#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?

[wosoamazing]

Amada Part 3

Freyja Estrella Engen-León

Summary: You get sick

Warnings: Sickness, Vomiting, Mentions of Hospitals

Notes: I was going to post this tomorrow or later but seeming that I reached 1k followers this morning I thought it was only right to post something. Based off this request. (Also idk if this is very good but yeah) 1.4k words

You wake up in the middle of the night and your head feels funny, everything is muffled but not the nice muffled when you have your ear defenders on. It's a weird muffled and you don’t like it. You know you’re not meant to get out of bed at this time because the little clock on your side table is red however you don’t like this feeling and decide to venture out to your Mum’s room anyway.

-

You walk up to your Mumma’s side and tap her lightly, she wakes up instantly and is confused. She doesn’t normally wake up during the night, especially because Mapi is a deep sleeper and you’re very good at sleeping in your own bed, however she wonders if Mapi has woken up because of her leg, but the soft snore that immediately follows that though proves to her that Mapi is well and truly asleep. However when you shift next to the bed she notices you and it finally makes sense.

“Freyja, what’s wrong?” Ingrid asks you and you just shrug your shoulders, knowing she probably isn’t going to get an explanation out of you currently so she just decides to pick you up and place you in their bed, where you immediately snuggle into her chest. It’s something Ingrid is grateful for, they had been told by many people, that autistic children wouldn’t like touch, however it was something you often sought out, and not just for sensory reasons, more for comfort, your OT thinks that you have safe people, who you know and they know you, you trust that they won’t overstep your boundaries and so you enjoy their comfort, knowing you’re safe, your Mumma and Mami are very good examples of that but also Frido and Alexia.

When you wake up you feel even more funny, your very warm, and your head feels all stuffy, Ingrid notices and gives you some kids medicine before taking you to training, knowing that if you were actually sick she couldn’t leave you with Mapi, who still needed to use her crutches to get around.

“Is she okay?” Alexia asks as Ingrid walks onto the pitch having just set you up on the sidelines, with all your usual items plus the addition of some of those cardboard bowls the players get to take home when they get ouchies on their heads.

“We think she might be sick. I couldn’t leave her home with Mapi, she still needs to use her crutches. It would be unfair on both of them. Maps also panics too much. But we aren’t completely sure if she is sick,” Ingrid informs Alexia

“Are you okay? You-” “I’m fine, don’t worry. Where’s Aitana?” “She is sick,” 

Ingrid could tell that the gym was getting to much for you, but she was also worried about how pale your usually tan complexion was and how you had a slightly green tinge to you, she is pretty sure she saw your body roll slightly before your eyes went wide and you press a hand to your stomach.

“Ale, I’m just going to take Freyja to the bathroom, she doesn’t look the best,” Ingrid tells her captain who nods at her and gives her a sympathetic smile.

-

You sit down on the floor of one of the showers with your Mumma and she just talks to you, asking you questions about penguins, trying to calm you down and distract you from the weird feeling inside of you.

Your body rolls as you gag and you looked up at her eyes wide open with panic, “It’s okay Freyja, your body isn’t feeling well and it’s just trying to get rid of the ickiness, just let it happen, it might feel icky and be gross but it will make you feel better.”

You dry heave this time and just shake your head aggressively before tears start spilling from your eyes, “I know, it’s not nice, but you’re doing such a great job.”

You retch again and this time something comes up, Ingrid manages to place the bowl under your chin to catch everything. By the end of it your body is shaking and you’re silently sobbing, letting out a choked out cry every now and then. Ingrid doesn’t know what to do, you’ve never actually been sick before and she knows you are probably already overstimulated so touching you without your ‘permission’ wouldn’t be the best idea.

“Freyja, would you like a hug or do you not want touch,”

“Hug,” you weakly say and it’s all Ingrid needs to pull you in for a hug, which is when she suddenly realised how unwell she is feeling herself, however she needs to get you home, before she can let the sickness overtake her. Ingrid manages to get you changed out of your clothes and into a nappy before she has to sit down, feeling like she was going to pass out, she was ever thankful when both Alexia and Frido walked through the door, as much as she hated admitting she needed help she knew she did, and she knew you were good with both these people and in all honesty if she had to throw up in front of someone at least it would be one of her close friends.

“Can someone take her I-” your Mum had to stop and breathe deeply trying to fight off the nausea, and Alexia immediately scooped you out of her arms and Frido helped your Mum up before guiding her into the bathroom and then into one of the toilet stalls, locking the door behind them.

______

You were lying on Alexia’s chest miserably when Kiera and Lucy entered the locker room. The English women’s faces soften at the sight of you, you're just in a nappy and your skin looks clammy, and your ear defenders sit over your ears.

“We just came to check on you all, it’s been a while,” Kiera said softly.

“Oh, um, Ingrid is sick too, Frido is with her,”

“Do you need any help? We could pack your bags, go get the medics for you,” Lucy offers.

“Ehm, potser, els metges haurien de tenir medicaments per a nens, si només els poguessis aconseguir i tornar-los, seria genial, però només sabor de maduixa, (Um, maybe, the medics should have kids medicine, if you could just get it and bring it back that would be great, only strawberry flavour though)” Alexia told them and Kiera nodded before leaving the room and Lucy decided to help pack up your bag, Frido’s bag, Ingrid’s bag and even Alexia’s bag.

Kiera returns with the medicine bottle and some of it already in the syringe and Alexia quickly nods before taking the syringe off Kiera, she manages to get you to take it, mostly because you felt too bad to fight against the action. Your head felt funny along with your tummy and even with your ear defenders on everything was still weirdly muffled. Your skin felt yucky and you’re thankful you’re only in a nappy, the cool air feels nice against your burning skin and Alexia’s finger ran up and down your back soothing you softly.

It's been four hours since you arrived home, and almost 2 hours since Alexia and Frido took your Mumma to the hospital. You now laid on your Mami’s chest, fast asleep, like you had been for the past four hours. Mapi really wanted to go to the hospital with Ingrid, wanted to help her partner feel better, but you were important too and she needed to be there for you, and if your sickness was anything like Ingrids you weren’t well at all. Ingrid had collapsed in front of the toilet the second she walked through the door and she hadn’t been able to leave since, so Alexia and Frido decided they needed to take her to the hospital to get help and Mapi agreed, wanting nothing more than for you both to be okay.

Eventually after many hours Ingrid returned home, looking better, the medicine and fluids at the hospital had helped however she was now exhausted. She climbed into the bed, immediately curling into Mapi’s side, who still had you sleeping on her chest, before you all fell asleep, sleeping off whatever bug had invaded your family.

[yung-notorious]

FIRST RICH BABY DADDY IN MIAMI, IM UNSTOPPABLE!- ♡

— you know how they say friendships never make it pass miami? — feat. satoru gojo

+18 MDI. WARNINGS. baddie!reader x rich!gojo, porn with plot, this is not going to go the way you think, false Identity, girls just wanna have fun, f*cking 4 the bag, drama & mess, miami club scene, miami testing y’all friendship, vip sections & bottle girls, high-value men, instagram models, drinking, high-fashion, unprotected sex, creampie, praise & body worship, gojo satoru is his own warning, descriptions of nudity. notes. word count 6k. title: Flo Milli - Edible (A03 link)

photo’s sourced from pinterest, credits to original ♡

“Hold the fuck on!” You holler in response to the repeated banging on the bathroom door. A line of people had formed behind the door trying to rush y’all out.

“Fuck Utahime don’t sit on the floor it’s disgusting.” You reach under her arms to help support her weight as she continues to throw her stomach up into the toilet.

“I’m so fucked up...” She dry heaves then coughs, tears starting to brim around her eyes. She's crouching down over the toilet, hands gripping the edges of the rim, this was fine, it’s okay, as long as she didn’t get her knees on the sticky wet floor she could wash her hands in the sink and use the sanitizer you keep in your purse.

You hold her hair up as she continues to get the rest of the toxins out of her system, long thick jet black hair wrapped around your knuckles, you two always joke about how if she ever went broke enough she could cut her hair and sell it.

“Wait a fucking minute!” You holler again, more knocks and bangs hitting the door. You were really getting pissed off now, as big as this club was, you knew there were plenty of other bathrooms for them to use. You weren’t leaving till your girl could walk out on her two feet, fuck if it was ignorant…let them say something to y’all when y’all walk out. You dare them.

“I’m so sorry yo…” she cries out…she wasn’t even pissy drunk…you couldn’t figure out why she was throwing up. Y’all barely drunk before y’all got here and only had two henny shots after making it inside. Could have been the food at the seafood bar y’all went too earlier…y’all were in the states so it couldn’t have been the tap water so what the fuck was it?

“It’s cool…just…c’mon…” You pat her back, she’s crying now and you're growing frantic. They’re still banging on the door and she won’t stop. This was a fucked position to be in and you don’t know what to do…if y’all call for help they’d just kick y’all out then y’all would really be fucked up standing on the curb while she’s sick as a dog.

“I can’t…I really can’t…” She babbles out, fat tears running down her face. You love her to death but this was gross, you don’t do throw up…the bathroom was gross, the floor was gross, but you weren’t leaving your girl’s side, she needed you.

“Just get it all out, we can get water—” she hurls again before you could finish your sentence, one final fat spit in the toilet then moves to get up, you let her hair go and steady her as she rises to her feet.

“I’m okay…I’m okay…” She says. The two of you move to the bathroom sink, she still looks somewhat put together, just sweat on her forehead and tear streaks down her face. You gather paper towels out of the dispenser to help clean her up, you have mascara she can use in your bag and she has her lip gloss and lip liner in hers. She didn’t bring her powder to touch up the rest of her makeup but y’all could pull something together before stepping out.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” You step back as she washes her hands. The banging had stopped…she’s okay now…you could finally breathe.

“It’s cool…just get yourself together, take your time.”

“It’s not. I ruined the whole night. We paid so much to get in here I—” She runs back to the toilet to hurl again…fuck!

“Utahime— oh my god what the fuck…” You stress out…you don’t know what to do or how to help her to make this stop.

“I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know what’s going on.” She cries out.

“Bitch we’re gonna have to leave…but I can’t call an Uber if you’re throwing up like this…”

“I know I know I just need some time…”

“Sweetheart what time!? We can’t stay in this bathroom, we have to move somewhere or something. Can you walk!?” You don't mean to bitch at her but this was getting ridiculous at this point, too much to deal with, you Don't. Do. Throw. Up.

