking for you. When I finally found you, she grabbed my arm and yanked me closer to her. I had to brace myself against the wall. When I went to ask her what the hell she was doing, she grabbed my tie and kissed me.” Bucky sounded just as guilty and broken about it as I felt. 

“I shoved her off, but I couldn’t see you after that. Sharon pulled at my tie again, and that’s when I shoved her back again.” Bucky’s voice grew quiet. “She hit the wall.”

I nodded. He had my full attention, that much was for sure. “And after she hit the wall?” I questioned.

“She yelled at me, tried to play the victim. Said that ‘I forced myself onto her.’” Bucky scowled. “I should’ve known she would’ve done something like that, and I’m so sorry for not reacting sooner, she just threw me off.”

“She just threw you off, huh?” I said, trying to hide the sarcasm.

“No, I,” Bucky sighed, and finally, finally looked up to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry for not reacting sooner, I have no excuse that could fix what happened.’ He dropped his gaze. “I shouldn’t have said it threw me off, I’m sorry.” 

I stared at him for a long time. The thoughts swirling around in my head. “Did you get your phone back?” I finally asked. 

Bucky seemed thrown off by the sudden change in topic. “No, uh no I haven’t.” 

I sighed again. “I don’t want to be that person, but do you have proof?” I asked.

Bucky thought for a moment, but instead of reprimanding me for asking for proof, he had a small smile on his face. “I don’t, but Tony might.” When I didn’t respond, Bucky continued. “Cameras babydoll, he’s got cameras all over his tower. He would be damned if he didn’t have them running last night.” 

“S’not a bad idea.” I mused quietly, pulling my phone out of my pocket, and texting Tony. 

“Can I use your laptop, doll?” Bucky asked.

“Same place it always is,” I answered him, closing my eyes and leaning back in the recliner. His story did seem reasonable. And it did explain so much.

I heard Bucky stand and walk to the office in our apartment, before walking back out. He sat back down on his spot on the couch, and it was two seconds before I heard his fingers flying across the keys. 

“What’re you doing, Barnes?” I asked, opening one eye and looking at him.

“Find my phone.” He answered, patting the spot beside him on the couch.

I sighed, shaking my head in a quiet answer of no, but still getting up and walking over to the couch, sitting next to him. “Can I ask you something Buck?”

“Anything you want, doll.”

“Did anything happen between us last night while I was..?”

“Drunk? No, doll. I would never take advantage of you, you know that.” He said, holding eye contact before turning his gaze back to the computer screen.

“What happened?” I finally asked.

The screen loaded, and he turned it for me to look at, his phone was in some random place in Sokovia. I sighed, a tiny smile on my lips as I looked at it. “Fine, the phone story is true.” 

“I walked in last night, used my key.” He explained. “Found you bloody and passed out, so I carried you to the bathroom, cleaned you up and then put you to bed.”

“I didn’t say anything to you, did I?” I asked quietly.

“You asked me to stay, so I sat at the foot of the bed till you fell asleep, then I slept on the couch.” He said.

My phone buzzed with a text from Tony, followed by last night’s video feed. I watched the video with him, and just like he said word for word, Sharon had forced herself onto him, and I left before I could see him retaliate.

“I’m sorry for not letting you explain last night.” I said softly.

“S’okay babydoll, you were hurt. I understand.” Bucky said, his voice just as soft and gentle.

“No, its not okay. I was an idiot, I should’ve let you explain, and I didn’t.” I dropped my head in my hands. “I was going to throw us away, I was going to kick you out.” Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Hey baby,” Bucky said softly, grabbing my hands gently and pulling them away from my face. “It’s okay babydoll, you reacted to something that you saw.”

“But I,” I interjected.

“No, buts. Look, we both fucked up, could’ve gone about it differently.” He interrupted me. “What matters is what happens now, love.” His hands reached up and cupped my cheeks. “So do you still want this, want us?” He asked softly, even if there was a hint of fear in his voice. 

Tears sprang to my eyes, and spilled down my cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. “What’s it gonna be, babydoll? Are you still willing to give us a chance, pretty girl?”

I nodded, broken sob leaving my lips as I said the word “Yes.” 

Immediately he pulled me into his arms, cradling me to his chest and kissing the top of my head and he rubbed my back. “I love you babydoll,” He whispered into my hair.

“I love you too, Bucky.” I whispered back, holding onto him just as tightly, my hands gripping his shirt desperately. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too, my love.” He murmured softly, one of his hands coming up underneath my chin, and pulling my face up to look at him. He had a gentle smile on his face, his eyes filled with hope and tears. “Forgive me?”

I nodded, and he leaned down and closed the gap between us. His lips gentle against mine. Caressing my lips with his in the most adoring kiss I’d ever felt. When he pulled away and rested his forehead on mine, I asked, “Do you forgive me?”

“Always will, babydoll.” He whispered back, and pressed his lips to mine once again in a quick peck. “Y/n, I would never, ever cheat on you. You’re the greatest gift I could’ve ever received. And don’t you dare think that anyone will come above you, ever. You understand?”

I nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m yours babydoll,” He whispered. “Tell me you understand honey, use your words.”

“I understand Bucky,” I whispered back, “I’m yours too.” 

A smile graced his lips, and he kissed my forehead, then my nose, then ever so gently pressed a kiss on my lips. “Good girl.”

*********

Due to high demand there will be an epilogue.

Tagslist:

@cinnamon-bun47 @greatenthusiattidalwave @sebbymybaby21 @vicmc624 @capswife @440mxs-wife @supersoldiers1xt @missvelvetsstuff @bonnyclydecat @marajade1974 @caity1995 @buckitostan @httpswilloww

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[leighsartworks216]

MORE Being Sick HCs (Non-Contagious Edition)

Zayne x gn!Reader x Sylus

Part One

Wrote these when I thought I was coming down with something again (Thankfully I didn't)

Warnings: vomiting, nausea, swearing

Word Count: 692

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Zayne having to go into work during the day so Sylus is the one taking care of you

He's tired, but diligent, making sure you take your medicine ("I don't want our dear doctor getting on my ass about it either, sweetie") and keep your fever down

Cuddle pile on the couch or bed, movies playing on the tv that neither of you are conscious enough to pay attention to

If you want soup, he'll make it of course, even spoon feeding it to you if you're too tired or just want to be spoiled

At night, Zayne is in charge of taking care of you while Sylus is out, despite you begging him to just get some sleep so he's not running on 3 hours at work tomorrow

He will try to sleep, cuddling you and keeping track of your temperature

The guy that wakes you up just so you can take your medicine ("Just take this and you can go right back to sleep, love")

You wake up suddenly nauseous and he's helping you to the bathroom or quickly holding a small trash can for you to throw up in instead

Holds your hair back for you, patiently comforting you through it, especially if you get to the point that you're just dry heaving but it feels like throwing up again would make you feel so much better

Will sit on the bathroom floor with you for as long as you need. Messages Sylus to keep him updated on your condition

When you think you can move from the toilet again, he helps you up and sits you on its lid. Wipes your mouth with a wet cloth, gives you some water to sip (if you can), even brushes your teeth for you to get the taste out

If you're still nauseous, he'll have you move to the couch so you can stay sitting up to avoid upsetting your stomach further. He'll get you crackers if you want to try nibbling on them, something to throw up in if you need to, a plushie from the bed - whatever you need to be comfortable despite your body turning against you

He'll stay right there with you the whole night, ready at the drop of a hat to help you through anything

If they're both free enough to stay home with you, they're honestly a bit over-attentive

Sylus is ready to send the Twins out on so many errands for anything you could possibly desire, or anything that could keep you comfortable

Zayne is ensuring you take your medicine on time, drink plenty of water, eat enough to keep your energy up, sleep if you want to, etc etc

They're both mother hens honestly

Eventually you can get them to settle down with you on the couch

You ask to watch something and lay across their laps. Sylus plays with your hair while Zayne massages your feet. If you fall asleep, they don't change the tv, even if it's not really up their alley (Neither of them actually mind it, though)

With Zayne focused mostly on taking care of you (full doctor mode fr), it falls to Sylus to take care of him. If he hasn't gotten enough sleep because of you being sick, he'll encourage Zayne to take a nap. After all, Sylus is there, he can watch over you, and if anything does happen, Zayne'll be the first to know

Just picturing Sylus on the couch with Zayne leaning on his shoulder and you in their laps 🥺 He's tired too bc it's daytime but he stays awake to keep his promise to Zayne and watch over you

Off topic: Zayne and Sylus in the kitchen cooking together???? I think I could die happy. Anyway...

After you get better and go back to work, Sylus has Mephisto keep an eye on you. May even use his resources to pull some strings and keep you out of the field for a while, just until you're back to 100%

And if you still want to rest for a bit longer, Zayne is always ready with a doctor's note, just say the word

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[strangerstilinski]

𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary; steve takes care of his sick gf

warnings; no use of y/n, (steve refers to reader as ‘girl’ but no mentions of specific anatomy i don't think), multiple descriptions of vomiting, steve being stupidly sweet, casual/non-sexual nudity, sickfic, fluff

word count; ~4k

a/n; i wrote 99% of this while i was sick and exhausted myself, so i'm not insanely happy with it??? but, uh.. fuck it? right? also this is my first time posting something on here that isn't DOB so pls, pls be nice — i beg you.

