#tw: mention of vomit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sp0o0kylights · 3 months ago

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Part one here:: link

"oh i dunno if Im going to finish this" I say, right before the plot ate me. anyway this was too big to post in full to tumblr. If you want the full, completed fic (with bonus Fun Fic Facts tm) it is finished and up on A03 here:: link

TW vomiting, drug use

Eddie is good.

Eddie is kind.

Eddie does not run over Henderson’s bike, laying haphazardly in Harrington’s pristine driveway, even if it would make him feel better.

He does slam his van into park with enough force to make the brakes squeal, which he decides is an excellent way to announce his appearance to the entire neighborhood.

It’s a move he’s pulled countless times. Charging in and making a scene meant people forgot that he couldn’t actually fight for shit, and equally, took their attention off whatever their original target was.

Which in this case, was Eddie’s too fucking nice freshman.

The rage pulsing through him is white hot and all encompassing, and it’ll get him through a lot--but the switchblade he carries ensures everyone’s safety in these little matters.

It makes him brave.

Braver than he should be really, but Eddie spent the entire drive over here chain smoking out the window while prepping for this little confrontation and the more he’d thought it all over, the madder he got.

That a washed up jock thought he could still take advantage of actual children.

Nevermind Hellfire, or Henderson ditching, or Sinclaire’s ranting.

This was about their relationship with Harrington.

A picture has been building in Eddie’s head. One that’s only gotten clearer after today, and one he will be putting an end to, because he doesn’t believe for a second Harrington has a headache.

Henderson might always be the smartest person in the room, but he’s dumb as hell socially. Too honest, too blunt, and frankly, too goodhearted.

That makes him easy to take advantage of.

Sinclair was worse--the guy was too easy to guilt trip.

It was a noted issue with his ranger, and apparently, himself, and Eddie could easily see how Harrington could have twisted the idea of some ridiculous life-debt to keep Lucas in his clutches.

Even Mayfield, Billy Hargrove’s former stepsister, was wrapped up in Harrington enough to have a go at her own friends over him!

She wasn’t even one of his flock, but Eddie was her neighbor. Saw how her mom was barely home. How she was practically raising herself, head down, doing her best not to ever let people see her cry.

Yeah.

Wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a guy like Steve Harrington to swoop in and take advantage there.

Wheeler clearly wasn’t a fan and Eddie can only come up with reason after reason as to why--King Jackass had the poor kid’s entire friend group under some kind of--of sick spell.

Well.

Eddie was here to break it.

Even if it meant storming into the King’s castle by himself and calling him out on his shit.

Nobody fucked with his people. Especially not douchebag, washed up jocks.

He’s up to Harringotn’s ridiculous double doors in a flash, banging hard on the wood with a closed fist, positively fuming and uncaring of who sees.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Henderson who opens it.

“Eddie?” He says, blinking up at him like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing. “What are you--hey!”

Hey, because Eddie’s pushed past him, storming into the house.

“This has gone on long enough.” He announces, loud as he ever has been. “Where the hell’s Harrington?”

Henderson, frustratingly, does not weep or throw his hands up in celebration of Eddie’s incoming rescue.

Which is fine--Eddie hasn’t broken the spell yet.

Unfortunately he is bitching, in that infamously annoying tone of his.

“Dude, shut up, Steve’s pills really only work for like, an hour--”

“Fantastic, he’ll be clear headed for our little talk.” Eddie tells him, head sweeping left and right as he looks for his target. He’s been in Casa de Harrington a few times before to deal, but it was always at night.

He can now say with perfect honesty that the place looks worse in the bright light of the day.

“Was that Eddie?” Sinclair calls, and Eddie orients towards him instantly, storming down the hall.

It doesn’t take long to find the kid.

Lucas is standing in a kitchen larger than Eddie’s entire trailer, a too-large pink apron drowning his frame.

He turns, revealing the front of the thing has ‘Whisk Taker’ written on it in syrupy white font.

(Baking puns. Disgusting.)

“Are you cooking?” Eddie accuses with a sneer, though his disgust isn’t aimed at the freshmen.

This is exactly what he was afraid of finding.

Lucas just stares at him. “Uh--yeah?”

“What did I say about too many people, Munson?” Mayfrield spits angrily. It takes a second to locate her--the kitchen is enormous and far too white--but eventually Eddie realizes she’s perched up on a counter next to the largest sink he’s ever seen.

For a second, Eddie thinks that’s just where she’s chosen to sit. Then she moves, and he realizes she’s washing and drying a series of water bottles.

He never in his life thought he’d witness Maxine Mayfield willingly do someone else's dishes.

“Someone get me Harrington.” He’s not trying for anything dramatic, but his voice must sound dangerous because all three freshmen stop dead, eyes wide as if he's just spoken in tongues.

He zeroes in on Dustin with a glare. “Now.”

Who huffs, throwing his hands up in the air like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here.

“Absolutely not--we just got Steve to sit down. He’s been following me around the house insisting I’m causing more problems than I’m fixing!”

“Because you are.” Steve says, voice dripping with calm condescension as he appears like a wraith in the doorway. “And I know you’re all into the whole dungeon game, Munson, but this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, already vibrating with fury. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who’s treating them like his personal minions. What’s next, Harrington? Gonna make them re-shingle the roof? Paint your house? Wax your car?”

Steve gives him a flat, almost disbelieving stare. “Do you seriously think I had Henderson miss your game just so I could lounge around while he’s doing chores?”

Eddie doesn’t bite, too busy unloading. “Oh we can both see it’s more than that.”

He doesn’t notice the way Steve’s jaw tenses, or how his hand creeps up to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple.

“Anything else you want done, Harrington? Maybe make ‘em mow the lawn?” Eddie sneers. “Or teach ‘em to plump your pillows just the way you like—”

Steve finally snaps, pushing himself upright. “You know what Munson, you're right,” he says, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “I’m clearly a terrible person they need to be rescued from so--”

He cuts himself off with a hiss, eyes squeezing shut as his hand goes to the side of his head, and spits out his next words like they hurt.

“You can play the good guy and take them all home.”

Dustin, with an exasperated sigh, steps between them. “No,” he tells Steve sternly, as if managing an unruly child, before spinning on his heel to say the exact same thing, in the exact same tone--to Eddie.

(Jackass freshman can’t even appreciate when they’re being actively rescued!)

“Eddie, I promise that this isn’t what it looks like.”

For anyone else it would sound like a plea, but Henderosn somehow makes it condescending.

“We can explain, alright?” Dustin says, raising his hands as though coaxing a skittish animal. “Will you let us explain? Please?”

Eddie glowers.

“You clearly do not, in fact, know what this looks like. Because if you did,”

Eddie can make himself menacing and he does so now, pulling on every single year of drama and theatrics and lying to cops he’s had, pushing his shoulders back and making his body tall.

“You would know that it looks like a guy who peaked in high school is forcing a bunch of fourteen year olds to do his bidding.”

He takes an aggressive step towards Steve, boots thunking hard on the floor. “And that isn’t happening on my watch.”

“Aren’t you like an extra super senior?” Mayfield says, arms crossed over her chest.

“Irrelevant!” Eddie swats the air in her direction, as if to physically bat away her words. “I’m still in high school and I’m not emotionally blackmailing a bunch of kids into waiting on me hand and foot while I fake a headache!”

“Oh ew.” Max’s nose scrunches in disgust, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring on her face. “That is not what’s happening here.”

“Were you even listening earlier?!” Lucas says, like he can’t quite believe Eddie is this dumb.

(His character will be the next to die, so Eddie swears.)

“I did.” Eddie points a finger at him, triumphant. “I heard all about how he’s tricked you into thinking you owe him a life-debt!”

“A what?” Harrington’s squinting, like he’s struggling to follow along what is happening. It’s a halfway decent sick act, Eddie will give it to him, but he knows the facade will drop in a moment.

As soon as the asshole loses his temper and decides to try and throw Eddie out, he’ll switch from the Poor Me act into the usual pompous, rich dick on a rampage persona.

“How he’s saved you all, convinced you and Henderson that you’re in debt to him.”

“Could we just---please stop yelling?” Steve says in the background, heel pressing hard against his eyes.

Then winces like his own voice hurts his head.

“What the hell, Eddie?!” Dustin’s cut across the room, stepping in between the two older teens. “Where did this even come from!?”

“Guys.”

“The mouths of babes, Henderson. Which you would know if you witnessed Sinclair’s rant instead of missing out because King Dickhead demanded your presence at his castle!”

“Guys.” Steve’s voice abruptly takes on a weird tone, and it’s only Mayfield’s eyes popping wide that has Eddie realizing something is wrong--right before Harrington shoots past him, noisily hurling in the sink.

“Gross!” Max shrieks, throwing herself off the counter.

Harrington aims a shaky middle finger in her direction.

“I just washed those bottles Steve, I'm not washing them again!” Mayfield rants, but she’s not fooling anyone. Not with the way she’s already edging back towards him, like she’s afraid he might fall over.

(Worse, like she might try to catch him, as if Harrington’s broad, barbarian-like shoulders wouldn’t flatten her instantly.)

“Al-’right.” Harrington slurs a moment later, still panting over the sink. “Everyone--out. Now.”

“Steve--”

“Nope. Making it worse. Out.”

He manages to stand and turn, leaning hard against the counter and for the first time since this all started, Eddie looks at him.

Properly, and not through the lens of righteous fury.

Harrington’s pale.

The shirt he’s wearing is stained with sweat marks, his sweatpants clearly old and worn for comfort rather than style.

His hair…

Eddie has never seen Harrington without his infamously perfect hairdo, and the messy, slick waves plastered to his forehead is more of a shock then him vomiting in the sink.