“Yeah, I can walk…I need food or something to hold this down…my fucking stomach is turning.”

“Bro you don’t need shit else in your stomach. C’mon wash your hands again, we got to go.”

It takes you both a mere ten minutes to finally fix yourselves back together before getting it out, making sure to spray her down with a ton of perfume before leaving. There was a line of people standing to the side. Angry and annoyed looks on their faces, just as you thought y’all would survive the walk of shame you hear someone accuse y’all of holding up the bathroom to do lines of coke…y’all don’t even do drugs. Utahime sours at that, ready to cuss them out but you drag her deeper into the club stopping to lean against a ledge.

There were no couches on this level…just bar counters, a dance floor and paid sections. You don’t want to go down to the lower levels as y’all both paid extra to get up to this floor and y’all couldn’t leave the club till you were sure she was good. You leave her there for a minute to come back with two cups of ice water, one for you and one for her and she drinks it up and keeps it down like a fucking G.

“This dude keeps looking at me…” she shouts over the music, it was fucking booming in inside with bodies everywhere. You crowd around her to try and cover her to prevent whoever it was from looking at her…you knew why though…the two of you wearing the skimpiest shit y’all could find off OhPolly. Could you blame him? No.

“He still looking?” You ask, not wanting to turn back to look in case he takes it as an invite to come over. You were swaying to the beat now, good vibes still in you…Utahime might feel like it was but the night wasn’t ruined for you just yet. It’d take a whole lot more than this to kill your vibe.

“No but…bitch I feel sick again…”

“It’s a whole bunch of people in line now…can you hold it down?” Worry in your voice…if she throws up on the floor y’all were gonna be fucked.

“I don’t know…” She whines out.

“That guy…he’s coming over here.”

You look back…and he was…a tall guy…it was dark in the club so you couldn’t see his face. You turn your back to him quick, hopefully he takes the hint and fucks off. Now was not the time.

“Hey, what’s up? ” He approaches behind you, the smell of expensive cologne wrapping your noise and it wasn’t no cheap shit either.

“We’re cool.” You say dismissively without turning back to face him. Not to be a stuck up bitch in the club but now was not the time to be macking.

“You two look too good to be standing here, how about y’all—”

“I said we’re cool!” You argue back with venom in your voice, this guy was fine as hell too but unfortunately for him he’s being met with your protective side tonight.

“Damn, is she good?” He asks, worriedness laced in his voice…you can’t tell if he actually cares or not.

“If y’all need somewhere to sit and chill I got a section with some of my homies…y’all can’t be standing here like this.”

“We’re good, her feet just hurt.” You lie but they probably do, Giuseppe heels aren’t nothing to play with, but to your dismay she croaks out somewhat of a burp and a cough then spits into her empty cup. C’mon girl…act like a lady, get it together.

“She looks sick…” He carries on.

“She’s not—”

“Sis…please can we…” She whispers out…thighs trembling like they’re about to give in from leaning. You grab her shoulders to help keep her up.

“How many of y’all over there?” You ask, fuck it, you need to help your girl out by any means…all you had to do was just sit and chat his people up till she was good to go. Easy work.

“It’s three of us…my name Suguru by the way. I can call somebody over to get something for her too, it's not a problem. Y’all too cute to be standing over here.”

“Okay yeah…alright that’s cool.” You move to help her up, he steps to the side and takes his arm around her waist to support her. Just as you were about to protest to this stranger touching her you remind yourself why y’all got invited to the section and keep your cool.

He leads the way towards the back side of the club, the baddest bitches sitting up in the booths and you could tell by how the guys they were with were dressed that they had money. The bloody red soles of Suguru shoes as you walked behind them weren’t lost on you either…you peep the watch and chains on his wrist. He was iced the fuck out. Any other day you and Utahime would be all over him but tonight you were on a mission.

The three of you stop at a partitioned off booth where his two boys and a girl he hadn’t mentioned are sitting. There were empty ice buckets, some glasses, tall bottles of liquor and plates of eaten food on the table. The girl eyes the two of you, her gaze isn't cold but it is unreadable. It doesn’t faze you though, you could go toe to toe with her if need be.

“One sec…” He drops Utahime’s waist to explain the situation to both guys who were looking confused as to why y’all were here. You move to her side and you whisper to her to ask if she’s good, she simply nods to you in return. The two guys' expressions shift from confusion to at ease, the girl more so busy touching up her lipstick in a pocket mirror.

Suguru waves you both over now and you two take a seat in the booth across from them.

“This is Sukuna, Satoru, and my other man’s girl Mei Mei. Y’all this is…”

“Utahime.”

“Y/N” you say calmly.

“Sukuna, text back-of-house and tell them to bring gatorade, Pepsi, and something for this one to eat. And some more waters.” Pointing to Utahime, surprisingly she was sitting up nice and perfect as if she didn’t just give you hell like she was about to just die.

“Ard.” He whips his phone out to handle the request.

“I’m actually going to head out now.” Mei Mei says, shifting to grab her purse, a black leather Cassandre YSL shoulder bag. Your preloved Vivienne Westwood bag isn’t coming close to that price tag.

“Be safe!” Satoru says, then turns to the two of you as she scoots her way out, her silver dress shimmering under the low lights as she moves.

Piercing blue eyes now gaze at you over the rim of Cartier glasses.

“Suguru said you two were on the floor standing around…what’s wrong with your friend?”

“She’s just tired.” You lie again, not wanting to reveal to them the truth of the matter. Utahime shifts under the weight of their gaze, not speaking for herself.

“Yeah? He said she looked like she was about to pass out. People calling on staff saying y’all were holding up the bathroom, what’s that about?”

“We were just freshening up…” She speaks up now, her voice nearing a defensive tone.

“Bullshit.” Sukuna says, placing his phone down.

“Cleaning crew said the bathroom looked a mess when y’all got out.”

“Was like that when we went in.” You shoot back, voice still calm and collected, you weren’t looking to pick a fight with these three…you know how to behave. Though, by the way they’re speaking it sounds like they run the club and had cameras watching yall or something…

“Look, we own the club. Just making sure everything runs smoothly. This is a business at the end of the day.” Satoru finishes dropping the subject, your suspicions stand correct. This club wasn’t the only thing that spoke for their wealth…it was also what they had on, each of them wearing designer pieces, immediately you could spot and name a few brands…Chrome Hearts, Louis Vuittion, and Balmain.

“You two from out here? Or just visiting?” Suguru cuts in, pouring a glass of cognac for himself.

“Vacation.” You reply.

“Yeah? Where y’all from and how long?”

“Cali, we leave tomorrow afternoon.” You continue lying in hopes Utahime knows to play along, you learnt to never give up the truth of y’all backgrounds when asked.

“That’s what’s up, what part?”

“San Diego.”

“Yeah where? I sell properties out there, I got a house for myself down in Laguna too.” Sukuna butts in, interested now. You stutter at that, not sure what to say…you don’t know shit about San Diego but you do know about Balboa park so you come up with something quick.

“About a couple minutes from Balboa park, we just moved there. I don't really know the area too well to name anything.” You’re lying like shit now.

“Gotcha.”

“What do y’all do for a living? Flights from coast to coast ain’t cheap.” Satoru chimes in, picking up on your demeanor.

“I’m a lawyer.” Utahime cuts in before you could speak, catching on to the game you’re playing.

“Really!? What do you practice?”

“Divorce law.”

“What school did you graduate from?”

“Brown.” Now see the bitch did go to Brown…for a single semester.

“How old are you?” Sukuna bluntly jumps back in, you could tell by his voice he wasn’t buying it but y’all were gonna keep lying either way. Y’all were Miami, ain’t shit out here just like the bodies of half the girls in this club was real anyway.

“I’m 27.” Fuck. She’s lying like shit now too…she just turned 23 yesterday, y’all came out here together to celebrate her birthday week.

“Can I see your ID?” Satoru asks, coming out more like a request.

“We left them at the hotel…didn’t want to lose them. Happened before.” She lies effortlessly again, the dumbest shit she could have said.

“Well someone’s getting fired…” He leans back letting out a laugh, crossing a leg over the other.

“Sukuna, find out who’s watching the door before our shit gets shut down. I put too much money into this building to get sued and pay fines.”

Sukuna gives you both a look over before getting up and leaving. He looks pissed…but Satoru wasn’t…he was fucking smile as he watches him do as he was told. He’s been getting bitch since y’all two sat down…it was clear who the leader was.

“You a lawyer too?” He asks you.

“No, I don’t work.” You keep your lie simple, you weren’t about to get caught up any further. You and Utahime are gonna have to start rehearsing lies before stepping out now.

“Your friend works but you don't? How do you get your money then?”

“I model.” It wasn’t a total lie, you had an Instagram page full of pictures from photoshoots. You used to date a photographer, a popular one in New York, you stood in as his muse from time to time till you caught his ass cheating with a so-called client.

“Can I see your work?” He passes you his phone unlocked, a black iPhone that somehow feels heavier than the same one in your purse.

“It’s on my Instagram page.” You ask for permission before you start tapping around on his phone.

“Go ahead.”

You open up the app, catching a glimpse at his own page before quickly searching up yours. A gorgeous waitress comes by to drop off the food and drink order right before you can hand him his phone back. He looks over your page in glee…probably at the lingerie and swimsuit photos you have posted. Those were advertising deals you did as a side gig many moons ago.

“Ever considered working out here?” He cocks a brow at you, those icy blue eyes hidden behind those dark frames. Suguru leans over to take a look himself, brows raising at what he sees. He locks his phone to stop him from looking any longer, shoving it back in his pocket.

“It’s our first time here…never thought about it.”

“Could I…” Utahime cuts in, pointing towards the food at the table. A spread of cheese and crackers, cooked chicken, and a small plate of mash potatoes…enough to keep her stomach at bay…she seemed to be better now though.

“Yeah go ahead, here.” Suguru passes her a plate along with opening up the bottle of gatorade and pouring her a cup of the blue liquid.

“Thank you.” She says sweetly as she takes the plate. You catch him smile at her.

“First time in Miami, you seen anything good yet?”

“We’ve just been up Ocean drive and the beach so far…couple bars and clubs the other day.”

“So you thought to bring your IDs there but not ours? I’m offended.”

“We heard through some girls you could get in here without one…and that their friends had there’s stolen here one night so we planned accordingly.”

“The hell…”

“Well someones losing more than their job tonight, Suguru text Sukuna that for me, the fuck kind of club are we running?”