You had thought it would get better.

You'd thought that sleep would be enough to get rid of the overpowering warmth that had begun to prickle uncomfortably under your skin, the congestion that left your head feeling like it was just a little bit too big, too heavy, for your body. The better part of the last twelve hours have been spent curled up in bed, hoping to sleep it off.

You're not entirely sure what illness is to blame for your current state, but you're cursing each and every possible one as you stumble into the bathroom and fall to your knees in front of the toilet. An immediate ache from the collision against the floor goes ignored, as does the cold that bites at your shins through the glossy tiles.

Now, as your body rolls and tenses with heaves and coughs that have you spilling the remains of your dinner from the night before into clean porcelain, you can't quite believe that you'd dared to be so naively optimistic.

Time passes in that horrible way it always does when you feel poorly, too slow at times and a total blur at others. Your head has been pillowed on your arm at the edge of the toilet for one of those blurred stretches, time fuzzy while you catch your breath. You hear the loud trill of the phone ringing out from down the hallway and your head shoots up at the sudden noise. You intend on hobbling out of the bathroom to answer it, but the too-quick motion of your head snapping to attention has your stomach turning all over again.

The ringing continues as you upend the final contents of your stomach, and the grating noise of the telephone finally dies off only to pick back up again just as your puking turns into nothing more than dry-heaves, body still protesting despite there being nothing left inside of you to give.

When the roiling of your stomach settles slightly, it takes all of your strength to pull yourself to your feet, flushing the toilet and grabbing the bottle of perfumed bathroom spray to mask the lingering smell that's doing absolutely nothing to ease your nausea.

You fumble for a moment as you locate your thermometer, placing the end of the small glass tube under your tongue as you lean onto your elbows over the sink, head dropping weakly as you wait. When you pull the device from your lips a few minutes later, the little red line reads somewhere around a hundred, and you drop it to the back of the counter with a huff.

Your weight continues rest heavily on the edges of the sink as you flick on the tap and proceed to take a few long sips straight from the stream of cold water, rushing to take in grateful gulps. It clears some of the bitterness from your tongue, washing away the rancid taste of bile and stomach acid while settling cooly in your feverish body.

You push back up, weight resting on your palms until you can regard your unusually pallor complexion in the mirror. Your eyes are bleary, a little wet still with tears from your battle with your own body a few minutes before. The sight of just how truly unwell you look has your stomach turning all over again, the cold water in your stomach suddenly feeling as if it's moving in heavy, churning waves inside of you, as if it's fighting to break free.

You barely make it back to the toilet before you're retching and dumping back out all of the water that you'd forced into your body perhaps a bit too quickly.

You're so exhausted by the time your stomach settles once more, you don't manage more than flushing the toilet and misting the air with another quick spritz of freshener before you've slumped against the wall and begun to doze.

When your boyfriend eventually comes knocking at your front door, the sound isn't enough to rouse you, not even when the noise grows a little more frantic from anxiety, palms slamming against the surface paired with muffled shouts of concern through the thick wood.

You remain entirely unaware as an increasingly worried Steve Harrington begins searching for your spare key with muffled curses. He nearly upends the potted plant you have outside your door, kicking your doormat across the hallway in his haste to unlock your door and shove his way into your apartment. Steve stumbles through several rooms before he finds you in the bathroom and his steps falter at the sight that awaits him.

You look so pathetic it's startling; curled in on yourself in a way that makes you appear smaller, weak and innocent, younger even. Your head is tipped against the wall, lolled to the side until your nose and chin are nearly touching your shoulder. He knows it has to be wreaking havoc on the muscles in your neck, and he nearly winces at the thought, pushing further into the room and squatting down in front of you. Steve's hand finds your cheek, supporting some of the weight of your head to straighten your spine just a touch as he assesses the sickly pallor your skin has taken.

“Oh, honey.” Steve says softly, thumb stroking from your jaw to the apple of your cheek and back down again.

The soft touch is enough to finally wake you and he watches your eyes blink heavily, feverish confusion pulling your brows together as you struggle to focus on the face in front of you. You pout at him and the sight of your lip jutting out is so cute that Steve fails to notice your arm rising weakly from where it was blocked by the toilet. Not until it's too late.

A honeysuckle scented mist sprays in his direction, forcing him to flinch back in surprise as the perfume invades his nostrils.

“Jesus!” Steve exclaims in surprise, hacking slightly at the taste of it on his tongue, “Baby, what the hell?”

Your nose scrunches up as both your arm and the spray bottle fall heavily into your lap. You blink at him slow, “Smells like vom in here.” You explain meekly.

“It smells fine.” He tries to reassure you, pulling the de-odorizer from your weak grip and setting it on the countertop behind himself and effectively out of your reach.

“Wha're you doing 'ere?” You question in a rasp, shaky hand grabbing ahold of his wrist as if trying to prove to yourself that he's real and not some fever-induced hallucination.

“You weren't pickin' up my calls,” He tells you softly, thumb beginning to move across the heated skin of your cheek again, “I knew you were plannin' on staying in to get some cleaning done. When you didn't answer my mind kinda ran wild. Thought you might've slipped and fallen and cracked your head off the kitchen counter or somethin'. I dunno, I just.. I got worried, sweetheart. Came to check in for my own peace of mind,” His gaze trails the length of your body, taking in your wrinkled tshirt, your bare feet, your clammy skin, the puffiness around your eyes, “I'm glad I did.”

“‘'m sorry I didn't pick up the phone,” You apologize quietly, your gaze drifting to the toilet for a moment before slowly meeting his again, “Was busy puking my guts out.”

The way your lip pulls up at the corner from your own dry humor has Steve cracking a smile, his voice fond when it sounds again.

“I see that,” He says with a sigh, “How long you been sick?”

You try to shrug but your shoulders barely move, your body too weak to manage more than a small twitch of your muscles, “Started feeling shitty last night before bed. Slept a lot. Got sick when I woke up this afternoon.” As if suddenly realizing the lack of brightness coming in through the bathroom window, your raspy voice comes again, “Time s'it?”

“Five-ish,” Steve tells you with a frown, pretty brown eyes flicking over your face, “You haven't eaten anything?”

You give him a small shake of your head, his large hand supporting most of the weight of your skull as you do so, “M'sick.”

He sighs, “You still gotta eat, honey. Have to get something in your stomach if you're gonna get your strength back.”

You shake your head again, sad eyes meeting his, “I'll just throw it up. Don't want to get sick again.”

Steve smiles at you pityingly, a sad thing, “We'll try something real small to start, how's that?”

“How small?” You ask nervously.

“Some soup?”

You shake your head.

“Just broth and some crackers?” He bargains.

Your stomach rolls at the mere thought and it must show on your face because he sighs heavily.

“Dry toast?” He tries.

Your eyebrows pull together, but the thought doesn't immediately make you queasy, so you give him an indecisive shrug.

“Let’s try some toast, yeah, honey?” Steve says softly.

His fingers gently brush your hair back from your face and your mind whirls in realization.

“Oh god,” You bemoan weakly, “'s there puke in my hair?”

“No,” He says a little to quickly, “No, baby, there's nothing in your hair.”

You give him a look to say that you don't believe him for a single second, but he's looking at you so fondly that your expression melts away into something soft almost immediately.

“You want me to tie your hair back?” Steve asks, already turning around to peek at the bathroom countertop where there's a mess of hair ties and clips littering the surface.

“The big one.” You tell him, nodding vaguely in the direction of your favorite scrunchie.

He turns back around with the puffy material pinched between his fingers, already combing your hair back and collecting it in a bundle with gentle hands. The sensation of air meeting the clammy nape of your neck feels so good that you let out a small noise of relief, leaning forward to give him more room while he tries to smooth out the lumps in your hair with his fingers.

Once he's managed a messy ponytail, his wide palms rest on the sides of your neck, thumbs ghosting along your jawline as he frowns at the feverish sweat on your brow.

“You taken your temperature at all?” He questions in concern, his fingers meeting your forehead and somehow managing to feel blessedly cool against your overheated skin, “You feel like you're burnin' up, sweetheart.”

“Hundred or so.” You tell him, eyes falling shut as you lean into the feeling of his hand against your sweaty skin.

Steve hums, an unhappy sound, “That's not too bad. Not good by any means, but it's nothin' to be too worried about, huh?” He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself more than you, so you merely nod against his hand. He sighs after a moment, “Right. C'mon. Up we go.” He urges softly, arm curling around your back with one hand gripping at your hip as he pulls you to your feet.

You're not sure how he manages it so effortlessly, the only hint of his strain is the soft grunt he lets out when you collapse against his chest and knock a little bit of the wind from him. You bury your nose into the dip of his clavicle, the strip of skin and scarce chest hair poking out from beneath the collar of his stretched shirt is soft to the touch and masculine smelling and overall a little dizzying — although, the way you sway against him has you wondering if maybe that's just the fever.