He’s got his hands pressed hard against his eyes again, and there’s a slight tremble in his fingers that belay he’s likely in a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

In short, Harrington looks like absolute shit, and Eddie, maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit believes he actually has a migraine.

Well, it was that or he was really committed to the bit…

The tense silence that has befallen them all is ruined when Harrington makes a ‘hurk.’ noise.

“I’m going to throw up again.” He decides after a moment of contemplation, before whipping back around to the sink and doing just that.

“Steve’s right.” Mayfield decides suddenly, over all the nasty noises. “We should leave.”

“I’m almost done cooking!” Sinclair protests, as if Harrington isn’t presently throwing up the contents of his stomach.

“You’re almost done burning things, you mean.” Max mutters, but her words can’t hide the blatant concern written all over his face. “I don’t think he’s going to keep anything down.”

“He needs us to finish what we started.” Dustin argues passionately. “You know how bad he gets, he’s not gonna be able to get up in an hour!”

(A clear exaggeration, because Harrington looks like he’s not gonna make it across the kitchen unassisted.)

“What I need is for everyone to stop talking so fucking loud.” Harrington moans, before appearing to give up on life entirely.

He sort of sags against the counter, resting his head against his arms while bent double, as if that would help things.

It was at this point that Eddie had the most unfortunate realization that he might be the asshole here.

Because Harrington looks rough--and if he actually does in fact, have a migraine, then Eddie has done nothing but make it worse.

(Very likely the freshmen have as well, given Dustin is incapable of talking in anything other than a loud yell, and the smell of Lucas’s burnt food has permeated the air.

Mayfield seemed to have accomplished a small amount of actual work, at least.

…If Harrington managed to miss throwing up on the water bottles.)

“Look,” Harrington interrupts with an audible, thick swallow.“You guys did great, and I appreciate the uh, help. I’m fine, I promise, you can all go home. Munson,”

He doesn’t turn, but his voice does change into something that’s half pleading, half demanding.

“Can we please fight about this tomorrow? Or next week?”

“No fighting!” Dustin shrieks, which has the effect of making Harrington cringe into the counter--and that is what finally kicks Eddie over.

Bows to the instincts that now want to wrap up Harrington in a blanket over the ones that want to strangle him, (though both are very much at odds in his head with each other.)

“We can put a pin in it.” He says, all the venom dropping out of his voice, already knowing what’s going to happen next and hating himself for it.

Even at his absolute worst, Eddie has never been able to resist trying to fix a problem he’s been presented with--or turn down someone who needs help.

Harrington, clearly, needs help.

“You heard him.” He tells his freshman, then immediately holds up a hand when all three try to protest at once.

“Ah-ah, inside voices.” He himself uses a harsh whisper, and then has to fight not to laugh aloud when all three abruptly eye him like he’s lost his head.

He probably has.

(Fucking King Steve.

No one who is that much of a douchebag should ever look that pathetic without deserving it, it’s against the Munson doctrine.)

“Henderson, have you done anything actually useful while you’ve been here? Like, say, getting a warm washcloth?”

“I--oh.” Dustin’s on the defense instantly, but for once actually listens before he finishes his sentence. “Uh. No.”

“Go do that then.” Eddie instructs, making sure to keep his voice quiet and even.

“Sinclair, toss out the eggs, then take the garbage out so it’ll stop stinking up the place. Mayfield, see if these windows open. Harrington…”

He pauses, watching as Harrington tries to gather himself, moving slowly and deliberately like even breathing hurts. His entire appearance is grating Eddie’s nerves—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and that’s infuriating.

“Go lay down, man.” He finishes lamely.

He expects the freshmen to listen to him. Knows they will, in his heart of hearts, even if they bitch back, because that’s just how things are when he decides to take charge. So few people truly want to, that others are often relieved when he does.

Steve Harrington is not most people.

If he argues, he could very well tip things out of control again, which means Eddie is likely going to have to force the trio of fourteen year olds out of the house.

Henderson and Sinclair he can manage but Mayfield…

Thankfully, Steve pushes off the counter with a groan, muttering something under his breath, but slowly making his way toward the couch without any other protest.

The freshmen exchange glances, all of them looking just as unsure as Eddie feels. Like they’re waiting for instructions now that their default leader is down for the count.

He clears his throat pointedly.

“Hello? Did I not give you marching orders?” He bats his hands at them. “Go march!”

Mayfield mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “hypocrite” but thankfully, does as asked.

“Are you gonna give us a ride home?” Henderson asks as he finally starts moving around--hopefully to get a damn washcloth.

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself home.” Eddie scoffs back, taking stock of Harrington’s kitchen.

He eyes the line of pain pills laid out on the counter, quickly noting not one of them is anything that would help with a sneeze let alone a migraine.

Typical.

“Why not?” Dustin disappeared down a hallway, but the fact Eddie can still hear him plain as day speaks to his ability to keep quiet. “You have your van, don’t you?”

“Because I’m not leaving when you three are leaving.”

It’s an absentminded comment, given his mind is elsewhere.

Weed may be his bread and butter but he does have a handful of more serious things on offer.

Of those things, one or two have some fun little unexpected side effects, and if Eddie recalls Rick’s yapping right, one of said things was stopping headaches.

Said magic little mushrooms might even be in a pocket or two, here, if he remembers right…

“Wait, you're staying here?” Lucas protests, far too loudly.

"Ssszzhh!" Eddie hisses, drawing out the sound dramatically, mostly for the sake of cutting off whatever protests were coming his way.

“No arguing. Your beloved King clearly needs a nap, and that means you’re all off duty. Unless," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "you intend to watch him sleep?"

Dustin looks torn, but mutters a quiet, "No," his eyes shifting sideways like he's weighing the logic.

"Good. Then if you’re all finished…?”

He waits for the nods he knows are coming.

“Excellent. Now leave." Eddie says, pointing towards the door.

They hesitate for a second, but then finally begin to shuffle out, the door clicking quietly behind them.

And just like that, Eddie’s left standing there, watching Steve breathe shallowly on the couch--with a washrag over his eyes.

(At least Dustin managed that.)

He could leave now.

Should leave, really. Giving out drugs for free is not exactly a good business move and Steve will no doubt sleep the headache off without it. But Eddie’s feet don't seem to agree with him, rooted in place as his gaze lingers on the sharp line of Steve's jaw, the slight twitch of his brow every time a muscle aches.

Feels the pull, deep in his gut, to provide the relief he knows he can give.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s moving, crossing the room toward him.

“Munson?” Harrington squints up at him as he registers his presence, washcloth nudged upwards by shaky fingers. “Why’r you still ‘ere?”

“Because I’m stupid.” Eddie mutters, right before realizing he actually said that outloud.

“What?”

Thank God for Harrington’s headache.

“You look terrible, man.” Eddie says slightly louder. “That hair of yours is so flat I think your crown’s gonna fall right off.”

He’d meant it as a joke--spoke it like one, but it seems to snap Harrington out of his pity party.

The sigh that blasts out of him is a whole body affair, and gets his feelings across better than his words do. “I get it. You thought this was something else and it wasn’t. Not the first time that’s happened.”

He turns, cheek scraping against the fabric of his shirt, red rimmed eyes squinting against the light to look at Eddie.

“You got your laugh in, so you can go.”

There’s defeat in his voice. Like he’s accepted this might as well have happened.

(Like he’s just as beaten down as anyone Eddie has ever saved.)

“I didn’t stick around to laugh.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, and that somehow, makes the next part easier to say.

“I honestly thought you were messing around with Henderson and Sinclair, and I uh, I’m used to being the only person who gives a shit. When that kind of thing happens.”

Harrington grimaces.

“It’s okay.” he mutters, eyes sliding closed once more. “Most people still think I’m an asshole.”

His tone has gone odd again, wrecked and rasping, migraine clearly trumping whatever strong feelings he had on the matter.

And the stupid thing was, Harrington himself was never really an asshole.

Sure he went along with the assholes, and he definitely egged them on if not outright participated in some of the lower tier shitty activities, but he wasn’t the guy slamming people into lockers.

(Eddie, in fact, has a hazy memory of Steve telling off Hagan for doing said locker slamming.)

It didn’t make him a good guy--he’d had slung too many insults around to get that label--but in the rankings of assholery, his was of the average variety.

Which means that Eddie cannot logic himself out of his own stupid desire to help.

Even if he really, really wants to.

“Yeah well, even assholes need assistance sometimes, and since I kicked your help out, it’s on to make up for it.”

“No offense,” Steve slurs tiredly, “but I don’t think you’re any quieter than Dustin.”

A smile ghosts over Eddie’s face.

“I live in a tiny ass trailer, Harrington. Trust me, I know how to be quiet. I simply choose not to be.” He moves, slow and careful, until he’s seated next to the fallen King on his stupidly huge (and very uncomfortable) couch.

Steve’s eye follows him over, staring up as he white knuckles his sweatpants, washrag sitting crooked on his forehead.

“I’m not sure I’m not gonna throw up again.” He admits after a moment.

“And that right there is one of the things I can help with. Provided,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows, “that you don’t mind taking a more recreational route for your recovery?”

“....are you offering me drugs?”

“I am indeed.” Eddie confirms with a real smile, plucking the offending baggie out of a pocket.

“You ever done shrooms, your majesty?”

Steve huffs a quiet noise that might have been a snort, had he put any effort behind it.

“How is that going to help?”

“Be-cauuuuuse,” Eddie draws the words out, still a showman even if he is doing his level best to talk as quietly as possible, “shrooms are what we call a psychedelic, and those are pretty well known among certain circles as the headache healer.”

Provided one took the medicinal amount and not the down-the-rabbit-hole amount.

Harrington’s eyes are back open, only this time they’re looking at Eddie’s fingers the same way a dog looks at a nail trimmer: concerned and not entirely unsure it wasn’t going to bite him.