Utahime gives you a look, you never lied so much in your life now and this is snowballing like crazy. Sorry to whoever is about to get their shit rocked.

“Ahh…” Satoru lets out a sigh, neck cracking as he stretches it from side to side. “Business business…didn’t think the club scene could get any more crazier than what we dealt with last year.”

“What happened?” You ask, curious.

“Investigation still open, I’m not at liberty to say. But if your gorgeous friend over here ever needs a new job, I'm well connected with a stellar law firm. They represent my club and my other business. I own an art gallery.”

“You deal art?”

“Precisely.”

“Sounds like you have your hands full, I’d love to come see it one day.” You flirt back now that you’re more at ease with the conversation.

“It would be a pleasure to have you both stop by, a shame you’re leaving so soon. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Maybe you two could fly back out here?” Suguru chimes in, moreso speaking to Utahime…it was clear he had his pick tonight and it wasn’t you.

“Should definitely come back out here, I’m sure a girl as gorgeous as you could get work out here instantly. Has a scouting agency come up to you yet?”

“No, we haven’t had many interactions out here.”

“That’s good then. They’re everywhere like rats, posted up on every beach and club. Most are scams, if you catch my drift.” You shudder at the implications of his words. You knew all too well about the risks of modeling…

“Matter of fact, I know a guy that knows a guy who’s the head of an agency. I could set you up with them, they’re global and about to open an office in London.” Your ears perk up at that, he seemed legit so far, maybe he wasn’t bullshitting and even if he was it wouldn’t be a loss on your end.

“That sounds nice, I’d really appreciate it…”

“Of course, Suguru call up Kusakabe for me, I’m sure he’s awake. Tell him I have the most beautiful girl I ever laid my eyes on here. And call Ijichi, see if they have an empty desk at his firm, and if they don’t tell them to bring in another. They’ll have clients coming in droves once this one is through their door.”

You can’t help but blush at that…Utahime doing the same. All that damn lying y’all two done did sprouting legs to now have the utmost most flattering compliment thrown y’all way. Whelp, can’t stop the lies now…

Suguru get’s up to leave for a quieter space at that, a sad expression crossing his face having to depart from Utahime…her eyes trail after him. Satoru catches on but continues to direct his attention to you.

“You two have any plans after tonight? Your friend seems to be feeling better.” You turn to look at her, her eyes give confirmation to you without having to speak. You both know what that meant…an invitation…y’all were close to bagging at least one of their rich asses tonight…but it’s going to take a bit more convincing to go back with them.

“What do you imply?” She takes the lead now, composure calm as she speaks. She might have been a hot mess an hour ago but you both know the way in which she can work a man out of his wallet when it comes down to it. Atlanta March 2022, you’ll never forget it.

“Well, it’s getting late…” He starts off.

“...been here for a couple hours. I’d like to head back to where my boys and I are staying for the time being. We’re actually here on a business trip, just to check on how the club has been doing. Glad I did now that I know we got someone letting girls in without verifying their ages. Utahime I’m sure you know how much trouble we’d get into if authorities found out, you know the law…”

“Would be hell of a case to fight…”

“Where are you three from?” You ask, curious now.

“Japan. Ever been?”

“No…Utahime you’re—”

“I’m Japanese. My family is from Kyoto. I was born here and haven't got a chance to visit again since I was a kid.” She cuts you off before you could tell him.

“Really?” He says surprised. “Suguru is going to get a kick out of this.”

“I’m back.” Sukuna plops down on the sofa before either of you could speak, angrily tossing his phone on the table while doing so. “We switched Toji out for Todo, waited till I caught the fucker about to let four nineteen year olds in. The fuck is he thinking!?”

Both you and Utahime were stunned…no way your lie was true…but then again this was fucking Miami. Anything goes out here.

“Hey Sukuna, get this…this one tells me word on the beach is that our club doesn't check IDs. God knows how long this has been going on for.” Pointing to you now.

“You fucking serious?”

“So serious. Go ahead, tell him what you told me.”

“We met some girls on Ocean drive and they told us this club doesn’t card. That’s how they got in their first few times…they said they were twenty at the time.” Lies lies lies and more lies. At least you didn’t feel guilty about it anymore.

“Well fuck me then… better hope and pray we don’t have papers already coming our way.”

See…lying does work sometimes. The two of you likely just saved their club from going under or worse…being raided.

“Hey…they're both not answering…but I left a message. Sure they’ll see it in the morning.” Suguru swings back around, taking a seat next to Utahime, resting an arm above where she’s sitting.

“Did you tell them what I said word for word?”

“Uh— no. Is ‘two pretty girls’ enough?”

“Suguru, words have meaning…these two ladies are far more than pretty, pets like cats are pretty, these two are gorgeous. Matter of fact, she speaks Japanese, her folks are from Kyoto! Don’t we love Kyoto? Your summer vacation home there was featured in Architectural Digest once right? Or was that Metropolis?”

Suguru eyes light up at that, followed by saying something in Japanese to her and she replies back flawlessly to prove she actually could. Your ass is stunned by the exchange…you can’t understand shit being said but you could tell from the way he was looking at her that Utahime just talked her way into a fucking bag! Attagirl!

“Hear that Sukuna?”

“Yup.” Busy on his phone now, uninterested in their conversation that was likely getting flirty by the way she was blushing and giggling now. An arm comes around her waist pulling her in, you avert your eyes letting them have their moment.

“Ticket hit!” Sukuna shouts, the most excitement you’ve seen from him thus far.

“What team?” Satoru asks, akin to talking about stocks at the country club.

“Raptors, 6k off it too.”

“Got 9 off of the Lakers the other day, sure you’re going to beat my goal of reaching 20k in winnings by the end of the month?”

“Suguru at 17 right now, I been threw that towel in. I’m just betting for lunch money now.”

Man Utahime…you hope she’s hearing this! Because these men got fucking money.

“Ha! Well then I’ll quit too now then, I may have lost my ticket tonight but in the presence of these two beautiful ladies I’m a winner. Hey Sukuna, cut them both a thousand, they just saved our business from that slime Toji, they earned it.”

Hold on. Pause. You two bitches came down to Miami with 200 dollars in your pockets now you’re coming up on a stack all off a fucking lie? This city is actually unreal!

“What’s your apple pay?” He asks, not even batting an eye. You gesture for his phone to put your number is…but it’s not his that you want.

“Wisconsin number?” He asks curiously after taking the phone back from you.

���Yeah…I have a crazy ex. Had to change it to somewhere he wouldn’t think of dialing.”

“Smart cookie.” Is all he says before hitting your phone with a hefty apple pay payment.

“What’s hers?” “She doesn’t use apple pay, you can send it to me again and I’ll make sure she gets it.” You speak for her, needing to conceal her actual phone number to ensure they don’t find out where either of you live.

“Gotcha.” Is all he says sending the payment again, $2,000 being enough to cover rent twice over and y’all two didn’t even have to fuck for it. A smile crosses your face now, you feel like taking shots.

“How about we take shots?” You say with cheerfulness in your voice.

“Let’s!” Satoru says, reaching over for the bottle of D’usse and pouring five glasses each.

“No more for her, she’s cut off.” Suguru says, taking the shot glass out of her hands, and like a pliant little thing she knows to be, she doesn’t protest.

“Too not getting shut down.” Satoru says. You all repeat it cheering. The four of you knock back a couple of shots, liquor hitting your system soon after. The vibes and music was great, the two of you were having a great time.

The atmosphere settles down an hour after, tiredness starting to kick in. Sukuna had left after the third shot, something about having to meet up with his wife. You had swapped seats with him now and were sitting next to Satoru whose hand had been trailing up your thigh, he tells you the rings he wore were Tiffany, so you tell him you always wanted a necklace from there, he tells you stick around long enough you could get one, and that’s all you needed to hear to keep your glued to your seat as he pours you shots of Hennesy.

You’re drunk at the end of it all, not pissy enough to black out but enough to stumble out of the club…and still you deserve a gold medal for not tripping in your heels in the parking garage. Large warm hands guide you into a sleek black Bugatti, Utahime sober in Suguru’s Lambo, he said they’d follow you both to the high-rise they’re staying at.

Satoru hands continue to grip at your thighs as he drives, this was an insanely reckless thing to be doing, going back to this still stranger's place, but all the boxes had been checked. They didn’t just talk money, they showed it, so this was either going to go right or very left.

His hand reaches higher up your thigh close between your legs now, you spread them open giving him access to your pussy and his fingers go to rub at it. What can you say…henny goes straight to the pussy and you were already wet from the grips and grabs back at the section.

Your friend Shoko back home texts you asking you how the trip is going, too drunk to explain what’s happening you simply tell her that you both are “outside outside!”, and she sends you back a string of laughing emojis telling you to be safe.

Satoru's car continues to roar down the highway, Miami so beautiful at night yet not coming anywhere close to the man beside you.

Your eyes close, tiredness finally setting in.

The next thing you know you’re being helped out of his car and walked into a lobby, Utahime and her new beau arriving soon after. She looks so happy in his arms, you love her so much, more than anything. Your ride or die for life.

The four of you take the elevator up to the penthouse floor, being met with the most insane flat that you’d only see in movies. You kick your heels off at the door after stepping in, Utahime already being led elsewhere down a hall. Suguru gives space to let her shower before retreating into a room with him.

Floor to ceiling windows make up the walls as you walk around the place, Satoru soon coming to hand you a glass of wine you happily accept. You barely drink it though…already having enough. Miami is beautiful from above, lights twinkling and the moon making the ocean shimmer.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” He comes behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist whilst nuzzling his face in your neck.

“Yes.”

“But not as beautiful as you.” Is all he says before hooking a finger under the strap of your top teasing to take it off. He takes your glass then, placing it on the nearest table he then walks you into the master bedroom. A beautiful space only you could once ever dream of resting your head in.

“Model for me?” He asks, softly pushing you down to sit at the edge of the bed as he stands in front of you, lifting your head up by chin to look up at him. You don’t remember him taking his glasses off, eyes seeming to glow under the light of the moon.

You move to strip your outfit off, revealing a lace strapless bra set with a matching thong underneath. You watch as his plump lips curl up into a smile.

“If only I had a polaroid…” is all he says before taking out his phone. You move back further up the bed and he follows you on his knees already positioning the camera to snap pictures. You pose as he takes a million and several more, and before you know it he’s throwing his phone to the side and grabbing at your body to bring you close.

His lips quickly follow after, leaving kisses on your neck down to the crevice of your cleavage. Your bra soon makes its way off landing somewhere on the cold polished floor.