“Toast.” Steve reminds you softly, hand slipping beneath your baggy sleep shirt — one that had been his shirt, once upon a time — to run his thumb over the soft, overheated skin at your hip.

You grumble something that's not quite disapproval or approval, a weak sounding thing to protest the thought of moving from your current position, but with an endeared sigh and a soft press of his lips to your sweaty temple, Steve's manhandling you into a better position. Your feet end up over the tops of his, your arms curled up underneath his own to grip weakly onto the backs of his shoulders. He holds you steady with one hand at the center of your spine and the other spread over your backside in likely the least sexual touch he's ever graced to that area of your body.

You manage a weak murmur about him copping a feel and he laughs. It falls over your ear in a breathy little chuckle as Steve carefully waddles the two of you down the hall. His arms continue to hold you tight to his chest while walks you back around the corner leading into your small kitchen, flicking the overhead light on as he goes.

“Hows'it you're mouthy even when you're on your deathbed?” He asks, a small grin on his face as he gently gets you settled up onto one of the kitchen stools where you can rest while he makes you food.

You collapse onto your elbows against the countertop as soon as he releases you, cheek resting heavy in your palm as you peer up at him.

“Dunno..” You tell him quietly, eyes flicking over Steve's face slow in a way that you didn't quite manage in the dim light of the bathroom.

His hair looks a little fluffier than normal, soft and messy in a way that makes you want to run your hands through it, tug soft on the strand that dips down over his forehead and curls toward his eye in that effortlessly beautiful kind of way. Caramel swirls prettily with the darker shades of brown and gold in his eyes, pink lips pulled into a barely-there grin when he turns back toward you after grabbing a half eaten loaf of bread from the cupboard.

You're watching him with a dazed sort of admiration, “How s'it you look so pretty even when I'm on my deathbed?” You counter dreamily, arms crossing against the cool countertop so that you can rest your temple over the tops of them when your head suddenly starts to feel a little too heavy, vision swaying.

Steve laughs softly as he gets two slices of bread into the toaster, “I'm not sure there's a correlation between my good-looks and your health,” The sound of his amusement fades out when he looks back at you and finds your new position, “Oh, Honey..” He says simply, the words pitying.

“'m dizzy.” You tell him with closed eyes. The darkness behind your eyelids doing nothing to slow the spinning in your brain.

“Well I'm sure that not eating all day is at least partially to blame for that,” Steve says softly, “Your body can't fight the virus if you don't give it any fuel.”

You pout petulantly, knowing he's probably right, “You're annoying when you're smart.”

The swirling blackness behind your closed eyes slows, your breathing following suit as you relax against the counter.

“C'mon, sit up, sweetheart.”

The sound of his voice startles you and the quiet clink of a ceramic plate being set down on the counter beside your head has you deducing that you might have fallen asleep for a few moments. You make a small noise of surprise as your gaze moves to the food on the plate, plain dry toast. Steve has sliced it into cute, neat little triangles for you and your heart melts a little at the gesture.

Hands on your arms guide you gently into an upright position as Steve crowds up against your side, letting you rest your weight into the wall of his chest when your head swims a little from the movement. You grab a slice of lightly toasted bread from the plate in front of you and bring it to your lips, nibbling slow at the corner with your eyes closed, trying to focus on the way you rise and fall with Steve's breaths where you're resting against him — the expansion of his lungs beneath his ribs rocking you in a slow, steady movement while you attempt to force down comically tiny bites.

Steve drags his palm along the length of your spine, drawing a smooth path up and down as you eat.

“Doin' good, babe,” He praises softly, his free hand falling to rest lightly on your stomach where he begins to trace tiny circles over your shirt, “You don't have to eat it all. Just need to get a little something in your stomach.”

You hum around your sliver of toast, crumbs raining down on both of your chests and clinging to the fabric of your shirts as you chew. It takes a stupidly long time, but you manage to finish a single triangle of bread, and Steve continues with his soothing touches all the while.

He feels you grip the hem of his shirt in your fist, your sweaty face turning into his chest with an unintelligible murmur, and he brings his hand on your back up to rest between your shoulder blades.

“You done for now?” Steve asks gently, fingers rubbing softly into the tense muscles beneath your neck as you nod, “Probably haven't had anything to drink either, huh?”

You shake your head and a frown pulls at your lips when he takes a small step away from you, “Wha'-?”

“Gonna grab you a glass of water, alright? Then we can take a bath. Get you all clean and relaxed.”

He's already stepping away before you can protest, though the phantom sensation of the water that had re-emerged from your mouth an hour or so earlier has you frowning anxiously.

Unaware of your silent distress, Steve grabs a glass and turns on the tap, the loud rush of the water hitting the sink basin filling the room while he sticks his hand under the flow. He stands like that for a few moments, fiddling with the temperature a couple of times before he fills the cup. He returns to you only moments later, settling the glass into your palms with more gentleness than you think you've ever experienced.

As both of your trembling hands lift the water to your lips, you take a small sip, frowning and lowering the glass only a moment later.

“It's warm.” You complain weakly, face scrunching up in disgust as you meet his eyes.

Steve nods and his hand urges your own to bring the glass back to your lips, “Cold water will shock your stomach,” He tells you softly, “Gotta be warm if you don't wanna get sick. My strong girl just ate half a piece of toast, you don't want to immediately throw it back up, do ya?”

“No.” You murmur around the lip of the glass, taking another careful sip.

“No,” Steve agrees, wide palm coming up to brush a few loose wisps of hair back from your forehead, “Doing good, honey, real good. Just a few more sips and we'll get you in the bath.”

You frown at the reminder, clutching your cup to your chest with both hands, “Oh god,” You whisper in horror, “I smell.. I smell really bad, don't I?”

“You don't smell,” Steve promises with a soft smile, though it's not entirely convincing, “A bath'll help your head, though. You said you were dizzy, yeah?”

“Yeah,” You agree quietly, “Feels, like, swollen. Like my head's gonna explode.. But also 's spinny.”

“The steam will help,” He promises, “And you'll feel better when you're fresh and clean, y'know?”

You sigh around another sip of the warm water, a reluctant nod against the hand resting over your forehead. He urges you to drink a little more before he's dragging you back toward your bathroom.

You're forced to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, watching with tired eyes as Steve flits in and out of the room — adjusting the flow of the water in the bathtub and digging through your basket of bath salts and filling a bowl from the sink tap for reasons you can't imagine but don't bother to question aloud.

Instead, you wait. The loud rush of water filling the tub lulls you into a sort of trance until your eyes are slipping shut, head swaying heavily on your shoulders. The steam filling the room smells nice, lavender salts and oils having been added to the bath at some point, and the smell has you beginning to relax.

“Not fallin' asleep on me already, are you?”

You blink slow, heavy eyelids fluttering as you open your eyes to find Steve standing in front of you, already stripped down to his boxers. He steps between your legs to pull your shirt up over your head and you're down to only your underwear with just that one quick move. When he pulls you up, gentle hands cupping your elbows in case you sway on your feet, you lean into his bare chest with a contented sigh.

“This is nice.” You murmur, rubbing your cheek against the soft hairs littering his chest.

“This isn't even the relaxing part, honey,” Steve chuckles softly, his hands falling to your hips to rid you of your final article of clothing, “Come on. In you go.”

He helps you step over the lip of the tub, one hand in yours and the other on your waist to steady you. The water is hot and silky against your skin, a gasp on your lips when it first licks at your calves. It sends blissful shivers down your spine as you settle down into it, your eyes falling shut with a contented groan as you curl your arms around your knees and bow your head to rest over them.

You're only alone for a moment before Steve is settling in behind you, his long legs caging you in as they stretch the length of the tub. The water flowing from the tap cuts off and the room is thrust into startling silence, the thundering sound of the bathtub filling being replaced with the quiet sloshing of the water as Steve adjusts himself beside you.

You gasp in surprise when a warm stream of water falls over your shoulder and you crack your eyes open to watch as Steve cups his hands again, bringing the water to the back of your neck and releasing it in a warm rush down your spine. You hum in approval and he repeats the action a few times, dropping handfuls of water over your back as the steam works to lessen the pressure in your head.

A few minutes pass before Steve's maneuvering you around with big hands at your ribs, your thighs splaying wide over either side of his knees as he settles back against the end of the tub. Water sloshes around you with all the movement, licking high on your skin until you rest chest to chest, your face tucking into the damp curve of his neck.

“You alright like this?” Steve checks, his voice unbearably soft as the words fan out over cheek, “You comfortable?”

You hum happily, eyes closed, “So comfy, Stevie.”

He brings a big, bath-warmed palm up to rest on your shoulder, wet fingers trailing along your skin and leaving tiny oil-sheened drops of water behind that bead down the length of your arm and back as they fall.

Just as your mind starts to slip into that space between wakefulness and sleep, a startlingly cold cloth is pressed to your forehead. The chill has you reeling back slightly, a betrayed sort of frown on your face as you peer at your boyfriend who's holding a damp washcloth in his hand.