“I’m not…” He cuts himself off, frowning.

“You’ve bought plenty of my weed, Harrington. Trust me this isn’t any different.” Eddie tells him.

Isn’t offended in the slightest--this reaction is pretty typical for people who have only smoked the ganja.

Even the ones who asked to try for something with a little more ‘umph.’

“S’not that.”Steve admits quietly. “I uh. Had a bad trip. While back.”

“Ah, gunshy.” Eddie says it without a lick of judgment, because Eddie’s been there.

Or rather in the shower, at two am because he accidentally spilled LSD on his hand and promptly tripped balls for 48 hours after.

“I’ll hang around a bit, if you like.” He offers casually. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”

He gets another huff-snort as Harrington’s watery eyes return their attention to him.

“And what are you going to do if they do go sideways?”

“Put you back together again.”

Eddie knows his grin is crooked, but can’t help it. He’s thinking about Humpty Dumpty and the King’s Men.

Somehow he doesn’t see Steve Harrington cracking that easily—at least, not without putting up a good fight—but drugs did worse things to better people.

“It really helps?” Steve asks, voice quiet. Doubtful.

Eddie presses his hands to his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“You were not a boy scout.” Steve tells him, but he’s struggling to sit up anyway, looking game.

“Alright, so how do I do this?” He asks, though he’s already halfway down again, propped up on his elbows.

“First, you lay back down, and I’ll brew it into tea,” Eddie explains.

“Tea?”

“Well, you could eat them straight, but I don’t think they’d taste too great. Not that I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

Steve scowls. “Sadist.”

“Guilty,” Eddie replies, biting back the urge to sing-song it, keeping his voice down and steady. “Just a heads-up: they kick in fast, but I’ll go light on you—nothing like the ‘fun’ dose for the usual crowd.”

Which is how he ends up back in the kitchen, this time making tea and humming to himself, before offering the final brewed concoction to Harrington.

Who downs it like a shot, because he’s a fucking frat-bro at heart.

“I didn’t find a teacup for you to do that.”

Between a full-body shudder and a dramatic grimace, Steve chokes out “Not gonna lie I didn’t think we owned a teacup.”

“What, do you think I just have them in my van?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Which is kind of hysterical, and something Eddie may be doing--not that he’s telling Harrington that.

“And now we wait!” He announces instead of rambling about teacups, nearly clapping his hands together before he remembers the migraine Steve is soldiering through with surprising grit.

Eddie himself would have turned into a whiny mess, so he can’t help but admire the guy’s restraint.

“Waiting to see if I hurl again, you mean?” Steve mutters, flopping backward onto the couch. “That tasted like battery acid.”

“Think it’s coming back up?”

“No clue.”

They sit in silence for a second, then Eddie pokes, “Maybe it’s best if you crash in your room, man. You look like death warmed over, and this couch sucks.”

An understatement, if there ever was one. The fucking thing didn’t seem to be made for people to actually sit on.

Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself up, heading toward his room. Eddie tags along, snarky grin covering the way he holds his hands out in case the jock ahead of him slips on the stairs and takes them both out.

(Unlike Mayfield, Eddie does not pretend Steve doesn’t outclass him weight wise. The man was built like a brickhouse, and he has to fight to keep his eyes up toward Steve’s hair instead of on his ass.)

Thankfully, he’s saved from all R-rated thoughts by the sheer horror of Harrington’s bedroom.

“Harrington, I’ve found the source of all your migraines.” Eddie tells him, tone as serious as he’s ever been.

“Ha-ha.” Steve deadpans, stepping into his plaid fucking room.

“I’m not kidding, I’m getting a headache and I’ve been here less than five seconds.”

The whole place truly is a nightmare--like someone took one of those plaid hunting jackets and themed an entire room around it.

Fucking rich people.

“Trust me, it’s not the wallpaper.”

“Given how you’re weaving on your feet, I think it’s safe to say I don’t trust you at all.” Eddie tells him, half helping half dragging Steve towards the bed.

It’s a comfy looking thing and Harrington falls into it gratefully, immediately crawling under the covers.

“You know where to find me?” Eddie asks him, refusing to think Harrington snuggling up in his bed is something cute.

“Yeah?”

“Good. Hit me up next time your head gets bad. I’ll make sure to keep some of this,” He shakes the little baggie, “on hand.”

Steve’s pulled the covers all the way up past his chin, but he moves it down a little to properly cock an eye at Eddie.

“Dare I ask what you're gonna charge for that?”

“Let’s call it a fair trade for all those times you’ve driven the freshman home from Hellfire.”

If Steve even recalls this conversation, that is. Eddie hadn’t exactly given him the “fun” kind of dose, but then, he himself has never tested out what dose is needed to cure headaches rather than simply having fun destroying one's own ego.

He supposes that’s something he and Harrington both will have to test, between them--because Eddie meant it when he offered the drugs for free.

No one deserves to suffer from the kind of migraine Harrington clearly had.

“Think you’re good to drop off.” Eddie tells him, after making sure Steve is happily content in his bed.

Checks his watch to make sure enough time has passed to safely call it, before beginning to attempt his way out of Steve’s god-awful bedroom.

Which of course, is when Harrington reaches out, looping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist.

It freezes him in place.

In a moment that is so utterly selfish and stupid that Eddie will loudly insist it was a hallucination should Harrington ever dare ask about it, he turns his palm and moves so that he’s clasping Steve’s fingers with his own.

“Thanks. For all this.” Steve whispers, as they hold hands for a moment.

Eddie squeezes his fingers against the younger man’s before he moves to make his retreat, flashing a peace sign over his shoulder as he goes.

“Anytime, big boy.”

Anytime.

xxx

The thing no one tells you about creating a doctrine, is that at some point or another, someone’s going to hold you to it.

In Eddie’s case it’s four very pissed off teenagers.

He has a gold medal in mental gymnastics and a silver in denial. Left on his own devices he could easily excuse everything that happened yesterday.

Reclassify the fallen King as pathetic, and the kids' weird loyalty to him as a holdover from his babysitting days.

Blame their nosy-ness on them being involved in Harrington’s life, and happily go back to mocking their relationship with renewed vigor because now he’s not going to handwave their behavior as being afraid of Harrington.

Nope, they clearly and willingly, have attached themselves to the King, which means Eddie gets to make fun of them for life.

Pity they don’t leave Eddie to his own devices.

In fact, the little shits hit him up first thing in the morning, early enough that he's’ a little suspicious that the boys slept over at Max’s trailer.

“We’re not done talking about Steve.” Mayfield tells him and given the determined (Henderson) angry (Sinclair) and put out (Wheeler Jr.) faces glaring at him from over her shoulder, Eddie figures his chances for getting out of this conversation are slim to none.

“Good morning to you too.” He snarks, voice gravel-deep with sleep. “What do you little shits want?”

“I literally just said.” Max rolls her eyes so hard he thinks about commenting that they may stick back there, only to decide that makes him sound too much like a teacher for his liking.

(Besides if they get stuck, he’ll have an excuse to whack her on the back of her head without getting murdered for it.

…well.

An attempt at an excuse, anyway.)

“And who says I have anything I want to talk about?” He fires back, leaning a shoulder against the old metal doorframe.

Just because he understood what they wanted didn’t mean he was going to make it easy.

“Would you just let us in?”

“No.”

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, and Eddie redirects his frown his way. “Come on.”

“Well I suppose if you say it that way,” Eddie hums thoughtfully. “No.”

“Steve’s sick, you asswipe.” Max snaps angrily.

“I know,” He volleys back, brightly sarcastic. “I saw him yesterday.”

Because it’s Mayfield, she matches him tit for tat, a mimicry of his sarcastic drawl entering her voice. “Good! You get to see him today too.”

And just like that their little ambush makes sense.

(He’s got to find a new way to get the damn kids to fear him, clearly his usual menacingness just isn’t cutting it anymore.)

“And why would I do that?”

He’s done his good deed. He helped Harrington out, and even offered free drugs to help him get his migraines under control.

Checking up on the guy was overkill.

“We were gonna do it, but someone let it slip that Steve was sick.” A cutting glance is given to Henderson, who makes a face but otherwise holds his ground.

“And his mom called everyone else's parents with instructions that we leave him alone until he feels better.”

“So now if we go over there,” Sinclair finishes for his girlfriend, “we get grounded.”

Which neatly answers every question that just popped into Eddie’s head.

The threat makes sense for the boys--Eddie’s met Claudia Henderson and though she has that bubbly, easy to confuse nature of suburbanites everywhere, there was an undercurrent in her eyes of someone who knew more than she was letting on.

Or perhaps, someone who simply knew what they wanted, and was happy to settle and wait for it.

Likewise the Sinclair and Wheeler parental units seem to want to keep in her--and Steve’s, no doubt, given he carts their kids around--good graces.

Given Mayfield’s mom wasn’t even home last night, her participation in this farce does not make sense and Eddie narrows his eyes at her in warning.

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” He says instead of directly calling her out.

She knows he knows, and he’s smart enough to figure out how to relay that without saying it directly.

(An action taken out of respect for surviving a bad home life, and absolutely not because he’s terrified she’ll crawl through his window to enact revenge in the middle of the night.)

“It’s your problem because you owe him one.” she tells him firmly. “And us.”

Oh no he does not.

“How so?” He challenges with a snorted laugh.

“You did kind of storm into his house and yell a lot.” Sinclair points out. He’s doing better at speaking up, Eddie realizes with a twisted sense of pride and dread.

Not quite so easy to steamroll after his outburst yesterday.

A part of him hopes that sticks around--Sinclair needs a spine, and not just because Mayfield will keep running circles around him until he grows one.

The rest of Eddie is pissed off that he decided to get one now, when it directly impacted Eddie’s Saturday morning sleeping plans.