“I've wanted this since the moment I saw you…” he whispers between kisses, fondling your boobs as he makes his way down your stomach. Fingers come to pull down your thong, your pussy now free from what shouldn’t even be considered underwear.

Spreading your legs apart he takes a finger collecting the fluid now building up at your entrance, pulling his hand back he brings his coated fingers up to your lips and you happily take them in your mouth. He kisses you then right after, hot and wet with a lot of tongue.

“You’ve been such a delight…let me treat you.” He says, pulling off his top and unbuckling his belt to drop his pants. If he told you his body was sculpted by Michelangelo himself you’d believe him. Your eyes trail down his figure stopping at the bulge in his boxers, sobering up a bit from the sight of it. Lifting yourself up you bring your hands to curl around the band, looking up to slowly pull them down and he takes both hands cupping your face and kisses you deeply.

Stepping out of his boxers, he then moves you onto your back again, this time your arms going up above your head as he takes your body.

Fucking Satoru is the closest you think you’ll ever come to heaven before death…every whine, moan, gasp, and call of his name swallowed up by his mouth on yours. Each thrust of his hips knocks the air out lungs yet he breathes life back into you. His touch though isn’t anything but soft, a never ending shower of compliment and praise spoken into your ear. How beautiful you are, how good you feel, how amazing you are, you think you hear words pertaining to loving you thrown somewhere into the mix but you have to be imagining things. How could he? He just met you.

Your climax soon rushes over you rougher than the ocean that the building overlooks, and it’s then you realize how much you want to savor this moment, to melt away in his arms as he now cradles you close to his chest. You’d give your all to have one more night with him.

Your chest rises and falls as you steady your breathing as you come down from your climax, you take notice of the feel of fluids between your thighs and under you, and as you look down you see it’s his cum coming out of you. You always wondered how the richest and most accomplished men end up trapped with baby moms, and if it weren’t for you already on birth control he’d be just that. Having him as a father sounds nice, but in practice you know raising a child, his child in fact, could be fucking hell.

You turn to him then, climbing up onto his chest laying your head down to hear his heartbeat. Fingers come to card through your hair, he speaks up soon…and it’s his choice of words that come nothing louder than a whisper that makes your entire body go rigid.

“I know your friend isn’t a lawyer.”

You don’t know if you should respond or move away, his grip tightens in your hair lifting your head up to look him in the eyes. You weren’t trapped, you could get up and leave if needed, but you don’t, you stay put gearing up to take on whatever humiliating accusation that will eventually reveal to both of you the liar that you are.

“And you don’t live in California. The card you used to get in, New York zipcode.”

“How do you know?” Is all you could ask, the jig was already up.

“Sukuna ran the cameras and pulled the card info from the POS, texted me right before we left. Your full name is Y/N too.”

“I know you’re not stupid, but your friend might actually be. Wanna know how I know she’s not a lawyer, or at least that she didn’t go to Brown?”

“How?” He finally lets your hair go, folding his arm behind his head as he sits up.

“Brown doesn’t have a law school. I was once an exchange student there.”

“Shit.” Is what you stop yourself from saying, you should get up to go grab her ass and leave while he’s still calm.

“How old are you really, and please let it be a number that’s not going to get you kicked out.”

“How old do I look?”

“Well you act like you’re at least over 25, but you look–”

“I’m 22.”

“Jesus fuck…” He winces, “...you’re a fucking kid.”

“Kid? How old are you? 30s?” Annoyance in your voice, you didn’t have any right to be but this kid just worked two grand out of his hands like it was nothing.

“28 and watch your mouth, I’d hate to see your pretty ass get fucked up out here.”

Pretty…he had said pet’s were pretty.

“Fuck you!” You get up now, gathering your clothes up off the floor to put them back in. You were out of here and you needed to get Utahime quick before she gets caught up next.

“You call me a kid but you just nutted in me? You’re the fucking idiot.” Getting your thong and skirt back on, working on the top next.

“I keep Plan B in the bathroom if you need it.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.” You nearly spit at him as you say it. “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah I can clearly see that ya little liar. Keep the child if you want, my god son Megumi could use another sibling.” He says it like you need it. You’d bleed him dry of child support if you could.

“Kill yourself.” You don’t even look back at him when you say it, too embarrassed to face him, you slam the door behind yourself to find Utahime sitting on the small chaise in the hall all put together and back in her heels as if she never undressed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go!”

“No wait he called us an Uber–”

“We can fucking wait downstair.”

The two of you make your way back down to the lobby, your hands trembling with anger and disgust. Utahime stops not once from asking you to tell her what happened and reason as to why you were so upset.. The Uber pulls up soon after, a jet black Escalade. The two of you hop in, she tells the driver it’s from Suguru and he simply say’s. “Thank you, but I know.”

You sit back now trying to calm yourself down but all you could think of is how gross you felt, his seed still inside of you as you hadn’t had the chance to do away with it. Utahime turns to you then, bambi eyes looking all but innocent. She turns her purse to you, the Louis pochette you spent a year saving up to give her for Christmas one year.

“Look what he gave me.” She pulls out a Piguet, the same silver and diamond one Suguru wore. The watch glimmers under the light of the lamp poles as the car drives down the road. Your jaw nearly falls off your face.

“He told me I can sell it and go back to school if I want! He’s was actually so nice, we didn’t even fuck I only gave him head and he said we can come back soon. He didn’t care that I lied about being a lawyer and all that shit. He told me to stay in school and he’lll make me his wife if I graduate.”

“Utahime…”

“Bitch do you know how much this shit cost? Fuck school, I’m selling this and buying out the first mall we walk into!”

“There’s no way that’s real.”

“Oh no no no bitch…this is real! Did Satoru give you anything?”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe? What do you mean?”

“He nutted in me…”

“Oh my god— a baby! He put a fucking baby in you!?”

“Utahime, I would never keep–”

“Bitch are you out of your fucking mind!?” Her eyes nearly popping out of her head, all she could see were dollar signs on you now.

“I think so…”

Fuck Miami. Fuck that club. Fuck Satoru. Fuck a baby.

At least your friendship survived.

[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.” 

[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.

[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.

[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.

[nico-di-genova]

Post Shanghai Strollonso

A/N: I am coping well, in case you couldn’t tell :)

“Fuck!” Lance yells once he’s back in the safety of his drivers room, letting out the expletive with a breath he’s been holding since he first climbed out of the car and was cast familiar looks by staff. Not the pity, or the mildly impressed arch of an eyebrow that had come last year, when he’d had to use all of his willpower to pull himself out of the car with his wrists on fire and tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. But instead it was the usual cool indifference, the barely hidden smirk, the look that told him he should probably just avoid social media for the next few days - prepare for the meeting with his team where statements, and image, and body language were the terms of the day.

“Fuck!”

His race suit is low on his hips, sleeves brushing the floor because he’s too lazy to bother tying them around his waist, but it still feels too hot. Still feels like he can’t breathe. Even with the AC in the room blasting, even with the damp towel he’s got wrapped around his neck. He knows it’s not the heat at all, but he still fights to strip off the fireproof undershirt that’s clinging to his skin anyway.

He pulls at the neck of it, rubs at his Adam’s apple, the soft spot under his jaw, until the buzzing in his ears subsides enough that he can peel the sweat soaked nomex off of him with desperate fingers.

“Fuck!” He yells again, because the shape of the word feels nice on his tongue and the sound of it in the quiet space makes the ache in his chest hurt a little less.

His skin is red, flushed with heat and his own frustration, his fingers leave white flashes of colorless indentions when he presses them to his chest and tries to still the quickening beat of his own heart. Post race adrenaline, he tells himself, even as he knows the truth of it.

‘That weird incident’ comes the journalists voice playing on repeat in his head, along with the whir of the AC and the rapid pace of his own heart.

His front wing going up the ass of Riccardo’s visa-cashapp-Red-Bull-toro-rosso-whatever-the-fuck. Him looking away for one fucking millisecond at the apex and then turning back to find himself sending Daniel into the air.

Idiot.

He’s not sure if he means himself or Daniel anymore, is certain he knows who the internet will be directing the term at. Despite the fact that he’d tried to brake, slammed on the pedal so fast that his body had jerked with force of it. Hadn’t mattered in the end because he’d made contact anyway and that would be enough to cement the barrage of comments he’s sure will be flooding the Aston Martin Instagram any second now. At least there’s dependability in that.

The pressure in his chest isn’t fading, it’s spreading and making a home in the pit of his stomach. He presses a hand to his abdomen, the other to his collarbone, tries to breathe slowly even if it catches in his throat. In through his nose, out through his mouth, choke on the taste of it and start over again.

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier just to let himself vomit, hyperventilate until he’s dry heaving over the toilet, his body seizing with the force of it. Press his forehead to the cool porcelain to maybe ease some of the heat roiling off his body, sit there until someone came to pull him to the debrief and he’s forced to pack it all back away.

But right now he’s not sure if he’d even make it to the bathroom, knows it’s not vomit that would come up anyway, just his own bitter disappointment. He’s not sick, he’s just a screwup. There’s no amount of surgery or PT or encouraging words that are going to fix that.

His breath catches in his throat again. Loud, weak.

“Fuck,” he cries, this time feels the sting of tears that accompanies it.

He presses harder on his collarbone, moves to the soft skin of his neck, digs his fingernails in until there’s the pinprick warning of pain and then collapses down onto the couch behind him with enough force that it forces air back into his lungs. He keeps a hand to his neck, trails his thumb along his carotid.

It helps, gives him something to focus on other than the rattling feeling of his teeth clacking together when he’d hit Daniel.

The knock on his door, when it comes, is almost expected. Quiet, unsure, followed by Fernando saying his name.

“I’m here,” Lance forces out around the lump in his throat, hates how pathetic he sounds.

“Coming in,” Fernando warns before he’s opening the door, sliding through the crack big enough for his lithe frame, and then closing it behind him just as fast. It’s not the first time someone from the team would see him slinking in. Fernando doesn’t care, he only cares that they don’t see Lance. Pathetic and miserable as he must look.

He’s not crying yet, which feels like a plus. But he knows from how Fernando looks at him he must not appear entirely put together either.

“You are okay?” And he means the crash, it is always the first thing he asks, because the one time he didn’t Lance was hiding bruised ribs that were already turning his skin a dark purple.

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, tries to, grimaces when the word comes out strangled by his own incompetence. “It was small.”