“To help bring down your fever,” Steve supplies in response to your silent question, “Sorry. I should've warned you.”

You settle back against his chest with a small huff, hand curling around his wrist as a way of telling him it was okay to try again. The cold doesn't shock you nearly as much the second time around, taking only a moment to warm into a comfortable coolness against your skin.

A deep breath fills your lungs with the sweet smell of lavender combined with the lingering musk of Steve's cologne. Your fingers trail over damp skin until you can settle your palm against his pec, blunt nails tracing slow patterns on his skin through the short damp hairs.

“Thank you,” You whisper over his chest, your breath causing his nipple to pebble up against the steam-thickened air, “So good to me, Steve. 'm so glad I have you.”

The wet cloth against your forehead disappears only to return a moment later, cool again from having been dipped back into the bowl of cold water Steve had placed beside the tub. Your breath stutters a bit at the chill, body tensing and relaxing back against him only a second later.

“How many times have you been the one taking care of me, huh?” Steve asks, fingers dragging up and down along the skin at the outside of your thigh in a soothing touch, “And I'd say you're in much better condition now than I was at least a few of those times.”

“'s different,” You argue quietly, “You were hurt. You're always getting hurt.”

“And you're always there to take care of me,” Steve agrees, “So I'm gonna take care of you. 'cause we got each other's backs, don't we, honey?”

His voice is smooth like silk to your ears, his big hand still trailing softly along your skin. His fingers find their way to your shoulder, the gentle drag of his knuckles skating along your jaw, the apple of your cheek, the length your brow bone, tiny streaks of moisture left behind in his wake.

“Yeah,” You murmur against his skin, tipping your head to place a small kiss to the corner of your boyfriend's jaw, “We do.”

[milf-murdock]

Your writing is literally phenomenal - sincerely, someone who just binged your entire masterlist!! 💗 If you’re interested in this, I’d love to see dark!simon doting on reader when she’s finally pregnant 🤭 I’m sure he’d wait on her hand and foot, soothing and comforting her, but also being so smug because he’s literally a mastermind who’s been planning this for ages

Thank you so much for the kind words, love 🥹🥹 Comments like this mean the world to me and inspire me so much to keep writing 🖤

I fucking loooooooved this ask. When I tell you my brain was instantly just braining. However, I must be fully honest with you 😔 This is so fucking soft. Just. Wildly. Absurdly. Tooth-rottingly sweet. It turns out once dark!Simon actually gets her pregnant he just melts into the sweetest softie ever (shh don't tell anyone). Thinking about writing another part that's filthy smut with dark!Simon and his pregnant girl but I was just so excited about this fluff I wanted to share it lemme know if anyone would want to see that tho

Anyways, here's Simon helping her with morning sickness, Simon hearing the heartbeat for the first time, and Simon feeling them kick for the first time 🥺

Warnings: pregnancy, female reader, mentions of doctors offices, morning sickness, vomiting

Part 1 can be found here and Part 2 (NSFW) can be found here

Simon’s eyes blinked open as he registered your movements. The sound of your footsteps on the floor echoed through the room as you raced to the bathroom. His response was automatic as he rose out of bed, blinking the last dregs of sleep away as he followed your steps to find you kneeling on the cool tile in front of the toilet, dry heaving into the porcelain bowl. It seemed more often than not your mornings started this way. With no hesitation he knelt down on one knee beside you, pulling your hair up and away from your face into a loose pony tail held in his hand. His other hand rubbed soothing circled on your back, gently stroking up and down as he murmured soothing words. 

“I’m sorry, love. ’M sure this bit’s almost over.” 

As if on cue, you wretched once more into the bowl and Simon grimaced at his own poor timing. With a gasp you laid your head on your forearm against the toilet seat, eyes closed while you struggled to catch your breath, one hand rising up to flush the contents down the drain. Simon released your hair and rose to grab a cloth from the cupboard, running it under cool water and wringing it out. 

“Remember, doc said this was all completely normal. Good even, really.” Simon’s voice was nearly as comforting as the cool washcloth he pressed against the back of your neck. “Means the baby is developing and your body’s changing and whatnot.” You finally raised your head up, taking the cloth from Simon and running it over your face. 

“Yeah, still fucking sucks though,” you muttered before leaning back into Simon, his strong arms wrapping around you to pull you into him. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as one hand snaked down to rest against your abdomen. 

“It’ll pass, babe.” Simon pressed another kiss to your temple. “Besides, you’re still stunning.” 

You raised your head off his chest, shooting him the most menacing glare you could muster. “Not in the mood for your sarcasm, Si,” you grumbled. 

Simon brushed a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Not sarcasm, babe. I mean it. You’re glowing.” 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the soft smile that tugged at the edges of your lips. “Whatever, you’re gettin’ soft.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Simon agreed, pressing another kiss to your cheek before rising and helping you off the floor. “Come on, I’ll go make us a tea.”

___________

It was a well known fact that Simon hated hospitals. And doctors. And, well, really any kind of medical setting. Simon shifted anxiously in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to your exam bed. The sterile smell of medical suite was practically burning his nostrils. His leg bounced up and down at a rapid pace, one hand gripped tight on his knee and the other gripping yours in a similar hold. He looked around the room, taking in all the infographic posters explaining the various stages of pregnancy, health adverts, and more.

“Si.” Your gentle tone pulled Simon from his thoughts, his eyes drifting back to your face. “Relax,” you reminded him softly. “It’s okay. I’m here with you.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. His eyes drift from yours down to your abdomen. He swore you were beginning to show, just the barest hint of a swell to your belly. 

There was a knock at the door and then the friendly technician entered, introducing herself to you and Simon before placing a paper drape over your lap and having you lay back. You shifted your shirt up whilst she set up for the ultrasound, giving Simon an excited smile as you settled in.

“Oh that’s warm,” you commented as the tech squeezed a light gel onto your bare skin. 

“Yeah, we have a little warmer we keep it in, just something to help make the mum’s a bit more comfortable,” she commented as she started pressing the wand to your belly. 

Simon’s eyes flicked to the screen, the waves of black and grey indecipherable as the tech  moved around your stomach. 

“Ah, there we go. See? Right….here.” The nurse tapped to a black shape on the screen as she pressed the wand a little deeper into your skin. “There’s your baby.” She tapped a few buttons on her keyboard, taking a picture. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?” 

You nodded enthusiastically, but Simon couldn’t even get a word out. His own heart was racing so fast, his eyes staring at the screen, taking it all in. His baby. There were no words to adequately describe the pure joy, excitement, and absolute terror he was feeling. Y

You and Simon clung to each other, your joined hands serving as a lifeline for you both, tethering you to this moment. You and Simon each hold your breath, unsure what you’re waiting for. 

And then there’s a whoosh, and the sound of a steady heartbeat fills the room. Tears instantly filled your eyes. “Oh my god, Si,” you whispered. “That’s their heartbeat.” 

Simon’s own eyes were misty as he took it all in. “Yeah, babe. That’s our baby.” He blinked the tears away, internally urging himself to keep it together. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “There they are.” 

______

Simon was upstairs tackling the crib that he had been so fucking sure he didn’t need the fucking instructions for, only to find out that the damn pieces weren’t locking into place the way they were supposed to. “Bloody hell,” he growled, tearing through the mess of cardboard and styrofoam to find where he had tossed aside that bloody manual. 

A shout from downstairs had him freezing in place, his blood running cold as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. 

“Simon! Come here! Quick!” You shouted from your place on the couch, urgency in your voice. 

Simon dropped the drill to the floor, racing down the hall and flying down the stairs as fast as his feet could carry him. His mind spiraled, thinking through doctor’s numbers, fastest route to the hospital, or should he call an ambulance? No, he was positive he could drive faster. He rounded the corner, eyes wide and fixed on you. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you okay? Is it the baby?” His questions rushed out like word vomit as he strode to your side. He dropped to one knee, a protective hand resting on your pronounced bump, eyes flitting from you to your stomach. 

“What?” You asked, brows furrowing in confusion at the panic-stricken man panting before you. “No, I’m fine Si, just…here…feel,” you commanded, grabbing his hand and moving it to the lower left side of your stomach. “Wait for it…” you muttered. Simon was still trying to calm his racing heart, trying to take in the fact that you seemed perfectly fine. In fact, if anything, you seemed slightly annoyed. 

“Darling, what—” 

“Shhh!” You snapped. “Wait for it.” 

And then Simon felt it. A little force pressing against his hand, a fleeting sensation that was over as soon as it started. 

Simon’s eyes widened. “Was that?” 

“Mmhmm,” you squealed with a smile. 

“They kicked,” Simon laughed, pure awe on his face. He pressed his hand a little harder against your swollen mound, moving his hand just slightly to the right. He lowered his face to your stomach. “Come on, love, let’s see that again.” As if on cue, he felt a swift kick to his palm. Your laugh mingled with Simon’s as the radiant joy overtook you both. 

“He likes your voice,” you commented, smiling down at your bump and placing your hand atop Simon’s. 