Leave it to these dickheads to use a good deed against him.

“Look--we can’t make sure he’s okay. You can.” Mayfield steps up to jam a painted fingernail in Eddie’s chest. “He won’t let us do anything that will actually help him. You, he can't stop.”

He does not take a step backward and thus lose all the cool points he has left in the eyes of the younger Hellfire members, but only because he’s already leaned up against the doorframe.

He bares his teeth at her in a silent snarl instead.

“We made it worse.” She admits, voice sharp. “And I don’t know how to make it better, but you seem to be able to, so congrats Munson--you get to go again!”

Which gets Eddie’s back right up.

He pushes off the doorframe, ready to tell Mayfield--and all his little dipshits--right off, except this is when Wheeler Jr., of all people, decides to add in his two cents.

“If you don’t go, no one else will.” He looks off to the side while he says it, arms crossed tight across his chest and spitting the words out like he's admitting to a crime. “Robin’s not coming back until Monday and Nancy's got some stupid thing, so you’re literally the only person who can go.”

Well just stab him in the heart, why don’t you.

“What are the chances of you fucking back off to whatever hole you crawled out of if I refuse?” He asks, already knowing that he’s done for.

Accepted his fate, because he knows what it’s like not to have someone to rely on, when you need them the most.

“Zero.” Sinclair and Henderson chant as one.

“Well then.” He tells them with the biggest, most put upon sigh he can manage. “Guess you got me in a box here.”

Mayfield grins at him.

It reminds him vaguely of a shark.

A bloodthirsty, slightly demonic, mean shark.

“Good. Go get dressed.”

“Oh I’m doing this right now, am I?” He complains, but he’s already moving to go back into his trailer.

“We’re not leaving until you do!” Mayfield yells at him.

Eddie slams the door in her face.

(He’s never adopting freshmen again, as long as he fucking lives.)

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cjlouwho · 2 months ago

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My idea for a good 9-1-1 storyline is that Buck kills someone (completely justified, the guy was gonna kill Tommy) and it is heavily implied that the 118 just buried the body. And is never caught. Athena is on to them but she tells no one. What do you even do if you're a cop and your husband helps his son coworker bury a body. Also Buck and Tommy get back together.

Sorry, I turned this into a prompt! It's kinda ooc and not everyone is included, but this was fun to write anyway! I also could have made this like 5k, but I shortened it to 2.1k.

It's a gray area.

His hands are shaking, there's a dead man on the floor, and it's a gray area because, “He... He was gonna kill you, Tommy. Wasn't- He was going to, wasn't he?”

Tommy's frozen. He can't look away from the man's eyes, staring up blankly at him. Almost like they are staring straight into his soul. “Buck,” he manages to breathe out.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

“Oh my God. Oh my God!” Buck starts to panic, because he just killed a man! He snapped his neck like a twig, felt him go limp in his arms as he dropped to the ground. Buck had fallen back with him before scooting out from under him so fast you would have thought he was on fire. “Oh my God, Tommy!”

“O- Okay. Okay, Buck. It's okay,” Tommy says, Buck's panic breaking him out of his trance. “I need you to calm down, okay? Just... just let me think for a second.”

“Calm down?! You want me to calm down?! Tommy, I just killed a man! I just killed y-”

“Evan, stop! It was self defense. He... he was coming at me-”

“With a cell phone!” Buck finished. “I- I thought it was a gun, Tommy! I thought he was gonna shoot you.”

“He was still coming at me, Buck!” Tommy tries to reason. “He was being aggressive and making threats and I- I was frozen. You saved me. That's what we'll tell the police, okay?”

“No!” Buck yells. “No, you- Tommy, I'll go prison!”

“Not for self defense! I'll back you up, whatever you say.”

Buck's hands go to his hair at that, pulling at the strands. “Ohhhh, oh my God. Oh, no. No, Tommy. No, no, no.” He's backing away. Backing away until he hits the wall, then he slides down it.

Tommy walks over to him, kneels in front of him. He grabs onto Buck's hands and tugs until Buck let's go of his hair and looks up at him. “Buck, there is nothing else we can do but call the cops.”

Buck's shaking his head, moving more rapidly with each word Tommy speaks.

“He's like seventy years old, Tommy,” he whispers out as though they weren't the only one's there. “They're not gonna believe for a second that we were so threatened by this man that we, that I, had to kill him!” A new wave of panic rushes over Buck, his eyes widening. “Tommy, I killed a person.” His hands are shaking again and Tommy holds onto them tight. “I killed someone.”

“Evan-”

“I'm gonna throw up.” Buck manages to push himself up and away from Tommy, running down the hall to the bathroom. From the living room, Tommy can hear him gagging and coughing.

Tommy stands and turns back to the man. His heart is pounding in his ears. He feels a little dizzy himself, but he can't focus on that right now. He's got to keep it together. Buck needs him to keep it together.

Tommy hears the toilet flush and the sink come on for a second, then Buck was back, looking paler than a ghost.

Before they can get out a word, they hear the sound of a door slamming.

“What-”

“It's Eddie,” Tommy says, realization hitting him. “He was coming over today to spar.”

“D- Don't let him in, Tommy.”

At the same time Buck spoke, Tommy noticed the door was unlocked, and Eddie was one who always let himself in.

Tommy tried to hurry to the door to lock it before it was too late, but... it was too late.

“Tommy, I'm h- Oh my God!”

Tommy was quick to close the door behind Eddie, making sure no one was outside to see or hear anything.

The next ten minutes was filled with Buck desperately trying to explain himself, Tommy trying to calm Buck down, Eddie looking like a confused puppy, and then Buck having a full blown panic attack as the reality of the situation hit him again.

A smack to his chest had Eddie coming back to the present. He went over to Buck to try and help, but he was completely out of it, his breathing so erratic that Eddie wasn't sure how much longer he'd last before passing out.

That's when he pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Tommy asks.

“Calling Bobby.”

“Oh, yeah, because we need more people in on this,” Tommy says sarcastically.

“Hey, no one is getting Buck out of this panic attack but Bobby. You want a dead man in your house all night?”

Resigned, Tommy sighs. “No.”

“Okay. I'm calling Bobby.”

Eddie says nothing on the phone about a dead body being in the house, but he does tell Bobby there was an emergency with Buck at Tommy's place and he needs to come over, alone and fast.

As soon as Bobby steps in the door, his eyes immediately fall to the unmissable body. “What the hell happened?” he asks, hurrying over to the man as if on autopilot. He checks for a pulse, then rests his head over the man's chest.

“He's gone, Bobby,” Tommy says. “He was gone right away.”

“Cap, we need you for Buck,” Eddie says, tapping Bobby's back and pointing over to Buck who is hyperventilating in the corner. “He's... It's not good.”

Bobby doesn't hesitate. He moves over to Buck and squats down in front of him. “Buck?” he tries. Buck's whole body is shaking, breaths coming in shallow bursts. He's sweating, but chilling at the same time. He's in shock.

“Buck? Kid!” Bobby reaches out and gets his hand around Buck's wrist, wiggling him slightly. This seems to help. Buck's glassy eyes drift to him. He looks confused.

“Cap?”

“I need you to tell me what happened, Kid. How'd this happen?”

“I- I- I,” Buck stutters, unable to find the words. “I didn't-”

“Tell me how you got to Tommy's. You drive here?”

Buck nods. “Mhm.”

“Okay. Why'd you come?”

“To- I wanted to-” His eyes move back toward the body, but Bobby moves to block his line of sight.

“Eyes on me, Buck. Why'd you come?”

Buck blinks once, twice. Swallows hard. “I wanted to talk to Tommy. I- I needed to talk to him.”

“Okay, that's fine. What happened when you came in?”

Buck took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I- the front door was cracked open. I heard yelling, so I- I let myself in. He- He was screaming at Tommy, Cap. He kept saying all these h- horrible things and then he was lunging toward him and I thought he... I thought he had a gun.”

“It was self defense,” Tommy reiterates.

Buck shakes his head. “Bobby, he's old. He- He doesn't have a gun. I didn't have to- we're both stronger than him. You know. You know what this means.”

It's a gray area.

“Buck-”

“No. No, Cap, I- I know what you're gonna say and no. We can't tell Athena. I- I will go to prison! I didn't mean it. I-”

“Buck, you can't-”

They start talking over each other, then Eddie gets in on it as well.

“Guys, we've got to do-”

“Kid, you can't run from-

“I'll be a murderer forever! I killed hi-”

“Hold on!” Tommy yells, silencing the room. All eyes turn to him. He sighs. “Just, everyone wait a second. I'll be right back.”

He heads to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Buck focuses on his breathing as the minutes tick by. Bobby studies over the body, wondering who the hell this man is. Eddie keeps glancing down the hall to see when Tommy comes back out of his room.

Two more minutes feels like an hour, then Tommy is back and stuffing his phone into his pocket. “I know a guy who owes me a favor,” he explains. “We'll get the body to his place and take care of it.”

Bobby holds up his hand. “What now?”

“We're going to take the body to an address I know and handle it there.”

“You just so happen to know a man that cleans up murders?” Eddie asks.

“I know a man who cremates animals, Eddie, and I asked if I could use his facilities. He's out of town right now, but leaves a key under a rock.”

“No offense, Tommy,” Eddie replies, “but this man is a little bigger than a dog!”

Tommy groans. “He lives outsides the city. He cremates cows and horses. This man is big, but not as big as a horse.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Bobby steps forward. “Why are we not calling the police?”

Tommy glances over at Buck, then leans in closer to Bobby. “He's not totally wrong, Bobby. A detective sees this, Evan's done.”

“What about the fact this is a whole human being?” Eddie questions. “What about when someone comes looking for him?”