Fernando would have seen the footage by now, playing on repeat in the media pen similar to the loop in Lance’s head. He would be able to assess that his inability to breathe properly stemmed not from the pain, but from the noise in his own head.

Lance presses harder at the soft skin of his neck, tries to stop the rising tide of static that is building in his ears so he can focus on the way Fernando sighs his name. He likes how he says his name, likes that it doesn’t come with any sort of expectation, or disappointment.

“Come here,” Fernando commands, grabs Lance’s hand that had been rubbing absentmindedly at his stomach, tracing patterns over bare skin, and pulls until Lance is sitting up on the couch.

“It is okay,” he promises as he inserts himself between Lance’s knees, holds the back of Lance’s head as it slumps forward to rest against Fernando’s abdomen.

Lance swallows, tries, blinks back tears.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. At this point the word has become as familiar to him as the expletives he’s fond of shouting in his empty drivers room. It comes easy in the space between them, hidden in the comfort of Fernando’s embrace. Easier here, where he knows it cannot be used against him, than to the microphones that had been demanding it.

Fernando doesn’t acknowledge the apology, instead he just presses his palm to the nape of Lance’s neck until the warmth of his touch forces Lance to feel something other than his own crushing ineptitude. His fingers are rough, calloused, where they find the soft skin and baby hairs, Lance pushes himself further back against them.

He’s got his arms wrapped around his body, hands tucked under his biceps, one protectively covering the tattoo at his ribs, the raw spot aching with the ghost of a needle and teenage nativity. His stomach still hurts, his chest is still tight. Like he’s got the full effect of g-forces still pressing on him and he can’t quite get the air into his lungs. The tears haven’t fallen yet, but he can feel them beading on his lashes when he tries to blink them away.

“Just breathe,” Fernando demands, thumb finding the hollow spot behind his ear, where his jaw gave way to muscle and vein, and pressing.

Lance stutters in a breath, swallows again, nods his head so Fernando knows he’s listening. That he’s trying.

“It is over.”

Lance wishes that were true, wishes he could close his eyes without seeing Daniel’s rear wheels come off the track. Wishes he could take back his own impulsive radio message because it will be nothing but fuel to the fire. Wishes Daniel would text him back, or hit him, anything to snap him out of this muddled headspace he’s found himself in.

“It’s over, Lance. In the past.”

“I tried to stop,” he hates how small his voice sounds, whiney, strangled. Nothing like Fernando’s and nothing like the usual indifference he shoots for. It makes him feel small. His hands wrap more tightly around his sides, his knees pull closer to his chest as he curls tighter in on himself.

“No, tesoro, come on.”

Fernando follows him, kneels until he can take either side of Lance’s neck in his hands and hold him up enough that Lance has no choice but to meet his steady gaze. There’s grey in his eyebrows, in his beard, age in the lines of his face that make Lance feel even smaller.

“I fucked up,” he cries, and this time the tears do fall, trail down his cheeks until Fernando wipes them away with the pad of his thumb.

“This race, yes. So you go to the next one.”

“I’ll just fuck that up too.”

“Maybe not. Maybe you win.”

The laugh that Lance lets out is stifled only by his own sob.

Fernando’s lips quirk up, “No? You don’t think so?”

“Not unless half the grid gets appendicitis.”

“Or food poisoning,” Fernando says suggestively, light in his eyes, mischief in his smile.

Lance laughs again, feels the rumble of it when Fernando’s hands cradle his neck tighter. But then he thinks about how Daniel has left him on read and the laughter dies in his throat. He thinks of future awkward FaceTime calls with Scotty and a cold shoulder from his sister and something icy twists inside him. His stomach hurts all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again.

Fernando’s smile shifts to something smaller, “is okay,” he promises before leaning forward to rest his forehead against Lance’s.

Not for the first time, Lance finds himself yearning for Bahrain. Not this year, but last. The way that when he’d come sixth it may as well have been a podium with how the team reacted. How they smiled at him and it felt like the closest he’d come to tasting champagne in a while. How Fernando had praised him and it felt like winning the championship. He never could tell if it was the pain meds or his own euphoria that made everything seem brighter that night. By the time he woke up the next morning his wrists were so sore it felt like he’d snapped them all over again and so Bahrain had become nothing more than a sweet taste at the back of his throat that he would forever remember the aftertaste of but never the full flavor.

“Should break my wrists again, maybe then we’d get a podium” he says, before he can think to keep that inside his own head, knowing it’s the wrong thing to say when Fernando tenses.

“Sorry. Joke. My bad.”

“Not funny.”

Lance isn’t really sure he meant it to be funny at all. Instead, he’s thinking about how easy it would be to replicate the accident. Take Fernando’s stupid little scooter and trip it over a crack in the pavement, let himself fall and land at the same angle. He’s thinking about the singleminded focus that had come with trying to keep his car under his control with pain killers in his system and fire in his veins. How there had been an almost startling clarity to it.

“Could be your hero again,” he teases, even as a small part of him means it, misses Fernando’s praise even if it’s still something he gets freely.

Fernando scowls, “You still are.”

“I wasn’t looking when I hit him. I was looking at the stupid apex.”

“And? You are both okay, yes? So it is over.”

But it isn’t, because Lance has been here countless times before, keeps landing here. In Singapore when he’d split the car in two. In Jeddah when he’d clipped the wall then been asked to bring his lifeless car back to the pit. Narrowly avoided it all in Suzuka. Either the universe has it out for him or theres something wrong with him. Lance is beginning to lean toward the latter, beginning to believe some of the toxic shit he’s managed to catch glimpses of online before the functioning part of his brain has enough sense to close out of Twitter.

Fernando wipes away the fresh wave of tears, but it isn’t enough. Lance is hungry, desperate to rid himself of the ache in his gut and the pain in his chest and the hole in his heart that searches for that last bit of champagne in a bottle that’s run long dry. He’s tired too. Wants it all to end. Wants to sink into Fernando’s arms and be told that he’s doing a good job and for it to not be a lie.

Stupid fucking apex, stupid fucking breaks, stupid fucking safety car.

Fernando pulls him closer and Lance goes, lets himself be guided to the crook of Fernando’s neck and held there while he sobs. Both of them ending up curled up on the floor, Fernando’s fingers trailing a path up and down the notches of his spine.

Fernando twists enough to press a kiss to Lance’s temple and he sobs harder. The softness of it all, kindness from a man who owes him none, makes him sick all over again. He wants to be hit, but Fernando only holds him like he is worth holding and it’s cracking something inside Lance.

Something in him has maybe broken, more than his wrists.

“It will be okay.” Fernando keeps promising.

Lance wants so badly to believe him. He thinks Fernando would keep repeating it until he does. Both of them stubborn, both of them unyielding. Lance fears it will eventually land them both in the wall, fears he’ll be the one to send them there. He hates that he’s old enough to have fears now.

Everything is so much easier when you’re seventeen.

“What do I do?” He cries against Fernando’s neck, the warmth of him, the strong scent of him that Lance has smelled in sheets and pillows and the hoodies he sometimes stretches out to force his way into. Like a panther that’s confused itself with a kitten, or a pampered lapdog the size of a Great Dane. Fernando’s been buying larger sizes out of expectation that Lance will eventually ferret the clothing away from him.

“Right now you just breathe. We deal with the rest later.”

“Danny hasn’t texted me back,” he maybe won’t ever, floor damage and a dnf might have been the final thing to sever whatever feeble string kept them on speaking terms.

Fernando keeps trailing a hand up and down Lance’s back, pauses at the nape of his neck to soothe at the skin there, waits until Lance relaxes marginally before he resumes his slow track back down Lance’s spine. The pattern, repetitive in its nature, is helping.

“Just breathe, Lance. For now, this is all.”

He breathes, it hurts to do so, but he manages. He’s become good at that, managing. His expectations, his emotions, everything but his view of himself and the way that everything he manages comes crumbling down the second he messes up. So maybe he isn’t actually managing at all.

“Lance,” Fernando says, hard-edged when he hears Lance’s breathing stutter again.

“Sorry.”

“No more sorry. No more thinking, yes? Just you and me.”

Lance finds the fabric of Fernando’s undershirt, grabs fistfuls of it so the world can maybe become a little more real, his head a little less floaty. Fernando makes a pleased sound.

“I am here,” Fernando promises.

He feels just as real as Lance’s hands on the wheel had, just as solid as the barrier, as Daniel’s silent, steely, anger. Lance’s grip tightens, keeps tightening until Fernando becomes more real than anything else. Until he can feel the floor of the driver’s room pressing hard against his knees and has enough sense to complain about it.

Until he can breathe and Fernando’s hand at the nape of his neck becomes a grounding point.

Later, in the debrief, he wears Fernando’s hoodie. Aston Martin green and tight on his shoulders. He pulls at the hem of it, breathes in the scent of it, thinks about Miami. He’s told to stay off of socials. And his chest tightens, until Fernando’s hand finds his under the table. A thumb tracing the ridges of his knuckles.

“I’m not the TikTok guy anyway,” he jokes, tries to anyway.

Fernando smiles, “Too old for it?”

“Nah, not cool enough.”

And what he maybe means is never enough. Means that Fernando is good at pleasing a crowd, drawing an audience, doing all the things Lance just can’t seem to get right. But Fernando knows that, which is why he squeezes Lance’s hand tighter- why he doesn’t let go.

“I think you are.”

Lance supposes that’s enough.

[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]

[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.

[awkwardchick87]

a/n - Here is the "Only one Bed" trope winning drabble!! Enjoy!

c/w - mutual pining, smut (of course) oral, (m and f receiving).

wc - 2085 Part of the @enchantedforest-network <3 Dividers by the always lovely @benkeibear <3

You had been traveling with Vash the Stampede for a few months, and you were quickly learning that his name as the “Humanoid Typhoon” was more than just a silly little nickname. Disaster followed him everywhere. Whether it was in the form of some shootout, or just his bad luck, it didn’t matter. It seemed he had what you referred to as “a cup of luck” and as the day went on, his cup became more and more empty depending on what happened. 

You were also learning that your little crush on Vash the Stampede, was not as one sided as you thought. It started with looks around the campfire, and evolved into touches that lingered a half a second too long. The way he would blush as he helped you bandage wounds. Of course you noticed, your face also getting a little pinker every time his skin made contact with yours. So it was only natural that the very little luck he had that day, was used on the deal you had gotten for supplies, because as soon as you got to your *double bed room* at the ONLY and VERY FULL inn in town, was marked wrong.