“Of course she does,” Simon teased back. You weren’t finding out the gender in advance, wanting to be surprised. You each had your own suspicions though. At the sound of his voice, another kick hit his palm, harder than both the previous ones, causing you to wince. “Oi,” Simon jokingly chided, giving a stern look to your bump. “Take it easy on your mum. She’s working hard to grow you nice and strong.” Another strong kick. 

“Looks like we have a future football star on our hands,” you commented was you rubbed a hand against your sore swollen side. 

“Maybe they’ll play for Man U.” Simon pressed a kiss to your bump, right where the last kick was before rising off the floor to sit next to you on the couch. His lips found yours, kissing you with a fierceness that took your breath away. “Thank you, love.” His voice was soft as he pulled back from the kiss. “For this. For all of it. This is the greatest gift.” 

[the-kr8tor]

back to back requests, if you are okay with that. r finding out that she’s pregnant, and then hobie finding out? or maybe they both find out at the same time? up to you!!

Another banger request, bestie! Thank you 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW vomiting, description of illness, pregnancy talk, Billie and Ramona AU, Dad! Hobie, Mom! Reader, FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The portal opens in the living room, from the force of it opening has the boat rocking in the stagnant water. the sounds of your trinkets falling and crashing on the floor has Peter B. Cringing, while Mayday giggles excitedly in his arms. MJ follows close behind, all dressed up and pretty for their anniversary. The portal closes behind her in a mechanical sound.

“Hobie! Y/N?” Peter yells across the small space.

Mayday babbles to what sounds like your names. She tries to escape from her father's hold, kicking and squealing excitedly.

“Maybe they're still asleep?” MJ looks behind the kitchen island, she shrugs, having no idea where you or Hobie are.

Meanwhile, Mayday escapes, crawling across the floors. Upon your request, Peter took off Mayday's web shooters because in their last visit, well, the toddler almost gave you a heart attack.

Peter scratches his head, eyes flicking towards the closed bedroom door. “Do you think they're, you know?” he asks his wife with a slight whisper, wiggling his eyebrows.

MJ side glances, “Come on, really, Pete?”

Mayday points at the bathroom further down the hallway, Peter's enhanced hearing picks up retching and dry heaving inside the closed bathroom, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls.

He picks up Mayday, cradling her head. Looks like date night is postponed when the only person who volunteered to babysit Mayday is sick.

“Everything alright in there?” he knocks softly on the door.

The living room window slides open and out jumps Hobie holding onto a brown paper bag.

“You're early, hey MJ.” He says nonchalantly.

“Hi, Hobie, is she okay?” MJ grimaces after another round of retching continues inside the bathroom.

“Dude,” Peter makes way for Hobie to enter the small hallway. “Is she sick? You know I can't drop Mayday off while there's some sort of infection happening in here–” he gets a thwack upside the head from his wife.

“She's fine” Hobie says it to the couple but it's more of a reassurance for himself. “We both think she ate something bad a few days ago and she's been like this every morning.” He knocks twice on the door.

MJ looks like she's thinking.

Your pained muffled voice echoes out. “I'll be out in a minute, sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, love. I've got your meds, yeah? Come out so you can drink it” he says through the door.

With a click of the doorknob, you reveal yourself to the party in Hobie's jumper and a very old sweatpants hanging on your hip. Your eyes are flushed, sniffing to hell and back.

“Hi, sorry I don't think we can take care of Mayday today.” You say dejectedly, eyes forlorn as you look at the toddler who's equally devastated to hear the news.

“Aww man but we've got reservations–” MJ slaps Peter upside the head again.

Hobie helps you walk with his arms wrapped around your shoulders, thumb massaging comfortingly. He whispers to you. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like my stomach is doing somersaults.” You groggily say. Hobie sits you down on the settee, handing you a water bottle and medicine.

“Y/N, sweetheart, when was the last time you had your period?” You almost did a spit take when MJ asked you the question.

“Honey, what the he–cow” Peter fumbles, realizing that his daughter's still in his arms, watching him with her big eyes.

Hobie looks at you with wide eyes, slowly realizing something. You ate the same thing he eats everyday so why are you the only one with the stomach bug?

“Uh I'm late this month…” you side eye Hobie who looks like he's about to vomit right there and then. “Why? I'm probably just stressed and…” MJ gives you a soft look.

“Are you fatigued?” MJ softly asks, you nod while Hobie observes you and you only. “Any tenderness in the chest” you nod again. Hobie flicks his eyes down to your stomach. “Y/N, darling.” She smiles at you and Hobie, Peter gives you two the most awkward thumbs up. Mayday copies her dad, nodding along.

You chuckle nervously, facing Hobie, your bottom lip wobbling.

“Y/N” Hobie looks at you with glistening eyes. “Love, I think I should swing by the chemist again.” He holds your hand affectionately, eyes never leaving yours as a smile spreads across his face.

Peter's spidey senses warn him, covering Mayday's ears in one quick dad movement.

“Holy shit! Am I pregnant?!” you screech.

One agonizing fifteen minutes later, two lines appear on the small plastic stick, confirming MJ’s suspicion. Hobie was with you the entire time, holding your hand, caressing your back as he whispers ‘I love yous’ in your ear. You know you and the baby will be okay.

[daisies-daydreams]

Put Your Head on My Shoulder (Satoru Gojo x Plus-Sized!Wife!Reader)

Header Credit: Studio MAPPA and Pexels Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Plus-Sized!Wife!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort Tags: Workplace Bullying, Gossip, Fat Shaming, Body Image Issues, Praise/Reassurance, Kisses, Innuendo, Hickeys, Touching/Massaging, Gojo Being Sweet Word Count: 1.7k+ Summary: After hearing your co-workers talk about your weight, you're left feeling devastated. That all changes when you come back home to your beloved Satoru. A/N: Been having a lot of issues with body image and just needed some comfort. 😞 While there's no smut in this fic, I'm still putting a MDNI warning since there is some touching/spiciness.

You sighed and locked your computer, your strained eyes and tired brain begging for a break away from your desk. Your shoes clicked against the linoleum floor as you made your way to the breakroom, your badge gently tapping against your hip as you walked.

"Let's see, tonight Satoru's taking me out to dinner, but I also need to pick up-"

"Can you believe how much weight (Y/N)'s gained in the past year?" one of your coworkers suddenly sneered inside the breakroom. You instantly froze and clung to the wall as your heart dropped.

"I know. Seriously, what happened to her? She used to have so much control," the other one sighed. Hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you felt your stomach twist into a sickening knot.

"And did you see how much she ate at the company picnic? I honestly wonder what that husband of hers sees in her," the first one scoffed. You clenched your jaw as you ran away as fast as you could. You sniffed as your heart pounded in your ears, your coworkers' comments stabbing through your mind like venomous daggers, cutting you straight to the bone.

You heaved as you burst through the bathroom door, your hot cheeks now soaked with scorching tears as you sobbed. You quickly locked the door behind you, your heart nearly pounding out of your chest as you ran a hand through your hair.

"They didn't mean it," you murmured to yourself, the words rapidly falling from your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut and leaned against the skin. "They didn't mean it..." you breathed as tears painted your knuckles. Your sniffling grew louder as you tried to clench your jaw and choke back your sobs.

As much as you repeated the phrase like a mantra, the weight of their words continued to cut through you over and over again.

It felt like hours before you finally tried to dry your eyes. You didn't even want to look at your own reflection, fearful of the voice in your own head echoing the scathing sentiments from earlier. You sighed and smoothed your hands over your dress, only to feel your puffy stomach slightly sticking out.

"They're right, you know - what does Satoru see in you?" the voice echoed in a snide, venomous tone. You swallowed the growing lump in your throat as you blinked away a flood of tears that threatened to once again spill from your eyes.

You took a deep breath before stepping back out into the stark hallway. Every step back to your desk felt heavier as you kept your head down, your cheeks still burning and stomach churning as you tried to not think about what happened earlier.

But every little thing you did seemed to make the acrid voice in your head grow so much louder.

"Better not eat too much at dinner tonight. You wouldn't want Satoru to be seen with a pig out in public, now would you?"

"They weren't wrong you know. You've lost control. Weak, stupid, lazy"

"It's honestly a miracle he hasn't left you for someone else, someone more pretty"

That last one made your throat tighten as you nearly smashed your fingers against the keyboard. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, a sour taste starting to sting your tongue as you ran your hands through your hair.

By the time you left work, your head was pounding as you desperately fought the urge to cry. A dull navy blue had settled over Tokyo as you stepped onto the train, your eyes cast down as you tried to not look at the reflection in the window. The city lights and buildings became a blur as you put your headphones in, welcoming any distraction from the toxic thoughts brewing in your mind.

Exhaustion seeped into your bones when you finally made it back to your high-rise apartment. Your keys jingled as you slowly opened the door, the silence doing little to ease your aching chest. You thought about calling out to see if Satoru was home, but before you could, your keys slipped out of your hand.

"Great," you grumbled before leaning over, the skirt of your dress riding up as you bent down to grab your keys. The feeling of your stomach pressing against the plush of your thighs made you flinch. You swallowed thickly before you felt a pair of large, strong hands grab your love handles.