Tommy shakes his head. “I know this man, okay? So, I- I don't need you guys to worry about all that. I can take care of that stuff. I just need the body out of my house.”

Eddie points down at the body. “You know this man? Who is he?”

“I think this is a the-less-you-know-the-better type situation, Eddie.” He walks over to Buck, siting down in front of him and resting a hand on his knee. “It's gonna get taken care of, Buck. Don't worry.”

*****

If you would have asked any of these four men what they would be doing at ten o'clock at night on a Tuesday in December, none of them would have said, “Carrying a body to a Jeep and driving it out to the country to put it inside a cremation oven, wait for it to burn, then scoop the cremains into a bag, going to the ocean, and dumping the cremains into said ocean.”

But that's exactly what they did. Then they went back to Tommy's place, vowed never to speak of this again, and went their separate ways.

That night, when Athena asked where Bobby had been, he looked at her with hollowed eyes. “It's a long story.”

She laughs. “What'd you do? Kill somebody?”

When he doesn't answer, she gets worried. “Bobby? Did you-”

“No,” he tells her. “I had to help Buck with a problem, and I really, really need you to not ask anymore questions. Please,” he pleads.

She knows him. It's scary just how much she knows him. “Okay,” she agrees. “No questions.”

She takes his hand and they go to bed.

Eddie falls back on his bed with a thump. He thinks he can sleep, maybe. He's seen dead bodies before. He's seen war. That was worse than this.

He just needed to close his eyes.

So he closes his eyes, and he sees a body. He sees Buck's terrified face. He sees secrets Tommy's hiding. He sees how he pulled Bobby into the mess.

He gets up and grabs his keys. He still knows some places that have underground fights on Tuesday nights. Maybe he'll hit one up.

Buck drives around aimlessly for hours until he finds himself right back at Tommy's place.

He knocks on the door, waits, and then there's Tommy.

“Evan, you shouldn't be here,” Tommy says, but he lets Buck push right past him without a fight.

“I can't- Tommy, I can't go home. Please, I just...” his voice trails off when he sees it. The carpet has already been pulled up, folded and taped, ready to go out with the trash.

“I've been looking for a reason to remodel,” Tommy says, desperate to lighten the mood. Not that that's possible.

Buck turns to him. “I needed to talk to you, Tommy. It... Today's been about me, and that's not right. I- Tommy, I'm so sorry. I am so, so-”

“Hey,” Tommy stops him. “I said it more than once, I'll say it again. Self defense.”

“That's not what I mean.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then Tommy nods toward the couch.

They sit, closer than exes should. They're not touching, but it's close.

“Tommy, someone will come looking for him. That shouldn't be on you.”

“A man like that... Evan, he doesn't have anyone to ask about him. I promise you, no one will care he's gone.”

With tears in his eyes, Buck pulls Tommy to him. Tommy's head rests on his chest, and he cards his fingers through Tommy's hair. “Not even you?”

Tommy lets himself be wrapped up in Buck's arms, lets a couple of tears fall too. “He was never much of a dad to me anyway.”

#bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #eddie diaz #bobby nash #athena grant #911 abc #this is probably the most ooc thing I've ever written but it was still fun!#all things considered...#tw death #<- no main characters #mentions of vomiting #also did not really proofread this #sorry about that

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incognitopolls · 6 months ago

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We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

#polls #incognito polls #anonymous #tumblr polls #tumblr users #questions #miscellaneous polls #submitted may 26 #vomit cw #tw vomit #tw emetophobia #emetophobia #vomit mention #gross

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watcherwiki · 2 months ago

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video for the Busted Little F*****s Collection posted on the Watcher Stuff website, November 27, 2024

[script text under cut]

Hello everybody. I'm Shane Madej, the Estranged Producer of the educational program Puppet History.

Recently we released an adorable plushie version of our beloved Professor. But we didn't release them all. Why? Well, because it turns out creating plushies is not an exact science. Mistakes can very much be made. And they were.

Like the reprehensible Doctor Victor Frankenstein we sought to make a plush in the Professor's image, and we can only assume that God Almighty was none too pleased, as he in his vengeful wisdom cursed us with some truly Cronenbergian monstrosities. Turn away if you're of weak constitution. That's right. Look upon these busted little f*ckers! Look upon them and weep. Awful. Who is this? A history point from him? Welcome one and who? What on earth? I'm gonna vomit.

(purging himself of the horrors)

As it happens, even these gnarly little freaks need a home. So today, we're releasing them into the wild. Yes, you can adopt one of these janked up doofuses for your very own, because the Busted Little F*ckers collection is now live. Now, wherever you go, you'll have a deranged little friend. Take him to the quarry. Do crimes with him. Leave them at the mall. Tie a rock to him and throw him in a lake. You can do all these things and more.

These freaky babies are deeply discounted and supplies are limited. So act fast! You don't have to buy one, but you can. Thank you for your time and may God have mercy on our souls.

#watcher #watcher entertainment #puppet history #the professor #shane madej #watcher merch #tw vomit mention #video posts

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the-teufort-nine · 2 months ago

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Ignore this if you’re uncomfortable with it no worries. Can we do an reader x merc (particularly medic, sniper, engie, demo, spy, and maybe heavy) Where they find reader greening out (super pale/passing out) and the mercs have to “save” you? Establish relationship please! Super hurt/comfort! I need a pick me up after a bad bad sesh.

anon you're so real for this. The one and only time i tried weed i greened out so bad that it scared me off drugs 4 ever (don't do edibles in the woods kids!)

I hope this makes u feel a bit better. get plenty of rest & water <3

Mercs x GN!Reader | Too Much THC

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Hurt/Comfort | SFW | Cw: drugs, bad trip, thc overdose symptoms, vomiting ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Featuring:

Medic, Sniper, Engie, Demo, Spy, and Heavy

Scenario: When Respawn goes down for a routine bug check and maintenance, Reader decides to take advantage of the ceasefire to partake in some of Pyro's "special" brownies. However, things take a bad turn when the fire bug's edibles turn out to be too much for them to handle.

🕊️+Medic+🕊️

"Y/N? Taube, are you in here?"

The effort it took to pry your eyes open was truly Herculean, though you couldn't, for the life of you, remember when it was you'd actually closed them. Nausea made your vision swim, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't respond to your boyfriend's concerned voice. Words seemed beyond your capabilities, as was doing more than slowly blinking your eyes.

You were in the medbay, slouched down on the floor with your back pressed against a frigid metal cabinet. With great, great difficulty, you recalled that you'd stumbled in here when you began to realize that something was wrong, hoping to find Medic tending to his birds or riling up the living bread loaf he kept in a large jar, or whatever the hell it was he did on your rare days off. However, the medbay had been empty, and your legs had decided that they'd had enough of holding your weight.

"Y/N? Pyro told me you looked as though you vere going to be sick before you ran off, and zhat zey haven't been able to find you since. Please tell me you're in here, because ve searched the rest of ze base and I don't think I could handle you getting stuck inside ze walls again."

The tiled floor in front of you was starting to look like a choppy ocean, so you squeezed your eyes shut and knocked your head back against the cabinet behind you. It made a dull 'thud', and you heard the sound of footsteps approaching you.

Success had never felt so headache inducing.

"Ach! Mein liebling, are you okay?" Medic's voice was suddenly right next to you, and you jolted slightly, eyes opening in panic.

Your boyfriend was crouched next to you, an extended hand held aloft in the air as he waited for you to settle. When your breathing evened out once more, he gently wrapped and arm around you, frowning when he felt how cool you were to the touch. Even through your uniform, the doctor could feel that you were much colder than you should be, especially given the New Mexico heat that permeated throughout the rest of the base.

"I think I'm paralyzed." You responded, eyes moisiting as you leaned into the touch, "M' legs stopped working when I tried to find you."

"Y/N, I promise you're not paralyzed. You're simply having an adverse reaction to ze cannabis you ingested." Medic soothed, before slightly jabbing the back of one of your knees. You kicked out with a yelp, drawing a slight chuckle from him, "See?"

Unfortunately, you were feeling more than a little sensitive at the moment, and it only took a moment before tears filled your eyes.

"Don't laugh at me!" you warbled, lip wobbling a bit as you voiced your hurt feelings.

The look of amusement on Medic's face was wiped off the instant he saw your tears, and he quickly shifted into damage control mode.

"Scheiße! Please don't cry, taube, I'm not laughing at you!" he pulled you in closer, letting you rest your head against his chest as he shifted his hold on you, getting ready to pull you to your feet, "Come now, you vill be alright. Let's get you to your room so you can warm up and lie down, ja? I do believe Pyro intends to bring you one of zeir, ah, what's the word, weighted blankets?"

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and sniffed wetly, grateful that he'd changed into his casual clothes, because the smell of his usual work coat was far too 'hydrogen peroxide and blood' scented for you to handle right now.

"Will you stay with me?" you asked quietly, clinging to him as he helped you become vertical once more. "Please?"

Medic smiled and gently pet your hair, taking the brunt of your weight with little trouble as you staggered up onto your feet. "Of course. I vill stay with you until you feel better, and zhen I vill go kill Pyro for letting you run off by yourself in such a state."

"Mnh, no you can't kill Pyro. No Respawn, 'member?" you muttered into his chest, not wanting to pull away yet, lest the world turn into an optical illusion yet again.

"Ah, verdammt, must have slipped my mind." he tutted, voice tinged with false disappointment, "I suppose I vill simply have to settle vith cuddling you instead."

⎚-⎚⌖Sniper⌖⎚-⎚

"Roo?! Roo?! Bloody 'ell, I swear if you don't wake up, I'm gonna lose my damn mind!"