The both of you stood in the doorway of the room staring at the single bed. Of course there was only one bed. You smacked your forehead with your palm, cursing Vash, “Well now what?” You shifted into the room, placing your bag on the table. 

Vash took a few steps in and placed his bag on the floor, “Well, I guess I can sleep on the floor. Maybe I can ask for an extra blanket and pillow” He turned and left the room, not waiting for a response, hoping you didn’t notice his red tipped ears. 

Coming back a few moments later, Vash sighed, “Well the whole place is packed, and there are no extra blankets. All they could give me was a pillow.” He stood at the door, a sheepish look on his face. You sighed, “Well, I can’t make you sleep on the floor. We will just have to make due.” You grabbed the pillow from his hands, moving your own over and placing his beside it. “I am going to grab a quick shower first. I feel kind of grimey” You grabbed the smaller bag, containing your toiletries from inside your pack, rushing into the bathroom and shutting the door. You pressed your back against the door, heaving a sigh. This was going to be a long night. You didn’t think you could sleep in the same bed as Vash. Vash kicked his boots off and shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. Sitting at the small desk, he dropped his forehead on the table, how was he going to sleep tonight? You were way too pretty. He heard the water running for the shower and groaned against the table. Now you were going to smell good too. You finished up your shower, shutting the water off and grabbing a towel, quickly drying off and pulling your night clothes on before stepping out of the bathroom, “It's all yours.” you squeaked out. Vash was still at the desk, chin resting in his palm. He looked like he was deep in thought. 

His head popped up, “Oh, yeah, thanks.” He grabbed his own things and quickly walked past you, into the bathroom. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, ‘Ok, I can do this. Its nothing. Its one night. Thats it. We can share a bed for one measly night. No problem!’ Flopping back on the bed, you cover your eyes with your arm. You didn’t get to lay there long, hearing the water shut off in the bathroom, a few moments later, Vash opened the door to the bathroom. He watched you from the doorway as you sat back up, shuffling over in the bed, pulling the blanket up around yourself. 

Walking over from the bathroom, he sat on the bed, as far away as he possibly could. He laid his head down on the pillow, only taking the edge of the blanket and bringing it to his shoulders. “Hey, you can, you can have more blanket if you want.” You whispered. 

Reaching over, he shut off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. THe moonlight filtered in from the curtains. You looked at his back, his skin almost glowing. “No, I’m ok.” he huffed out. 

“Ok.” the silence in the air was maddening. “Hey..” you whispered at him again. He hummed at you in response, “Is this… weird?” you asked. 

He rolled himself over in the bed, still staying as close to the edge as his tall body would let him, “Its a little weird. But not bad weird. I just..” he trailed off, focusing on something behind you instead of your face. He was grateful it was dark and hoping you could not see the blush creeping up his face. “I don’t know if you’re really ok with this..” he finished. 

Reaching towards him, you hesitated placing a hand on his arm before resting it on his bicep, “Vash.. I have no issues sharing a bed with you.” you reassured him. Hearing him sigh in relief, you smiled, “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with anyone else. You saw him smile. 

“Yeah, this would be a lot weirder with someone else.” he chuckled. “Can I ask you one more thing?” 

“Anything.” you replied. 

“Can I kiss you?” The question hung heavy in the air. 

You looked at him, raising your head a little, “Vash? Are you teasing me?” you sounded a little hurt.

“What? No, not at all!” he sputtered “I'm sorry! I shouldn’t have asked -” you cut him off, placing a finger on his lips. 

“Vash. We both know we have.. Something.. Going on here” you gestured, pointing between the two of you, “but I also don’t want to jeopardize what we have.” You propped yourself up on your elbow, “I like you too much and I don’t want to lose you.” you confessed. 

Vash nodded slowly, “I feel the same way, but I still want to kiss you.” he reached a hand up, cupping your cheek. You felt your face heat up. He was not making this easier for you. 

Feeling your resolve crumble, you leaned your head down, brushing your lips against his. He shifted his head just slightly, enough to close the distance. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and rolling you onto your back, hovering above you. Soft groans escaping his lips and he kissed you over and over. His tongue swiping along your bottom lip, urging you to let him taste you. 

You moaned, opening your mouth and brushing your tongue against his. Bringing your hands up to thread through his hair, you tugged on it lightly, earning a moan in response. He couldn’t help himself, grinding himself against your clothed core, both of you gasping at the delicious pressure. 

“You look so pretty under me.” Vash was breathless, looking down at you with hooded eyes full of lust. One hand reaching under your shirt, gliding across your stomach, up to your breasts. His thumb brushing across your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. 

Arching your back, you bit your bottom lip, trying to hold your moans back. You grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it to the floor, quickly reaching under you and unhooking your bra, ripping it off your arms and throwing it down also. 

Vash giggled at your eagerness, leaning back to sit on his knees above you. He pulled his own shirt off, blushing lightly. You sat up, placing a kiss on one scar running across his shoulder before kissing the metal grate over the left side of his chest and laying back down. Lifting your hips you pulled your sleep pants down, kicking them to the floor and leaving your panties on. 

Vash sucked a breath in through his teeth before making quick work of his own pants, tossing them to the side. His hands running up your thighs, feeling them twitch under him the closer he got to your core. “Vash..” you moaned. He looked down at you, his fingers hooking into your underwear, pulling them down and tossing them behind him, a smirk on his face. He lowered himself to your core as you threw your head back shyly. 

Using his fingers he spread your pussy lips apart before swiping his tongue from your twitching hole to your clit. Your back arched as you let out a gasp. Groaning at the taste of you, Vash buried his face into your cunt, tongue lapping at your folds. Your hands flew down to his hair, threading your fingers and pulling harshly while you writhed and moaned under him. Pushing his tongue into your pussy, his nose bumped your clit. He devoured you like a man starved. You could feel your orgasm building quickly, like a fire low in your stomach. “Vash.. I’m.. Oh god!” you could help but cry out, the threads of your sanity finally snapping with a flick of his thumb over your clit. Your legs trembled and twitched. Vash quickly shoving two fingers into your clenching hole, helping you ride your high. His tongue flicking across your small bud, sending your mind into a frenzy. You couldn’t form sentences, mindless babbling that vaguely sounded like his name. Vash drank down everything you gave him, his own moans sending vibrations along your core until your palm flattened on his head and you weakly pushed him away. Sitting up on his haunches, he looked down at you. Licking his lips and wiping his chin with the back of his hand. You looked ethereal to him. Panting breath and your body flush with bliss. A thin layer of sweat covered you. “Amazing.” He whispered above you. All you could manage was a weak smile. 

“Give me.. Give me a second, that was.. Wow.” You lifted your arm, resting it on your stomach. 

He chuckled above you, “you don’t need to do anything.” His face was full of adoration as he looked at you, “I’m happy we finally go to do.. Well, anything” signature smile graced his lips. 

“Vash…” you trailed off, sitting up, “I want to help you too.” brushing your fingertips across his cock, he sucked a breath through his teeth. Shifting on the bed, you gestured for him to lay beside you. 

He complied, laying flat on his back as you lay across one of his thighs. You hand gripped his cock at the base, pumping slowly a few times. Vash threw his arm over his head, “Mayfly..” a broken moan bubbled from his throat. Swiping your thumb across the tip, you leaned in, giving the head of his cock a few kitten licks before taking it into your mouth. His hips bucked at the feeling of your warm mouth and soft lips. Taking him further, you wrapped your hand tightly around the base, stroking what you could not fit into your mouth. 

Spit coated his length as you bobbed your head, dribbling down his balls, a few drops landing on the sheets below. Vash moaned, his legs twitching as his flesh hand came down to wrap into your hair. Gripping lightly, he pushed and pulled your mouth along his cock, pushing you a little further each time. Gagging slightly, you relaxed your throat as much as you could, wanting to taste more of him. “Yeah, like that.” he gasped “Suck my cock like that. Oh fuck” 

His balls tightened, his hand pushing your mouth down as far as he could. Your nose brushed against the small patch of hair at the base of his cock while he spilled his cum down your throat. His hips bucked, feeling your throat spasm as you gagged lightly, desperately trying not to spill a drop of cum. His fingers loosened, letting you pull back. You dipped your head back down, wanting every stray drop of cum on your tongue before swallowing. Pulling you on to his chest, Vash wrapped his arms around you. “Thank you.” he whispered. His fingers gliding idly across your arm, tracing nothing in particular. 

You giggled, “We should really be thanking the innkeepers. Think of how much money we’ll save if we don’t need to get double rooms anymore!” 

Vash blushed at you, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

[mamawasatesttube]

Might i suggest 7 or 11 for the soft promts?

11. "Let me wash your hair." combined with 5. "I've got you." for Kon & Kara, requested by @clarkkent-irons !!

"Stop fussin'," Kon mumbles. His head hurts. Actually, his everything hurts, but his head gets a special shoutout. 2-for-1 special bargain! Migraine and everything else-graine!

Wait, that doesn't make sense. The "mi-" part doesn't mean head, does it? Ugh. Whatever. He doesn't care. The point is ouch. Ow.

"Gonna be fine 'n the mornin'," he adds, woozy. "Soon as sun's back. Right-o! All better."

His senses might be all wonky from the migraine and magic blast, but he swears he can hear Tim rolling his eyes.

Kara, meanwhile, does not stop fretting. "You shouldn't have taken that hit for me," she scolds, cradling him in her arms like a baby, which would be really sweet except that it's probably funny to see, because she might have shot up this summer, but he's still taller and broader. Kal's genes at work. "I wasn't paying attention, it's my fault I let my guard down—"

"You took out, like, six of those magic automatons," Tim interrupts. Thank you, Tim, that's exactly what Kon was gonna say. Except Kon probably would've said it stupider. And more slurred. Kon's head hurts. Ow. "Do me a favor and don't start arguing with him while he's already all..."

"Zonked? Whammoed... Ooh. Borked?" Kon offers. Neither Kara nor Tim seems as entertained by this list as he does, for some unfathomable reason.

Eyes still closed, he realizes they're in Tim's ensuite at Titan's Tower by the sound of the door latching into place behind them, and relaxes a little. Then frowns.

"Don' put me in Tim's bed," he warns. "I'm so muddy. Super muddy. Like... like Supernova, but muddy. Get it?" Happens when a guy gets magic blasted into the mud dimension. Which isn't a real dimension, but just the giant mud flats south of the bay. Sploosh. Splat.

Kara sighs. "Yeah, cousin. I get it."