"Now here's a sight I like to see," Satoru purred as his front brushed against your plump rear. You gasped and tensed as he tenderly squeezed your hips in his palms.

"S-Satoru," you breathed. Your husband chuckled before he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear before he pecked your cheek. The soft feeling of his mouth on your skin made a deep blush bloom across your cheeks as you kept your head down.

"Missed you today, baby," your beloved murmured as his thumbs brushed over your hips. You shivered a bit before slowly standing up, keeping your back turned to Satoru. He sighed and rested his chin on your shoulder, his strong arms now protectively wrapped around your midsection. You squirmed at the feeling, your lips curved into a frown as his biceps caressed your stomach.

"I...I missed you too," you said in a strained whisper. Satoru tilted his head as his arms remained wrapped around your body.

"Baby, are you okay?" he asked while smoothing one of his hands over your waist. You flinched and nearly jumped away, your heart pounding as your eyes began to sting again. Satoru blinked as his hands slipped away, his lips parted in confusion.

"Y-Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired is all," you waved. Your husband frowned and raised his brows.

"You sure? You texted me earlier about how excited you were to go to Luger's," he said. You sighed and slightly turned your head.

"Well, I'm tired now, okay?" you snapped. Satoru's eyes widened as you froze in place. Regret instantly flooded your chest as you released a shaky breath. "I-I'm sorry, Toru. I just had a long day," you sniffed. Your beloved's gaze softened as your vision began to grow blurry, a sheet of tears washing over your eyes. You relaxed as Satoru gently pulled you into a hug and pecked the top of your head, his hands brushing over the small of your back.

"We don't have to go out tonight if you don't want to," he said with a soft murmur. You sniffed and nodded as you returned his hug, clinging to him like he was the only buoy in a violent storm at sea. Satoru brushed one of his fingers over your hair as he continued to pepper the crown of your head with slow, tender kisses. "Why don't we just have a night in, hm?" he suggested.

Hot tears rolled down your face as you gave a slow nod.

"Y-Yeah," you simply muttered in reply. You felt him smile against your hair as the hand perched on your lower back soon slid over to cup your hip.

"Good...now I get to have you all to myself," he rumbled before slowly tilting your chin up. A jolt of fear shot through your chest as you gazed into his sapphire eyes...but all you saw stirring inside them was the deep, tender affection they always held. Satoru brushed his thumb along your plump bottom lip before your tilted your head back down. He sighed and squeezed your love handle with his other hand.

"(Y/N), please tell me what's wrong," Satoru urged as he cupped your cheek. Your throat grew tight again as you slowly shook your head.

"I-It's nothing. You'll probably think it's stupid," you muttered. Satoru clicked his tongue before tilting your head up again.

"(Y/N), you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I want to be here for you, and it breaks my heart to see you like this," he said with a gentle look in his eyes. You sniffed again as his words soothed the dull ache in your chest like a much needed salve. You wiped your eyes as you released a heavy sigh.

"I...I overheard some of my coworkers talking about me today. They...they were commenting on my weight," you confessed. Satoru blinked as his brows furrowed.

"What?" he said, his voice now laced with a subtle rage. You gripped his shirt as you nodded.

"I-I didn't realize how much my body's changed in the past year. How can you even look at me anymore?" you choked out the last part as a heavy tear painted your cheek. Satoru cooed as he kissed the tear away, his hands down slowly moving up and down your back.

"Oh, honey," he sighed. "Don't even listen to those idiots for a second. What the hell do they know?" Satoru said with a small grin. You huffed out a quiet laugh before your gaze turned solemn again.

"Don't you think I'm disgusting, though?" you sniffed. Your husband frowned before he pulled you against him. You rested your head on his shoulder as he leaned close to your ear.

"Disgusting? Baby, you're still the same sexy goddess who walked into my life all those years ago," he murmured. Your eyes grew wide as you felt him start to slowly trace his lips down your cheek, his hands sliding lower and lower down your back. You squealed and blushed when you felt him eagerly grab your supple ass, his deep chuckle making a shiver run down your spine.

"If anything, you being bigger now just means that there's more of you to love," he smirked against your skin before gingerly squeezing and massaging your bum.

"S-Satoru," you groaned and squirmed as he nipped and licked at your neck. Satoru sighed over your pulse, his warm breath sending a wave of goosebumps over your body. You tilted your head to the side as if on instinct as he wrapped his lips over your neck and gingerly began to suckle over your sensitive skin.

Your knees nearly buckled as you grabbed onto his back, his hands still rubbing and gripping at the tender flesh of your rear. You whined when he slowly pulled his head back, the cool air kissing the fresh hickey before he dragged his warm tongue over the mark.

Your eyelids fluttered as you parted your lips, a sharp whine leaving your throat when Satoru suddenly pulled his head back. He chuckled softly before cupping your cheek again, the pad of his thumb playing with your bottom lip as he whispered.

"Why don't I take you to the bedroom and show you how badly I still want you?"

༺♥༻

Thank you for reading ❤️

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[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Headcanons for Mark, Jonah, and Adam and an S/O who has a bunch of vita carnis Mimics as "helpers."

What would the three of them think of someone who can somehow "tame" these things and just keeps them around as house pets? They just hang out in their home and on their little plot of land (that I'd imagine is isolated because people moved tf away when the rumors started spreading) and keep any threats away. Reader doesn't actively do anything to sate their diet though. Although they aren't opposed to the Mimics stomping out any would-be troublemakers or those who piss them off... They still get their food themselves but use reader's home as a place of refuge.

Maybe the way the three of them meet their S/O was finding out that Alternates were being warded off from there. Idk, I haven't had a chance to get fully invested in MC but the idea just sounds really interesting. Also, I have the mental image of a Mimic putting away the dishes and someone's immediate reaction is screaming "What the FUCK is that?!?!" And just getting this whole explanation of what it is and that this one and all the others are friendly despite it needing to be reminded that the human in front of them is not food.

I LOVE that mental image you described. Mimics just doing chores and human things, only to see an actual human look at them absolutely HORRIFIED

........

Mark

He was relieved to get away from the Alternate-populated Mandela County for a while.

But when you answer the door while preparing dinner, you called out for James (one of the male Mimics you named) to stay in the kitchen...

Without realizing how extremely suspicious that sounded until you saw the look on Mark's face. "Who's James?"

"Oh! He's uh...can you wait here while I-?"

"Is he your new roommate or something?" He jumps to conclusions immediately, thinking you're cheating on him as you never told him you lived with another person.

In anger he storms past you to confront this "James" you were apparently being so secretive about....

Before you could stop him, he sees the Mimic and freaks out, causing it to drop the plate it was holding and screams right back at him.

You're quick to disperse the situation before it becomes a bloodbath, but by then it's too late. Mark was thoroughly traumatized.

When you mentioned living with creatures who kept the local Alternate population out of your town..he didn't think they'd be be skinless humans.

He locked himself in your bathroom, trying to stave off a panic attack as he recites his prayers, convinced there was "evil" hanging over your house.

Eventually he lets you in and you help him calm down, reassuring him that wasn't the case at all before explaining the Mimics and their role in your household, answering whatever questions he had (which were a LOT).

"Even if they're not demons....why would God make something like that?"

"Maybe..it's the same reason he made the platypus."

"......that's not the same, s/o."

"I know, I'm just trying to help."

Jonah

He's made jokes about the Mimics before.

But he didn't think they were real living and breathing creatures you were coexisting with.

He swears he was smoking something when he saw one wearing your clothes and sweeping the floor with a broom like any ordinary person would.

At first he tries to be chill about it as to not freak you out..

Until he goes into your pantry for a snack and finds shelves with jars filled to the brim with Crawl sticks.

As well as a Mimic curled up on the highest shelf, asleep.

Next thing you know, Jonah's dry heaving over the nearest trash can.

"Babe for the love of GOD please tell me that I'm on some weird ass trip because I can't handle this rn"

"...well maybe if you didn't brush off my research, you wouldn't be as scared." You pat his back before glaring at the Mimic who was just seconds away from lunging at your boyfriend at his most vulnerable moment.

"Jonah, sweetie..rule number one is to never turn your back on a Mimic unless you're running away from it." You make him turn around to face it, and they stare at each other before it eventually calms down and leaves.

Even after you explained how you "tamed" the Mimics, he's too scared to leave your side or be alone in the same room with one.

Their permanent smiles and wide eyes just...give him the chills. Even if they're just staring with curiosity, he always insists it's a look of hunger.

They are aware he's dating you and will playfully threaten to eat him, but never actually go through with it bc you'd probably kick them out and leave them without food.

Adam

(gonna make this post-Catalyst)

He's having a tough time keeping the relationship alive and coping with being an Alternate--a secret he only recently shared with you.

Despite him being the first one you've ever encountered, you're not all that afraid. Just surprised.

You confess to having your own secret to share, taking him to your home where you could talk about it more.

He keeps asking how you could trust him with anything when he looked like a hideous monster. But you reassured him he'll understand soon enough.