Consciousness was slow to return to you, but by God did it make sure you knew how much it didn't want to be here. The only indication that you were actually awake, aside from the sound of your boyfriend's panicked voice coming from somewhere above (behind? Christ, you couldn't tell at the moment) came in the form of a disgusting, semi-familiar taste in your mouth; the patented Dustbowl combo of sand and blood.

With a sputtering cough, you managed to pull your hands beneath your prone form and shoved yourself up enough to hack and spit the vile mix out. A shaky sigh of relief came from your boyfriend's direction, wherever that was, and suddenly there were hands patting your back, helping to clear your airways.

"Christ alive, Roo, you nearly gave me a fuckin' heart attack!" Sniper barked, though his voice was filled more with relief than any form of anger, "What the fuck are ya doin' out here?"

"What?" you croaked groggily, rubbing at your aching head, which felt as though it had taken a direct hit from one of Scout's bats. Hadn't you just been on your way to your boyfriend's camper van? "Where'm I?"

"Middle'a the damn battlefield, Roo." Sniper frowned, "Yer right lucky I was nearby an' spotted ya. Dunno how long you've been out here for, but ya look right crook, luv."

You groaned and sat up fully, nearly toppling over as a rush of dizziness washed over you. Sniper was quick to catch you, plonking himself right down in the dust behind you as he drew you in closer, hugging you to his chest. He listened to you breathe for a moment, watching as your face scrunched up as you licked gritty sand out of your blood-stained teeth, the sight reassuring him that you were, in fact, alive. It looked as though you'd somehow managed to fall off one of the nearby bridges, judging by the amount of bruises that were starting to form on your face and arms.

"Fucking Pyro." you hissed, before spitting out another mouthful of blood and dirt, "That is the last time I trust them to make edibles, Jesus Christ."

"Strewth, ya' took one'a the fire bug's eddies?!" Sniper ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his hat slightly, "No wonder ya' fell ass over backwards, you must be greened as all hell! It's a bloody miracle ya' made it this far!"

The australian slid one arm beneath your knees as he adjusted his hold, grunting as he wobbled to his feet. He was hardly the strongest mercenary on your team, but you didn't survive out in the Outback for most of your life, and then survive traveling around with 9 other lunatics to fight and die and fight again in an endless gravel war, without picking up some muscle.

"Right, let's get ya' to Medic. I'm willin' ta bet ya' broke somethin', givin' your right shit luck, darl." Sniper said, eyes flicking over your battered body. While he couldn't see any obvious signs of serious injury, it was obvious that you were in pain. "She'll be alright, Roo. The Doc'll fix ya' up, then you can rest up in the van. Sound good?"

You let out a weak approximation of an agreement, not feeling well enough to form a proper response. Instead, you tucked your face into your boyfriend's neck, smiling slightly when you felt his stubble scratch against your cheek. The scent of coffee and gun oil filled your senses as Sniper started off towards the medbay, and it gave you something to focus on other than the pain that radiated throughout your entire body.

The next time you wanted to get high, you'd just smoke with Sniper. It would be a hell of a lot less painful and embarassing.

🧰🔧Engineer🔧🧰

You were having a heart attack.

Your nails dug into the skin nearest your heart as you fought to calm the erratic organ, your breaths coming in rapid, pained pants. Cold sweat dripped down your neck as you panicked silently, unable to find your voice to call for help, to scream, to do anything. If you could just speak, then perhaps you could get Pyro's attention. The masked mercenary was lounging on their bed only a few feet away, their head tilted back as they gazed up towards the painting of a rainbow unicorn on their ceiling, nodding along slightly to the record the two of you had put on earlier.

The mega baboon heart in your chest, though incredibly useful in battle, was now working against you, the increased rapid blood flow causing you to feel lightheaded. If you didn't do something fast, you were going to pass out.

Taking the deepest breath you could, you attempted to call out to Pyro. Unfortunately, all you managed was a near-silent rasp, the attempt taking more out of you than you'd anticipated. You blinked, and suddenly you were on the ground, Pyro frantically mumbling in front of you. It was harder than usual to pick out their words, especially with how rapidly they were speaking, but you managed to glean that they were frightened by your collapse, and that they were going to go and find your boyfriend.

As quick as a wildfire during the dry season, Pyro left your field of view, throwing open the door to their room and running out. The slam of the door hitting the wall made you flinch, and made you very aware of the fact that you still weren't breathing right.

The panic that had left when you fell unconscious returned full force, and you writhed on the floor as a stabbing sensation radiated out from within your chest. No matter what you did, or how you positioned yourself, the pain would not relent, and your vision began to blur.

"Y/N!"

A southern-tinged voice broke through your panic, and suddenly there was a muscular arm supporting your back, tilting you up slightly. A warm, calloused hand gently rubbed your chest, applying a light pressure.

"Easy now darlin', ah got'cha." Engineer soothed, his own rapid breathing starting to level out. When Pyro had burst into his room in a frenzied panic, yelling about his partner suddenly passing out, he'd run out of there like the Devil himself had been nipping at his heels.

The gentle pressure and familiar voice of your beloved southern boyfriend slowly brought you out of your fear-induced panting. You blinked up at Engineer, a few tears slipping down your cheeks. A gloved hand gently wiped them away.

"There we go, sweetheart. Try'n match my breathin'." he murmured, continuing to stroke your cheek with his thumb, "That's it. You're doin' so good, darlin'."

You finally managed to take a deep breath, sighing in relief when the pain in your chest began to wane.

"Thank you, Engie." you said softly, leaning into your boyfriend's arm. Engineer smiled, and with his goggles pushed up as they were, you could see his eyes crinkle as his mouth turned upwards.

"It was no trouble, doll. I'm just glad you're alright." he said, gently pressing your foreheads together, "Y'gave me 'n Py a helluva fright. I think they just about burst into tears."

"Oh no." you said sadly, managing to sit yourself up as the topic of your conversation finally made it back to the room. Pyro warbled out an apology in between exhausted pants, the arsonist clearly wiped out from the 'fuck off amounts of weed in their system/dead sprinting to Engie's room and back' combo. "Ro-ro, it's okay! We'll just lower the dose next time, yeah?"

Engineer merely shook his head with a laugh as Pyro wheezed against the doorframe, a shaky thumbs up being your only response.

🍾🗡️Demo🗡️🍾

+ Soldier is here too. He's not your boyfriend, but he is boyfriend adjacent most of the time.

Oh dear God, why did no one warn you about the dangers of mixing weed with alcohol?!

"Aye, there ya' go, mo luaidh, just get it allll out." Demo comforted, rubbing your back while sharing a sympathetic look with Soldier.

The two men had invited you to come and drink with them after they had found you lounging on one of the common room couches, and although you were already feeling quite buzzed after hanging out with Pyro, you weren't one to turn down the opportunity to spend time with your two favourite boys.

Unfortunately, the liquor in your stomach had decided to start a war with the edibles already stationed there, and neither of them were being very kind as they knocked you on your ass with the shakes and forced you to upchuck your lunch into the nearest bucket.

"Demo, I think 'm dying." you groaned, before sticking your head back into the bucket, a wave of uncontrollable shivers wracking your body, "Tell Medic he can't experiment on my body, okay?"

Suddenly, you pitched forward, and it was only Soldier's quick reflexes and Demo's hand suddenly snagging the back of your shirt that kept you from face planting into your own vomit.

"Fuck off, yer not dyin'." your boyfriend insisted, though you could, through the sudden wave of dizziness that had assaulted you, hear the worry in his voice, "Ye just had a wee bit too much to drink, that's all."

"Weed's not helpn'." you managed to bite out, before vomiting once again.

"Yer high?! Christ, ah' bloody knew there was somthin' off about'cha!" Demo groaned, smacking his free hand onto his face. Beside him, Soldier grimaced.

"Son, take it from me, it's gonna get worse before it gets better. You WILL feel as though you are in the trenches, but we will help you!" he shouted, before remembering that loud sounds were probably the last thing you needed at the moment, "I could try contacting Merasmus? He made me some kind of wizard voodoo potion that helped me feel better the last time I was higher than an eagle."

"No." was the firm reply from both you and Demo. The last thing you wanted was Merasmus dicking around with his magic while you were greening out.

Another round of shivers ripped through you, making the bucket rattle in your grip as you fought to keep yourself upright. Soldier tucked his arm around your midsection as Demo resumed his back rubs. Their presence grounded you, and you smiled weakly, though neither could see it, since you were still face down in the bucket.

"Thanks, guys." you said, wincing as your stomach turned and your vision swam.

"Do ye want to try an' move to the couch, love?" Demo asked.

"Nah, I think I'd just end up down here again if I tried to stand up." you replied, "Will- will you two stay, though? I know you probably have better things to do, but..."

"Negatory, private! I have never left a man behind, and I will not start now!" Soldier stated, and Demo nodded in agreement.

"Solly's right, a thasgaidh, we're stayin' right here 'till yer all better."

🚬🔪Spy🔪🚬

There was someone in the base.

Now, usually that would be a given; you lived with nine other mercenaries, after all, but this was different. Your teammates were supposed to be out, taking advantage of the ceasefire to get some much needed shopping done. Even your boyfriend, Spy, who usually never accompanied the others, had gone along this time, citing a need to pick up a few things at the local post office. You had decided to stay, since you had been waiting for Pyro's 'special' brownie to kick in, and hadn't wanted to deal with the bustle of Tuefort while you were high.

Now, though, as you stood with your back against the corner of one of the hallways that led to the intel room, your trusty melee weapon clutched in your hands, you were sorely regretting your decision.

You swore you'd seen something moving around the base, always just out of sight. It had sent a thrill of fear through you and put you on high alert. Respawn was down; what if the other team had decided to risk a surprise attack? Take care of one of their enemies permanently? You were all alone, inebriated, with only a close range weapon to defend yourself. Easy pickings.