"We'll clean you up first," Tim assures him. He squeezes Kon's limp, muddy hand and leads Kara to the bathroom. "Here, set him down in the tub."

"Sure." Kara shifts him in her arms, guilt still rolling off her in waves. Kind of like how mud is rolling off Kon in waves. Also? His head hurts.

She sets him down incredibly gently, then lingers, her fingers trailing along his cheek. "...Thanks, Kon," she says, still sounding troubled. "I can start trying to make it up to you, um... Let me wash your hair?"

Kon opens his eyes (ow, ow, lights, ow) to pin her with a suspicious look. He has seen her drag a brush through her own curls until they're sad, butchered, fluffy waves, because well the wind messes them up when I fly around anyway and why do you look so horrified, Kon? "...You don'even know what cowash is."

Kara's jaw drops. Behind her, Tim tries and fails to disguise a laugh as clearing his throat.

"Oh, you little—I'm trying to be a nice, loving cousin here, and you—"

"Tiiiim," Kon wheedles. Using his TTK hurts his brain a little right now, but he still stretches out his aura along the tub, the floor, and up Tim's legs to tug plaintively at his shirt. "Don' let her murderize my hair. I'm too pretty t'die like this..."

"I told you he'd be fine," Tim says to Kara, amusement laced through his voice. Kon huffs and closes his eyes again.

His head hurts. And he's so sleepy. Tim probably won't let Kara ruin his curls. Tim is nice like that. Kon likes him. He's pawing through the cabinet where he keeps all of Kon's favorite bath products, so Kon figures he's in the clear. He heaves a sigh and slumps further into the dry tub.

Offended or not, Kara still traces her fingers gently through his hair. It feels nice, and Kon sighs, leaning into her touch. "Mmm..."

"Okay. I'll turn the water on once you get undressed," Kara says, back to being gentle. "Think you can get out of the suit on your own, or do you need a hand?"

"Um." Kon makes a valiant attempt, sending his TTK down his own body, but the more he tries to focus on the belts and latches and zippers, the more pain blossoms behind his temples, splotches of color bursting behind his eyes. Ow, ow, ow. Ugh, now he's nauseous, too. He hates magic. "...Help?"

Kara lets out a soft, breathy laugh and strokes his muddy hair back from his muddy forehead. "Yeah, okay. I've got you."

Tim sets a couple of bottles on the tub wall and then leans down to help pull off Kon's boots, while Kara first strips off one, then the other glove, his belt, and the pouch at his thigh. He thinks he should be self-conscious and ashamed right now, but he's kind of too tired and ouch to care.

"...Thanks," he mumbles, several seconds late, when they've finally gotten him undressed and turned on a gentle stream of warm water. It's soothing against the pain, and he sighs. "Gonna go sleep now."

"Okay, Kon." Tim pats his knee. "We'll be here."

Kon hums, and then slips away.

[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.

[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 4 - 3.1k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

4.) snowdrop iris

snowdrop iris: a pale blue iris that grows only in the shadow of glaciers in the most northern continent. the dried petals can be made into a tea that can be used to bring down temperatures. it's seen as a sign of devotion by the indigenous people of the northern continent.

Adjusting to life is…. easy enough.

Actually, scratch that, it’s horrible. On the first day of your married life, you wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare, the same nightmare that’s been haunting you for the past nine years, Law towering over you while you choke on mud, with it pouring out of your mouth as he spews hateful things to you. You awaken in your bed, realizing you hadn’t showered at all, and sigh. 

The fact that Law is actually in the house, and you can hear him walking around, doesn’t help. His footsteps haven’t changed, perhaps just a bit heavier than you remember. The very image of Law walking around your kitchen as he used to, helping himself to the snacks in your cabinets or to the fresh produce you’d grown makes you feel… odd when you start to feel the familiar tightening of your throat before you dash to the bathroom and puke. There’s a knock at your door, and then a gruff, oh, screw it, before your friend-turned-most-detested-turned-husband barges into the room, looking at you from across the room as you hurl into the porcelain throne.

Within the second, he’s by your side, pulling back your hair as you puke. His hands tremble a bit, listening to the way you heave, and how your shoulders slouch. After the longest minute of your life, you let out a groan, and manage to lift yourself from the toilet and look at him with partial fear, and partial graciousness for him. You’re stiff until he takes a good five steps out of the bathroom, standing awkwardly by the bed and watching as you pull yourself up from the floor, leaning against the wall to keep yourself upright. 

“Are you okay?” 

“...peachy,” you mumble, 

Law thinks otherwise. You look like shit. There are bags under your eyes and your hair is slightly frizzy, likely from how you hadn’t taken a shower and conditioned it the night before. He’s still hopelessly in love with you though, and thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful, even as you look at him from where you’re gripping the doorframe, angry gaze and all. You scowl at him, and he can hear the groaning of some of the plants in the room as they bend away from you.

“You should, uh, brush your teeth.” Law mumbles, and breaks the unspoken staring contest between the two of you. “To clear out the vomit.”

“Thanks,” your tone is dry, and you still look so shaky as you hobble your way over to the sink. You look at him, sighing, after rinsing and spitting in the sink, only to find him frowning, with his arms crossed. “Great, what did I do now?”

“You didn’t floss. That’s bad for your gums, to keep that bacteria in there—”

“I should kick you in the dick, like, right now .” And instinctively, Law covers his crotch, looking at you warily even though you are leaning on the counter of your bathroom for stability. However, something is off. You feel like his eyes can see through you. Do you still have the same tells as when you were fifteen? Can he still so easily tell when you lie to him? All you want to do is to lay in bed and continue to have your anxiety-induced vomiting to yourself, but no, Law just has to live in your home because of the stupid vows you made to this arrogant man you still somehow have mixed feelings towards.

“...That wouldn’t be… an unreasonable response,” Law stutters, still protecting his crotch while you still lean against the wall. 

You groan against, and slump, nearly falling onto the floor, save for Law scooping you up swiftly… or, a hand of void holding you upwards. He’d shouted something, and there was a blue tint to your field of vision. You look at him in shock, mouth slightly agape, before the hand settles you back down. Law is reaching forward, his hand in the same position the void one was, and you feel the touch vanish, along with the blue tint.

What the fuck kind of magic did Law have? First, how he had shriveled your uncle's arm, to now being able to command shadows of void— what the hell had you just signed up for?

“Don’t freak out,” Law holds up both of his hands, the palms turned to you as you steady yourself, still sitting on the floor, now gripping the door frame to your bathroom. “ Don’t freak out—”

“I’m sorry, what?! ” You grip the door frame tighter, your knuckles turned white by how tight your hold is. “ You have fucking ghost powers— ”

“They’re not ghost powers,” Law stops and looks at you in a mix of annoyance and shock. “My magic is so similar to Cora’s, where did you even get ghost from—?”

“Cora had magic?! ” You whisper-yell at him, and Law’s face goes from annoyed to ‘oh shit’ as if he’s just revealed something that he really wasn’t supposed to. 

Within the instant, Law is pressing his hands to your mouth, muffling your words. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he visibly shudders as you lick his hand to get him to stop putting his hands on your mouth, but he keeps looking over his shoulder, and glancing around the room as though he’s waiting for something to happen. You start to squirm, now thoroughly annoyed that you can only breathe out of your nose and also that you really, really want to know about Corazon’s alleged magic.

Corazon had been Law’s father and a close family friend— a magicless man who despite everything, had flourished in the city guard. He was how you’d been introduced to Law, the shy orphan peeking out from behind his legs on a visit to the shop to get some vitamins and to stock up on medicines. You’d been much in the same, looking at Law from behind the counter until your adoptive uncle called over to you softly, thus setting into motion the next several years of your life with a partner in crime as you grew. 

A month before everything fell to pieces, he’d died.

Killed with his own blade through his stomach as he lay in bed. Law had found him the next morning.

But Cora had been famously magicless. He didn’t have magic, you were absolutely certain. Even children with the most basic understanding of their own abilities could read someone’s mana. Cora had been a great learning tool for you when your mother was teaching you to control your magic for the first time. An easy read for you to attempt, extending your senses down through the earth to then listen to his heartbeat, which then switched to locating some enchanted object he was holding, and being able to distinguish between the two. 

There hadn’t even been a flicker of mana, even when you’d done it on pure instinct when he’d entered the shop on surprise visits. 

You lick Law’s hand again, and he finally pulls away, rushing into your bathroom to wash his hands, grumbling to himself about how unsanitary it was. After a good three minutes, he returns, and sits on the floor a couple feet away from you, not quite meeting your eyes. He still nervously scans the room.

“Cora had magic.”

“Bullshit,” You narrow your eyes at him, fear forgotten and annoyance taking over. “His mana levels were practically negative— he had enchanted items, but he was absolutely not enchanted himself—”

“He hid it,” Law mutters, “And keep your voice down. No one… is supposed to know.”

“Law Water D. Trafalgar, are you telling me that someone who was like an uncle to me, hid a substantial part of himself, from not only my family, but likely the entire city, and lived a lie?” Your voice is so deadpan, that for a second Law thinks you’re telling a joke. He scowls— this isn’t funny.

This is something that only he, Cora himself, and the people who’d killed his father, knew. And you’re joking about it?

“Yes.”

“Gods above grant me patience,” you mutter to yourself, rubbing your face in aggravation. “…let’s say that this hypothetical is true. Not only would that require such great control of his mana, to have it undetectable for his entire life, but he also committed several counts of fraud and other crimes,” “What does that matter?” Law feels his eyebrow twitch. Really, what do laws matter at this point? He’s been sentenced to hang and is now married to you to keep him from hanging. Sentenced to life in another way, he supposes.

“If that gets out, it’ll ruin his legacy,” you whisper yell at him, baffled he hasn’t considered this. Your eyes are wide. Oh, whatever he’s going to tell you next is going to break you— where will he ever begin?

“....He had, a lot more secrets that would ruin that,” Law mumbles, and you visibly stiffen, your face going stoney. 

“That’s not funny, Law.” You force yourself to stand on wobbly legs, eyes alight with fury. Who is this man to toy with your cherished memories of your uncle? That is the man who raised him, and now he smears his name through the mud. You know that lunar magic isn’t necessarily evil, you’ve seen how other cultures use it during your own studies in the continent to the west, but this is going too far. “This is a sick idea of a joke if that’s what you’re trying.”

“I’m not joking!”