After you arrive, he sees the Crawl trees behind your house, but thinks nothing of it until you bring him inside.

You whistle and a Baby Mimic comes skittering towards you on all fours, climbing onto you like a koala bear before you turn back to your boyfriend, smiling.

It takes him a second to connect the dots. "....wait, that's a....Vita Carnis...i-it's a real thing??"

"They've always have been."

"Wow, this is...one hell of a secret. D-Does..that Mimic know what I am?"

"The adults can usually tell, but this little bugger thinks you're tasty food." You scratch the baby Mimic's chin, hearing it coo sweetly as it nibbled on your jacket strings. "But you see why I'm not scared of you? Because I've made peace with these "hideous monsters", just like I've made peace with what you told me."

He tears up at your sweet and kind words, though he listens as you introduce him to the "helpers" of your household aka the adult Mimics who wore your clothing and were doing different tasks.

They all kinda stared at Adam as he awkwardly greeted them, but didn't do anything more.

It's strangely comforting that they perceive him as a human.

At the same time, he feels lucky to not look appetizing to them.

[lawrencespen1777]

Hi, I have a request!

What about a sickfic where characters go on a boat, and one seems to be seasick. The only thing is, character continuously claimed that they don't get seasick, and never have. The others think it's just character being difficult, but then their friend/partner discovers they have a fever...

turns out they managed to catch the stomach flu.

I had SO much fun with this! I think I may keep it and adapt it for my own fandom. Thank you for the awesome prompt!

“Everyone who said hell was a big fire lied to me. It’s water and a bunch of boats where people have to live and be seasick for eternity.”

“I’m glad to see you’re not letting it affect your good mood.”

W groaned and hunched over the toilet in the four by four bathroom again. “How much longer?”

C checked their phone. “Still about four hours.”

“You said that last time.”

“You just asked a few minutes ago.”

“Impossible,” W choked and retched into the bowl.

C grimaced at the sound of partially digested lunch splashing in the water. They looked down when they noticed W watching them, but it was too late.

“You don’t have to stay…with me,” W panted, their words catching unevenly as their stomach jerked again. False alarm. “You should enjoy the party.”

“Not happening. The only reason I came was for you anyway…I just didn’t know you were such a lightweight.”

W rolled their eyes, but C saw the corners of their mouth twitch upward. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve sailed before. Never been sea-seasick.” They lurched forward and spit a mixture of saliva and bile, each dry heave bringing up less and less. W crashed back onto the floor and wiped tears of exertion from their cheeks. “God,” they whispered, resting their head in their hands. “This is humiliating.”

“Maybe you should lie down? I can ask someone if there’s a place you can use. Surely you’re not the first person to be seasick on a boat.”

W chuckled softly. “It would help if I could get someplace warmer. It’s freezing in here.”

C watched W closely. The shaking they had attributed to the violent vomiting had escalated to shivering. W’s face was the color of wet paste and their hair clung to it in damp, sticky patches. “It feels pretty warm in here to me. Do you think you have a fever?”

“I don’t know…I can’t focus on anything right now, but not pu-puking. Maybe it’s just cold on the floor.”

C bent down to touch W’s skin, first with the back of their fingers against a clammy cheek then, feeling the heat that radiated from them, with their palm against their forehead. “You’re really warm, W…”

W said nothing.

“Okay…just try to relax. I’m going to check with the party staff and see if they have Tylenol or anything you can take.

“I don’t think it’ll stay down.”

“Well we need to try so you don’t get worse.” When W remained silent again C kissed the top of their head. “I’ll be right back. Are you okay for a few minutes?”

“Mhmm.”

C didn’t quite believe them, but they hurried off anyway in case there was a round two.

[hannahssimblr]

At the house, I am conscious of the mess. Nobody has made an effort to clean up properly for weeks, and now dishes and miscellaneous bits of rubbish litter every available surface. The bins are full. Tangles of chargers and cables pile up on the table, and water damage has well and truly set in on the oak flooring under our feet. The same patch of floor that Evie’s hair is dripping on now, but while it’s too late to save it, she might as well add to it. 

“Wow, this is a beautiful house,” she says, and I have to check her face to see if she’s taking the piss out of me. She looks genuinely charmed. I frown.  

“I’ll get you a towel downstairs.”

As we descend to the living room, I find myself holding my breath. It seems even dirtier than the kitchen there, and I wonder how and when this happened, how it is even possible. Yet here we are, and it is. I pray there are clean towels, at least let there be clean towels…

Oh, thank God. 

I hand her one from the hot press. It is old and scratchy, and likely a victim of my mother, back when she used to dye her hair at home, evidenced by the big, bleached patches all over it, but at least it’s clean. I show her the bathroom. 

“Feel free to take a shower if you want to. The water is hot.” As it constantly is, because I turned it on at the beginning of the summer and found the system so complex that I never risked turning it off again. I’ll be hearing about it when my dad gets the bill, but that’s an issue for September. 

Evie peeks in. “You don’t want to go first?”

“No, go ahead.”

As soon as I hear the hum of the shower, I pounce into action and tear into my bedroom. I yank all the dirty clothes off the floor and fire them into my already heaving hamper, then kick a pair of shoes under the bed, followed by a mucky football and some art magazine Jen thought I’d like, but I never read.

There are chocolate wrappers on the floor. What kind of creature am I? Was I sitting on the floor at some point, feasting on a family packet of dairy milk bars, or did these just fall out of my pockets? I rush around, picking them all up, then reach the wastepaper basket to find it full. I curse under my breath and yank the bag out, tying it in a hasty knot, then carry it and the two handfuls of coffee mugs strewn about the place up to the kitchen. There is nowhere for them to go, so I shove the mugs into the sink and toss the bag on the floor. 

She’s showering for ages. Good. 

Next, I tackle the bed, straightening out the duvet and pillows, which are, mercifully, clean. I could tongue-kiss the past version of myself that ran them through the wash two days before. To make extra sure, I give them a good, long sniff. They still smell like detergent. The clean clothes from that same wash go from the armchair to the wardrobe, and books on the bedside table. The tennis racquets… they’ll be fine, leaning against the wall. When I step back and examine my work, I determine that it’s barely passable, but time is surely running out, and she can’t shower forever. The dust on the floor can stay another day. 

Lastly, I toss my sweaty clothes onto the pile and peel off my sodden shorts. Once I have changed into something clean, I carry all the laundry out and heave it into the washing machine, right by the door of the bathroom. Evie hums tunelessly in the shower, and for a moment or two, I stand and listen. I wonder whose shower gel she is using, and shiver inexplicably at the idea of her choosing mine. 

I arrange myself in a casual position when she comes back into the room, hanging out on the end of the bed. She’s rosy from the hot water, and her hair lies flat against her head, so straight and fine that her ears poke out the sides. 

“You don’t have to wear the same wet t-shirt,” I inform her. “I can put your clothes in the dryer.”

She pulls at the hem and looks down at those two, damp, triangular patches. “It’s okay,” she shrugs. “They’ll dry on me.”

“You can leave all your wet stuff on the floor. I’ll sort them out after my shower and I’ll just find you something else to wear.”

“But I won’t fit in your clothes.”

“You’ll fit in a t-shirt, won’t you?” I saunter over to my wardrobe and lift a t-shirt from the stack. It’s old, and has a hole in the armpit, hence it’s permanent relegation to the beach house wardrobe, but like everything else in this house in its current state, it will suffice. 

“Thanks,” she says. I leave her to change and head for the shower. 

“What are you looking at?”

She jumps and turns around. I’ve caught her nosing around and looking at my notice board. She points at it. “Your ticket to a music festival.”

I hesitate, trying to gauge whether Claire has blabbed to her about what I said or not. “Oh yeah, are you coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should. All of us are heading up to it.” I pull a pair of socks out of a drawer and plonk myself onto the bed to put them on. 

She sits with me. “I’m not sure. It’s kind of a bit complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” she hesitates before deciding to divulge. “Kelly and Claire are in a big fight about it. Claire wants to go, and Kelly doesn’t want to, even though it’s Claire’s eighteenth birthday the same weekend. It’s… it’s all a bit silly if I’m honest.”

I frown. “She doesn’t want to celebrate her friends’ birthday in a fun way?”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s that she doesn’t want to hang out with Shane for the whole weekend. She’d be too embarrassed to. She’s weird about that kind of thing.”

I should proceed with caution. I say, “sounds a little selfish to me.”

“Kelly’s a complicated person. I think she means well, she just… isn’t great at expressing herself. She gets angry at people instead of telling them how she feels in a normal way.”

I could talk a lot of shit about Kelly Healy, but I‘ll save it. I know that teenage girls’ friendships are strange and nuanced in ways my brain will never fully comprehend. Things never seem to be simple enough to just end the friendship. It must drag on for eternity until one of them is irreparably damaged in its wake. “So what, she’s forbidden you both from going to the festival?”

“She hasn’t said that we’re forbidden.”

“But you’re not going because you think she’ll be angry with you.”

“Pretty much.”

“So what about Claire? It’s her birthday.”