Swallowing hard, you let your gaze snap back and forth, a snarl pulling at your lips when you saw the air flicker slightly, just for a moment, at the edge of your vision. You whipped around, eyes wide and searching, your ears straining to pick up any possible sounds.

"Y/N?"

A scream tore itself from your lips, and you jerked your weapon up to a defensive position as you turned once more, this time to see-

"Spy?!"

Your boyfriend stood only a few feet away from you, hands raised defensively. You blinked, before shakily lowering your weapon, relief flooding you, "Oh, thank God its just you."

"Were you expecting someone else, mon amour?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"N- no I just-" you ran a hand through your hair, still feeling a faint prickle of unease dance across the back of your neck, "I kept thinking I was seeing someone moving around the base. I- I think maybe Pyro messed up the dose in their brownies, because I am freaking out."

Spy made a soft sound of concern, and stepped closer, extending a hand to rest on your cheek. You smiled at your lover, but something still felt... off.

'Jesus, I must be greening out bad.' You thought to yourself, leaning into Spy's touch.

"I'm sorry to hear that, mon bijou. Would you like to retire to my quarters? Or, if you'd like, I can bring you to yours?" Spy offered sweetly.

"Yeah, that'd be-" you started, before his words suddenly caught up to you, the weed in your system making you a bit slower to react, "I'm sorry, honey, what did you call me?"

"Mon bijou. A fitting name for someone as beautiful as you."

My jewel. The one name Spy didn't like to call you. He'd never given you the full story, just saying that it was a nickname he associated with an unsavoury character from his past.

This was not your boyfriend.

Swallowing the fear that threatened to overwhelm you, you gave the enemy Spy your best smile. "Aw, you flatter me, darling. Do you mind leading the way? I'm a bit out of it right now."

"But of course." he replied, turning to walk down the hall, fully expecting you to follow him.

The second you were sure he had turned fully, you swung, your melee weapon catching him in the side. The wet shhhhck! of metal cutting through flesh was promptly overtaken by the man's cry of pain and shock. As he crumpled to the floor, his disguise melted away, revealing the colour of your enemy team.

"I FUCKING KNEW IT!" You screamed, arms raised as you gripped your bloodstained weapon tighter. Your breathing picked up as your adrenaline kicked in, your whole body seeming to buzz.

The enemy Spy hissed in pain, his hand instinctively going for his knife, before you swung your weapon down again, barely missing the appendage. Had you not been higher than the moon, the masked man would have been short a hand. Realising he was in a losing battle, and a potentially permanent one at that, your enemy scrambled up and became cloaked once again, racing back down the hall and, presumably, out of your base, leaving a trail of blood splatters as he ran.

With the danger gone, you dropped, shivering and shaking so badly that your weapon rattled loudly against the ground. Your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps, and you had to fight to keep your lunch from coming back up. Not knowing what else to do, you curled up in a defensive ball, pressing your swimming head into your knees.

"Y/N! Merde, merde, merde! Y/N! Where are you?!"

You jerked back to awareness, sucking in a breath through your teeth, jaw aching with how long you'd been clenching it. The base was alive once again, though the familiar sounds of chaos seeming much more frantic than usual.

How long had you been dissociating for? Christ, you were lucky that enemy Spy hadn't come back to finish you off.

The sound of rapid footsteps reignited your panic, and you squeezed the handle of your weapon. Had the rest of the enemy team come to finish you off? It sounded like your team was the ones here this time, but how could you be sure? You'd been right last time, after all.

Suddenly, Spy, your Spy, rounded a corner, looking uncharacteristically frazzled. When he spotted you, you could see the relief on his face, plain as day.

No, no you couldn't trust him. What if this was another trick?

"Y/N! Oh, ma moitié, you're okay, thank God. We saw ze blood and-"

"Get back!"

Spy paused, clearly caught off guard by your aggression. Wobbling to your feet, you glared at the man before you, putting all your effort into staying upright. You wouldn't be fooled twice.

"Y/N?"

Your eyes flicked over him, searching for any obvious tells. When none presented themselves, you cautiously stepped forward, weapon extended. Spy eyed you warily, but didn't make any sudden moves. It wasn't hard to piece together that something had happened while they had been gone, and if this was what his partner needed to feel safe, then he would allow it.

Once you were close enough, you roughly tapped the blunt part of your weapon against where you knew you had struck the enemy Spy, watching for any indication of pain. Spy continued to look at you with concern, but the colour of his suit and mask didn't change. This really was your Spy.

A relieved sob tore itself from your throat, and you all but fell into your partner's waiting arms. Spy wrapped his arms around you in an instant, only wincing a little bit as you cried into his suit. This one was less expensive that his usual work wear, and he could excuse it getting a little wet if it was in service of your comfort.

"What happened, mon rayon de soleil? Who has frightened you so?" he questioned, wondering who exactly it was he needed to kill. You didn't scare easy, but considering when he'd left you'd just recently had an edible... well, he wasn't exactly surprised that you were emotional than usual.

You just cried harder, unable to wrangle your emotions. Everything was just too much, and you justed wanted the comfort of your boyfriend and teammates.

As if reading your thoughts, Spy gently maneuvered you so that you could lean on him and walk down the bloodied hall, "Shhh, shhh, it's okay, petit tigre. You don't have to speak now. Let us get back and let ze others know you're okay before zey tear ze base down looking for you."

You nodded weakly, and this time, you let the man lead you down the hall.

✊🥪Heavy🥪✊

"This was poor choice, yes?"

You squinted at your boyfriend, trying your best to look ticked off from your place beneath a mountain of blankets. You were already suffering, did he have to rub it in?

Now, to be fair, you did make a poor choice recently. That poor choice being the decision to eat three of Pyro's weed brownies. At the time, it had seemed like a good choice. What better way to spend a lazy ceasefire day than by getting high with your buddy? Well, things had quickly gone sideways when you realized that Pyro had no idea of how much was too much when it came to THC, and thus the two of you were now high as balls and greening out hard.

"Yes." you muttered, snuggling down deeper in your blanket nest as you continued to hold Heavy's hand. You'd been holding onto it for the past half hour, having asked the giant to hold your hand when you'd started to get scared, only to grip his hand like you were making a business deal.

"Hmm, good. Heavy does not think лапушечка will make the same mistake again." your boyfriend mused. "Would you like snack?"

"I do," you started, squinting harder as you tried to sit up, "but I can't move. My bones are soup."

"Do not worry. Heavy will fix."

Suddenly, you were being picked up by the back of your shirt, not unlike a kitten. Heavy sat you on his lap, letting you rest against his broad chest. He produced a bag of pretzels, and your eyes locked onto the salty snack, your stomach growling. You attempted to lift your arms, but your limbs had decided to go on strike.

Seeing your struggle, your boyfriend took pity on you. Heavy fished out a few of the pretzels and placed them in your mouth. Processed grain and salt had never tasted so damn delicious.

"I love you." you sighed, leaning against Heavy as much as you could. Nothing said true love like feeding your partner when they were hungry, in your opinion.

"Я тоже тебя люблю."

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lovelyghostz · 5 months ago

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Hear me out: an au where Narinder is recruited as a follow and becomes a mortal, but falls ill because of said turning mortal.

I mean, it would probably take a lot out of him, right? So what if it acted as a mortal illness? He gets recruited and just collapses on the stone thingy immediately with a burning fever. Lamb wants to take special care of him bc 1) they dont know if mortal medicines would even work on him and 2) they’re worried despite the fact they just usurped him

Narinder wakes up delirious as all hell and pissed off at Lambert because obviously, and tries being intimidating to them but his arms are weak when he goes to swat so his wrists are limp and flailing, and his eyes cant seem to stay open for long enough to glare at them, and on top of that he feels like he’s gonna vomit. So Lambert takes care of a begrudging narinder.

But the sickness is persisting.

And persisting.

And persisting some more.

It gets better ofc, if it hadn’t Narinder probably would’ve died by now, but it’s misery for a man who hasn’t actually had to feel mortal sicknesses literally ever. So the Lamb continues to take care of him, and despite himself he softens. He doesn’t smile when they enter the room, not yet, but he doesn’t hiss (or try to at least) when they enter, either. He’s simply indifferent. Until he’s not.

One night is particularly rough. It’s a few months in and Narinder is still ill. He’s waking up to vomit every half an hour or so and the Lamb hasn’t slept at all, simply watching with worry and honestly a bit of fear. The cat who had been their god for so long now lay in bed with a brow furrowed in discomfort and fur damp from sweat.

He wakes up once more, but not for throwing up this time. This time, he’s delirious, and it’s bad. He’s babbling with unfocused eyes, his body swaying with the struggle of sitting up. Suddenly, though, he makes eye contact with the lamb through three glassy eyes, and his pupils dilate. He murmurs what must have been sleep-deprived, sickly words, because he says that he thinks the lamb is “pretty in the moonlight.” They freeze obviously because WOAH what the FUCK??? And Narinder just slumps back over and falls back asleep, this time with a more pleased expression.

They don’t say anything that night, and neither of them say anything in the morning, either. But Narinder knows, and he knows Lambert knows.

Slowly, very slowly, Narinder improves.

He gains strength and his symptoms improve until finally, after literal months, he’s back to normal. Then and only then, he tells Lambert that they really are so pretty in the moonlight.

He tells them that he likes the way their wool catches the moon’s glow. He says he’d like to trace their jawline as the light does, with such a gentle touch. He says that he’d like to kiss them as the moonlight does, making them look as though they’re glowing.

Lambert is a gay ass bitch and they kiss ok the end ty

#tw mentions of vomiting #cotl #cotl au #cotl lambert #cotl narinder #narilamb #fanfic ideas #long post

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randybutternubber · 6 months ago

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Shitting out fire tonight

Og images under cut

It won’t let me add any other photos but the one with jester was a dead fish and the thin man one just had the name and pfp switched

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lumpsbumpsandwhumps · 1 year ago

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unpopular opinion but whump should and deserves to be messy

"Yeah duh there's plenty of scenarios with blood and tears--" no. I want more.