“It’s hard to tell with you,”

“... that’s not fair,” Law protests, and takes a step towards you, only to have you hold up one of your hands, the palm turned out to him. Your other hand braces it, and you have a stoney look on your face. 

“What isn’t fair, is how you have completely upturned my life,” your fist clenches, and Law can feel you drawing the mana from the air around you. It hums with life, and the plants near the window shudder, bending to your command. “You have done nothing but hurt me this entire time, when I have been incredibly patient, given the circumstances. Get out of my room and leave me alone.”

He leaves immediately and doesn't feel you release the mana from your grasp for thirteen minutes. 

Law remembered when Cora found him. He’d been trudging his way to the capital city, covered in the white mud that was so signature to his home region, with many more people avoiding his every movement. The patches wouldn’t come quite yet, not until he was much older.

Eons ago, his home was doomed by the goddess of life, the symbol of the earth they had tilled, who breathed life into every green sprout that would become one of their crops. The ancient settlers of the land had disrespected her beloved husband by refusing to celebrate the relief the rise of the moon had brought them. The indigenous people, the culture his mother had belonged to, had prayed and pleaded with the goddess to try and convince her to show mercy. The settlers didn’t know what they had done, they cried, trying to get the goddess to see reason.

She only reacted harsher, but in her anger, hurt her descendants who were born through her union with the husband who had been disrespected, the indigenous people of the land. Law’s own people, through his mother, the original cultivators of that signature, and once fruitful, pale soil.

Law couldn’t recall the rest of the myth. Only that his father’s side of the family was cursed, as was his mother's. Mixing those curses together only seemed to make things worse, but love couldn’t be stopped. Neither could death. His mother and father died when he was five, and his sister when she was barely one. With only the papers that proved he’d been born, Law had left after his family was buried in an unmarked grave. 

He’d all but given up after a month. He’d eaten nothing but wild onions and some scraps given to him by campers and caravans. Cora found him when Law had lain down to die under a tree, hugging the fur hat that had been his mother’s. One moment, he’d been asleep with the idea of his mother singing to him softly, and the next a blond man had been looking down at him with the rhythm of a cart’s wheels under him. He had been unafraid of the mud that covered Law, holding him tightly, as though he was afraid he could break.

“Little one,” the blond man had held him closer, stopping Law from squirming away. “Please stop squirming— you’re gravely injured and near starved, it’s a miracle you’re even living,” 

Regardless, he’d still kept squirming until he’d felt something holding him down, and pressing into the back of his mind, forcibly soothing him. The blond, a stranger at the time, just looked a bit annoyed, though more concerned than anything.

“Please don’t make me do that again— I don’t like doing that to anyone,” 

“Who are you?” 

“I am Corazon Rosinate— but I’m more worried as to why you were near death under a tree,” 

“Because it was easier,” Law answered, unwittingly setting himself on the path he was on now. Adopted by a father who wouldn’t see him reach adulthood, with the twisting strings of that gods damned sadistic puppeteer that still pulled at his wrists, and choked his breath from his throat as he tried to shield your body with his own.

The house was silent for the next three days, even when you and Law occupy the same space. You swept the floor of your shop, cooked your own meals, and managed to get a tailor to stop by the get new clothing made. Just as you’d thought things would go back to normal, the large crowd outside of your shop fading away as you make it clear you will not be discussing anything with them, you find two silvers sitting on the counter where you would normally have made all your remedies. 

It’s from Law. 

Twice the cost of what you’d made. It sits there, taunting you, as you look at the two coins. Law is undoubtedly wealthy– even if he does not charge all the patients he sees, you’ve heard the stories about his skills. How quickly he is able to clear and banish illnesses from anyone in his hands, from the richest to the poorest. 

The richest had poured platinum and gold pieces into his pockets after his miracles. The poorest teach him folk magic. You’ve heard the rumors from your fellow apothecaries. From the countless people who’ve he’s healed with his soothing tone and touch.

I hate you and have always hated you.

His tone you had once known, the voice you had adored when he would wrap the scrapes and cuts from your time foraging in the woods. From his little half-smile as you babbled on about what herbs you’d discovered that day, before showing him as you pulled your cuttings from the bag at your side. 

He’d once been so loving to you. Had carefully and so gently held you as though you were something precious to him. That was his bedside manner. Something you had struggled to separate from his sudden heel turn.

I hate you and have always hated you.

Surely he didn’t mean that? You still had trouble trying to figure out if Law had meant those hurtful words. The sleepless nights from the nightmares said otherwise. The moon goddess hadn’t been kind. She was the one who had controlled all dreams, the one who twisted those sick threads in your mind of Law beating you as you laid in the mud, unable to fight back. You weren’t sure anymore, what had been true and what hadn’t anymore, your memories blending with those cursed dreams. 

But you do know that the coins sitting on the counter make you sick. So you push them into a drawer, shaking as the cold metal touches your palm and the little tinkle it makes when they hit each other when they fall. The dreams resurface so vividly in your mind that you can feel Law’s hands on your neck, squeezing until you struggle to breathe. Cold, golden eyes that rip through your soul as you struggle to pull his hand from your throat. 

For a second, your hand flies to your throat. 

It’s not— it’s not real. Law had never put a finger on you that entire encounter. But why, for a fraction of a second, were you so convinced that he had? 

The stairs creek as Law walks down them. You’d gotten him new clothes, as promised, and you stiffen when you see him. He’s wearing a pale green tunic, tucked into a pair of trousers. The high waistline is embroidered with white and gold thread, marking his trade as a doctor, just as the edges of your sleeves are embroidered white. The details are the same for both, indicating your marriage and your throat feel as though it’s going to swell shut. Delicate vines twisting with snakes swirl over your clothes, around the neckline and wrists of your simple dress, the white thread striking against the muted orange. 

Law doesn’t look at you, only adjusts his sleeves until he notices it too. The marriage of your two trades, apothecary and doctor, twirling around a thick staff, just like that in myths. The tattooed ring on his hand burns for a second, and he can feel the tightening of your throat as though the two of you are two bodies sharing the same soul. He freezes when he comes to that realization, and you do as well, looking at him with malice and fear. 

You’re his soulmate. 

You can feel his pain, and he can feel yours. He can sense your fear as though it’s his own, which is disorienting when he tries to stabilize himself on the railing of the stairs. 

Oh, fuck, of course you’re his soulmate. The world loves to play these terrible jokes on him, to remind him he will never be able to fight back against Donquixote Doflamingo to become free of the puppeteer who’s conducted Law’s life to this very point, all starting with Cora’s death. 

The embroidered edges of the clothing make you feel as though you are chained to Law. Which you are. You have forever linked yourself to the man you utterly hate, who broke your heart, who haunts your dreams. Who you love still. Though he isn’t touching you, you can feel the grip of his hand on your wrist, his hands calloused and skin warm. But they’re both at his side as Law looks at you with…. Terror? 

Whatever weird chill traveled up your spine, and the faint feeling of a loose thread running across the back of your neck, you ignore, pushing past Law, and unknowingly confirming his worst fear when he can feel the twinge of annoyance in the back of his mind that is certainly not his own. 

[rainydaymiscellaneous]

Hellooo! Saw that your requests for kazzle dazzle are open and I love how you write him <3 Could I please request something with a reader who's on their period? Thank you!!

Trigger warnings: mentions of blood. Obviously.

Helping

(Kaz Brekker x reader)

No one knew why it was always worse for you. You always had more to deal with compared to the other women in the group and it made you feel... almost inferior. If this was normal, if it was like this for them, why was it so hard for you to deal with?

You were sitting in your bathroom with all of the lights turned off. Migraines, painful, brutal migraines plagued you every month around this time. You were propped against your toilet, struggling to even move off the bathroom floor. Everyone had left for a mission so it was just you. Well. You and Kaz. But you knew how he was and you weren't about to ask him for help.

You heard a knock. "What?" You asked, sounding disoriented from the pain.

"Are you alright?" Kaz asked.

"No." You muttered. Kaz didn't like being around this time of the month. It wasn't your situation, by any means. Inej and Nina had periods, he wasn't ignorant to the situation by any means. It was the fact that it was you in pain.

He recalled a time where you took a literal bullet for him. He remembered feeling absolutely awful when he saw how close to death you were. You were sweating so bad, struggling to breathe without wanting to cry from the pain. He couldn't stand to see you of all people like that again.

But this was something he'd push aside. He had to, it was just you and him at the moment.

"May I enter?" He asked.

"Just keep the lights off." You said. He opened the door, seeing you leaned against the toilet. He lowered himself to the ground, sitting with you.

"Do you need anything?" He asked.

"Yes. For my uterus to GO. AWAY." You said.

"...I don't believe I can help with that." He said. You whined, leaning over the toilet.

Kaz noticed the strands of hair lingering by your face as you dry heaved. With hesitation, he pulled back your hair, holding it. "Thank you" you whined before throwing up. He rubbed your back to soothe you as you leaned back. "It hurts" you whined. He reached upwards, grabbing a washcloth by the sink and using the sink to make it damp.

You leaned against the wall, just trying to relax when you felt something damp near your lips. You opened your eyes to see Kaz wiping your mouth for you. "I'm sorry you had to take care of me." You muttered.

"You'd take care of me if I were like this." He said.

"Yes, but it doesn't stop it from being gross." You muttered.

"This is the Barrel. You turn down a street and you will literally see at least three people vomiting." He shrugged. You let out a tired chuckle before you winced again.

"I need... I need to be warm." You said.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked. You looked at him.

"I need..." You sighed. "This is awkward." You whined.

"Why would it be awkward?" Kaz asked.

"I... I need help into the bath." You said. Oh. Oh that's why it's awkward. He shifted, putting the soiled washcloth on the counter. He looked at your state and sighed.

"Lean up and raise your arms." He said. You did, confused as Kaz carefully removed your shirt. He unhooked your bra, looking upwards to at least try to keep your modesty. You shoved off your pants as he pulled you up, taking you to the tub. He carefully turned on the water, you looking at him. "Why are you being so nice to me?" You asked.

"Because you're in pain." He said.

You were confused by that statement. "I don't like seeing one of my crows in pain. Much less you." He said.

"Am I special in some way?" You asked. "Do you see me with anyone else right now?" He asked sarcastically. You still seemed confused. "You took a bullet for me. I owe you my life. So when you need me, I am here." He said. You smiled slightly, you seemed a bit more tired from battling the pains you were experiencing.

Kaz leaned back against a cabinet. "Kaz?" "Mm?"

"Thank you." You muttered.

He smiled slightly.

"Any time"