She groans. “I know. I hate this. I hate when people are fighting, and I feel like I’m in the middle of it. I don’t know what the right decision is.”

Tell me about it. “The thing that you want to do more, that’s the right decision.”

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Something wise.”

I laugh. If only I could take my own advice. 

She heaves out a sigh and slumps over her knees. “I can’t talk to either of them about it. Kelly is impossible, and Claire hasn’t been around. I’ve barely seen her at all since they fought. I don’t even know where she’s been.”

I blink. “Oh, she’s been here.”

“What?”

“Yeah! I thought you knew. She’s been coming here every day for ages.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“And did she tell you why?”

“No, I didn’t ask. I thought it was just to hang out with Shane.”

“With Shane?” She straightens to look into my face and I grin.

“Yeah, they’ve been hanging out.”

“Go ’way.”

“I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but they hang out a lot, go for walks together and watch TV in the living room. I usually just leave them alone, but…” I tap my nose.

“Oh, I knew it!” She throws herself back on to her elbows and shakes her head. “I wonder what this is going to mean for Kelly.”

“Kelly can grow up. She doesn’t have a say.”

“Ugh. I know. It’s just impossible not to worry about it.”

“Evie, how often do you let that girl live inside your head? Forget about it. Let Shane and Claire deal with her.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

It’s not lost on me, the juxtaposition between this conversation and the one I had with Alison this morning. These two girls are only a year apart in age, and yet somehow their lives oppose so diametrically. Am I the same boy with them both, or have I somehow split in two? How can I be worrying about Alison and all that she’s been through, while hours later coaching Evie through friend drama? I know the turmoil and stress is real for her. I can tell by the things her face is doing, how she nibbles on her lip, the way her brow furrows, but I am comforted by it, by how simple it is. Maybe it would be good for my soul to spend more time with Evie. 

Regardless, I move on from this specific theme and bring the conversation back to where it began. “And as for the festival, I think you should come.”

“Hm.”

“Will you?” She doesn’t answer, so I assume she hasn’t heard me. I nudge her. “I want you to come. Will you come?”

“You want me to?” She echoes, like she doesn’t exactly believe it.

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

Perhaps someone else would find it worthwhile to read into the fact that she seems to want to do everything that I do, but I’m not really that bothered. I’m just glad that she agreed for the sake of herself. I suspect it may be a rarity for her. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter [2]

[queenofbaws]

Hii, can you write a story about my theory for the bathroom couches

"...ty-one!"

There was a series of frowns at that, the gang momentarily lifting their heads from what they'd been doing to shoot each other suspicious glances. Clearly it hadn't been any of them who'd done the talking - the voice was strangely distant and, somehow even more strangely, excited - but still, the sentiment remained.

"I-I'm sorry?" Hannah said after a moment, glancing up towards the ceiling as if it'd been some higher power to shout at them.

And then, making all the noise of a suit of armor come to life, Mike came barrelling down the lodge's staircase, sock-sliding across the great room's hardwood until he bumped against the sectional. "Thirty-ooone," he repeated, bracing himself against the back of the couch. "That's how many fucking couches you guys got in this place, you know that? What gives?"

Hannah's head was instantly in her hands. "Oh God."

"Yeah, y'know...I've been wondering about that too," Sam said slowly, setting down her big book of crossword puzzles to glance around the lodge instead, the tally in her head almost visible as she counted couch after couch. "I mean. I guess I figured it was because, uh...ski lodge. Company. That kind of thing. But...you guys do have a lot."

"And the one in the bathroom?!" Emily cut in. "The one in the bathroom is pretty heinous."

Instead of bothering to deal with their chatter individually, Beth heaved a sigh and raised her voice, speaking up over them as if she didn't care. She also continued smashing buttons on her controller as if she didn't care. And her eyes? On the tv, baby. Like she didn't care. (Spoiler: She didn't). "Once upon a time," she began, "there was this wormy little kid named Josh."

"Wormy, huh?" he asked, offhandedly at best, hunched over with his elbows on his knees as he pulled off another sick combo on-screen. "That's a new one."

"The thing about Josh," Beth continued, paying him literally no attention as she wrung his health bar dry, "was he never slept."

"Still don't! It's one of my fun little quirks. Gives me personality."

"And it took Mom and Dad forever to figure out, but - " she paused long enough to wrench her body to the side as if it would help her character dodge, and, miraculously, it did, " - eventually they noticed he'd conk out on a couch even if he wouldn't fall asleep in bed."

"Know where monsters like hiding, B? Under beds. Know what you never hear about? Monsters hiding under couches."

Tapping her pencil against her crossword book, Sam scrunched her mouth together. It was a good point. She didn't say that part out loud. A quick glance around the great room told her the others were thinking the same.

"So," Beth kept saying, "Mom, being the worry-wort she is, filled this place with couches just in case little Joshy needed a little nappy-nap. And Dad, ever-resourceful, used the ski lodge excuse every time so he could get a tax write-off or something, I don't know. It sort of snowballed. Our family isn't really known for, like, restraint."

"No," Emily pretended to gasp. "The family that bought a whole goddamn mountain? You don't say."

"...and the one in the bathroom?" Mike repeated, his emphasis clear. "Please...please don't tell me you were napping in the bathroom, dude. There...there have to be limits."

"Tub takes an awful long time to fill, my man. Anyone would get sleepy waiting for that shit."

On the other side of the sectional, having until-then been silent, Jess let out a huge, whooping sigh of relief. "Oh thank Gawwwwwd," she groaned, dramatically slumping across the cushions. "I was so sure it was gonna be some weird pervvy sex thing."

"It can be both," Beth and Josh said in unison, deadpan and only half-paying attention as they kept playing their game. Joke or not, it was too much for poor Hannah, who slid off the couch altogether, moaning and groaning and huddling onto a ball of mortification on the floor.

[ddejavvu]

hiya sweetheart hope you're doing well,

i've had one of the worst migraines today and have been flipping back and forth from throwing up and crying and now multitasking doing both. Would it be okay for a VERY self indulgent request for aaron comforting the r in this situation

if you're not comfortable writing this just ignore me babe xx

sending you all my love

i'm sorry you're so sick lovey! i hope you get better soon :')

cw: mentions of vomit/sickness

With all of the tender love and sweetness you owe yourself, you know that this is the ugliest you've ever looked. There's dried sick on your chin that you can't wipe away, because you've used all of the toilet paper to blow your nose. It means that the tears sliding down your cheeks run into the stains, and you reach up weakly to flush the toilet of your sickness.

You've been down for the count all day, but your stomach really did not appreciate the soup you'd nursed your migraine with at lunchtime. You thought something easy would be good for the migraine-induced nausea, but apparently you weren't supposed to eat anything at all.

All you can do is let your chest and stomach heave in tandem, hoping that you'll have the strength to lean forward if you need to be sick again.

You hear the door open and shut, each noise that Aaron makes by simply getting home from work shooting like nails into your head that your brain hammers into itself. You whimper weakly against the toilet seat, slumping forwards as your stomach churns again, and Aaron stops dead in the doorway on his search to find you.

"Oh, honey," He murmurs, sympathy lining his voice, but it's too loud. You throw out a weak hand to silence him, dry heaving into the bowl.

"Okay," He whispers, smoothing your hair away from where it's been slicked to your forehead with sweat. He rubs his hand down your back, and you feel him secure it with a headband, one that you use when washing your face.

"Be right back," He informs you, still in that breathy whisper. You don't bother nodding as he leaves, too overwhelmed, but he knows you've heard him, and he ends up soaking a washcloth in warm water in your other bathroom so that the noise doesn't bother you.

When he brings it back he gently takes hold of your face, lifting your chin off of the toilet seat and wiping it clean. You know it smells, you're eternally grateful that he's not shutting you in until you're over your nausea.

"There," He hums, voice so soft that it sounds like a secret, "All clean. Can you stand?"

"No," You whimper, shaking your head as he pries at your shoulders, "I- I need a trash can!"

"Okay," He soothes, talking away from you so that his voice doesn't bother you, "I'll bring the can. Let me carry you."

You're limp in his arms as he hauls you off of the floor, and he's careful to go easy on your stomach, keeping it decompressed. He bends you at the knees instead, and lets you lay flat against his arms. It's not bridal style, but it's easy on your belly.

He carries you to bed and you're grateful for the flat surface of the mattress to sink into. It means your stomach is content, for once in the past few hours, and you let him tuck you under your blankets.

He's back with the bathroom garbage in a moment, and he shuts the door behind him so that the sound of the toilet flushing doesn't bother you.

"There," He leans over, kissing your sweat-soaked forehead, "Sorry, honey."

All you can do is groan, eyes shut. He knows you're thankful for his help, he's not going to force you to speak or make eye contact with him.

"I'll be back," He promises, still speaking in the hushed tone of voice that doesn't completely annihilate your head, "Just gonna make soup. You don't have to have any if you don't want to. Just in case."

He straightens up to head for the door, but you catch his hand in your own clammy one before he can leave. He turns, waiting for you to speak, but all he needs to hear I love you is the way that your hand squeezes his own.