I want pink tinted spit dribbling out of Whumpee's mouth. I want strings of saliva connecting between their busted lip to Whumper's tongue. I want drool running down the corners of their mouths because of a gag that makes it difficult to swallow.

I want sweat making Whumpee feel sticky and clammy to the touch. I want their skin to be slick and soaking into their soiled clothes. I want them to squirm in discomfort of a dirty shirt clinging to their back from precious fluids that are going to risk further dehydration. I want their hair to be continuously damp and hanging in thick strands in their face.

I want the scabs to turn white with pus and black with infection. I want old wounds to tear open and bleed a thick red. I want the pink flesh underneath to pulse and quiver, the sight of yellow fat and cartilage. I want blood vessels and capillaries to burst and spread over an area, I want burns to start brown and peel away to a tender pink.

I want Whumpee to vomit out of their nose because their mouth is gagged. I want bile to reek on their clothing and on their tongue. I want them to grow use to the taste of bitter blood and burning chyme forever in the back of their throat. I want them to have to snort and hack to be able to spit out whatever was still caught on their tongue or risk swallowing it down.

I want their tears to remain unwiped and crusting over their eyes. I want snot to smear over their cheeks and leave their lips uncomfortably tacky. I want their face to remain blotchy and red because they just can't get it clean. I want dirt and blood and skin to build up under their fingernails to the point they risk infecting their own wounds if they try and mess with it. I want Whumpee to only be sprayed down with cold water and an old towel, never any soap and never in all the creases of their body.

I want their bodies caked in grime and viscera and bodily fluids. I want Whumper to never give them the luxury of feeling clean and in fact actively making them more filthy each time. I want Whumpee's clothes yellowed and their hair matted and their skin sickly. I want injuries to never properly heal so that the only option is to amputate the necrosis. I want Whumper to force Whumpee to clean up whatever kind of mess they made by licking it off the floor.

I want arteries to spew like a garden sprinkler. I want the exposed roots of pulled teeth to dangle freely in their mouth. I want Whumpee's hair, including all of their body hair, to grow to unruly lengths that are constantly tangled and ingrown. I want them to find comfort in starving because it means there's nothing to risk throwing up. I want them to scrub their skin raw and bleeding, uncaring how much it aggravates their injuries or how the soap stings, the first chance they're given for a real bath.

I want it to be nasty!!!!!!

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 7 months ago

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hello hello (●’◡’●)ﾉ if i may, could i request a scenario with vash and reader in an established relationship? vash has saved a town and it's one of the few times where he's celebrated, everyone making merry at a bar. him and reader are getting to be sufficiently drunk and the reader has the sudden urge to spoil vash, resulting in them plopping themself onto his lap, cooing, petting his hair, tickling his chin and telling eeeeveryone what a big, strong man vash is. basically they're being gross and flirty and drunk together and it's silly 😔

i hope you're having a wonderful day!! 🩷🎀

"Everyone, I wanna propose a toast: To Vash the Stampede! For saving this town! And for saving my heart from loneliness! Here's to love and peace!"

"TO LOVE AND PEACE!"

"CHEERS TO VASH!"

"Thanks, Vash!!!"

"WOOOHOO!!"

"God bless the merry couple!"

As cheers rang around all throughout the bar, you stepped off the table and slumped back in your seat, a grin spreading from ear-to-ear. You took a lot of pride in having enough confidence to make that toast...and that you've achieved your goal of making your boyfriend blush redder than his coat.

Indeed, there were rare times where you and Vash could let your guards down when he's a wanted man. But after the heroic deeds he performed earlier in town, the people called for a celebration at the bar, not caring about the 60 billion dollar bounty on his head for once.

There were no lives lost, no major injuries, and the destruction was limited to a few shattered windows--thanks to the bandits and their shitty aiming skills.

After they got hauled off to jail, everyone at that point knew who Vash was, and invited you two and the rest of the group for some rounds.

While you were initially wary that it was some setup that would end in Vash running for his life and guns blazing, it thankfully became very much the opposite:

You and your friends having a grand old time, eating food and sharing drinks. By the time you made the toast, your boyfriend already had a buzz, indicated by the tie wrapped around his head and him retelling the story of today's events to you---even though you were there the entire time, witnessing them firsthand.

"That was the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me," Vash feigned a tiny sniffle, his arm pulling you closer to his side. "A toast..for me....V-Vash the Stampede..." His lips began trembling a bit, and you glanced at him, worried.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing..everything's great! How did I get so lucky??" Tears were quick to fall from his eyes, which he tried rubbing away before chugging more of his drink, looking to you with a sniffle. "You're so good to me, [y/n]..almost too good..you care so much and...you're the reason I believe in love and peace!"

"Awh, you're such a sap." You chuckled, forgetting that his emotions were dialed up to 11 at this point (then again, they were almost all the time). Reaching a hand up, you tousled with his spiky hair a bit. "You deserve this. We both needed this break."

"I know...can we toast just to us, mayfly?"

Without waiting for your response, he clinked his glass to yours. And you simply smiled back and took a big swig of your drink, feeling the alcohol burning your throat.

But you didn't care.

It was only a matter of time before it kicked into your system.

............

"Vaaaaaash!!"

"Yeeees?"

"Did I ever tell you..wha...what a good, strong, and handsome man you are?" You tilted your head, looking up into the puppy-dog eyes of your boyfriend, who was now just as wasted as you were at this moment.

It was fine, though. The twin suns will rise again tomorrow and it'll be just another day in Gunsmoke, on the run in the hot desert.

You could afford to let loose for one night.

"Yah really think so?"

"Oh, I know so...and I'm gonna tell everyone here allllllll about it. But first.." You moved out of your seat, and at first Vash assumed that you were trying to climb onto the table again to do another toast-

Until you instead climbed into his lap.

He froze up, a small squeak of surprise leaving his lips. Even now, he wasn't used to this kind of closeness..although he welcomed it nonetheless as you wrapped your arms around the tall man, noticing how red his face was turning.

"You're so cute when you make those noises. I wonder what other sounds I could extract outta you, hmm~?" As your index finger lightly tickled the area under his chin, he couldn't help but giggle, hugging you tightly to ensure you stayed on his lap.

He wouldn't mind being like this forever.

"C'monnnn, you're such a tease."

"And you're such a sweetheart. Always protecting me, preaching about love and peace...and not takin' shit from anybody. God, you're so hot for that. We need more men like you in the world."

"But you already got a man like me, mayfly..." He pouted.

"I know. Aren't I blessed? You damn angel." Laughing softly, your hand rose up to his cheek, and he seemed to know exactly what you wanted, as he crashed his lips into yours mere milliseconds later.

It was a sloppy kiss: long, messy and uncoordinated, hands becoming entangled in each other's hair....but that was quite alright.

He needed this. You needed this.

You couldn't help grinning as you overheard hollers and whistles from the other spectators, while your friends at the nearby table looked amused, grossed-out, and even a bit..embarrassed for you two. Yet they knew better than to interrupt.

Wolfwood, however, could only imagine the aftermath once the alcohol finally ran its course...

........

"M-My stomach still hurts--BLEAUUGH-!!"

"It's okay. Let it all out..I'm right here." Rubbing Vash's back up and down, you sheepishly looked to Wolfwood as your boyfriend was currently emptying the contents of his stomach into the bucket you've given him. "How has he not built up a tolerance to booze yet?"

"Beats me..but the misses didn't want him throwing up in the car. So let 'im stay there as long as he needs to." The priest brought a cigarette to his lips, a bit amused by the sight. "We'll be waitin' when you're both ready." He turned on his heel and headed back to where Meryl was filling the van's tank.

You sighed, only to hear Vash sigh even deeper as he finished puking his guts out. He looked up at you, wiping the saliva from his chin with a tired smile. "S-Sorry about this. Guess I had more than I could handle...again."

"That's okay." You took the bucket, pushing it somewhere out of both your sights. "I know you'd do the same for me."

"True, but with bedrest and medication...i-if we could find and afford it, obviously." His gaze flickered to the still-lively bar, frowning a bit. "Part of me's gonna miss this town..I doubt the next one will be just as inviting. But I gotta have some hope, right? There's a lot more good people out there, I know it."

"It's a big planet, so we'll see." You shrugged, grasping his hand and making his attention snap back to you. "I'll be sure to tell them how strong and handsome my darling Vash is, too~" With a wink, you had the man swooning again, as he shifted closer to you.

"You sure you're not drunk?" His eyes squinted with suspicion.

"Drunk or not, everything I say about you is true. And one day, I want you to believe those things about yourself."

"[Y/n]..."

"If anyone dares talk about your bounty, I'll tell them to shove it."

"I-I'd rather have you not-"

"Nobody--and I mean nobody--can put a price on your head. Not even 60 billion double dollars. Because you're worth everything to me."

"...a-are you flirting or trying to make me cry again?" Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. "Because it's working.."

You huffed lightly, smiling as you patted his cheek. "As long as those are happy tears, angel. You ready to go? You won't get carsick?"

"I won't!" Vash jumped to his feet the same time you stood up, still holding your hand as you led him to the van, following you like the loyal dog he was.

You're grateful the toast at the bar put him in good spirits...and that he was still blushing over your drunken kisses and words of affirmation.

Even though his own gut had to suffer the consequences for a little while, it was all worth it.

#now this one can go for any vers of vash #clanask #anonymous #trigun x reader #vash the stampede #vash the stampede x reader #vash x reader #trigun 98 x reader #trigun stampede x reader #fluff #tw vomit mention

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